“It’s the law. We’re a community property state. In fact, John will get half your retirement fund and, based on what you’ve told me, he’s entitled to alimony.”
“Excuse me. He just tried to murder me and now I’m going to have to pay him?”
“Well, he’s in jail and not working. It’s the way the formula works. It’s the law.”
My hands worked the wet tissue into shreds. It was unbelievable. All I wanted to do was file and get a simple divorce, but it seemed nothing having to do with John was ever going to be simple. I felt my throat constrict and tears welling in my eyes once more.
“It’s not fair,” I whispered. “I’m a victim once more, this time of the divorce law of California.”
Later that afternoon I sat alone in the reception area of the family therapist’s office feeling like a fish out of water. The walls closed in on me. I knew I needed help. Carolyn emerged, a tall, professionally dressed woman with a brightly colored scarf draped around the shoulders of her navy blue dress. She introduced herself and called me into her office. “Please, have a seat.”
“Do you want me to lie on the couch?”
“Only if you want to,” she said, smiling. “Most people choose to sit in the wingback chair opposite me.”
“I’d prefer that,” I said, settling in right next to the box of tissues on the end table.
Carolyn gently probed into my family background and my relationship with John. It’s a good thing the tissues were handy. I went through almost the whole box. Toward the end of the hour she looked at me intently.
“You have a decision to make,” she said. “We can work on the grief you’re feeling over the death of John, as the person you thought you knew, or we can work on why you allowed yourself to stay in a situation that almost cost you your life.”
I chose the latter. I didn’t want to make the same mistake ever again.
“Good choice,” Carolyn said. “It sounds like John is a socio-psychopath. He has no conscience. Whatever he wants, he feels he has the right to take. He manipulated your feminine traits of caretaking and compassion, he assessed your loneliness at the time he met you, and his lies and deceit attacked your limits and boundaries. He snared you, and you became his victim.”
She explained that my self-esteem had been shattered, and that there were many tools to piece it back together. She asked if I had ever heard the term codependent. I shook my head no. She scribbled something down on the back of one of her business cards and handed it to me, explaining that it was the one tool she felt would help me best.
“Here, I want you to read Melody Beattie’s book Codependent No More before our next session. You can find it in any bookstore. Be proud of yourself; your positive action saved your life and you did not allow yourself to be frozen by your fear. You fought back intelligently and extricated yourself from a very dangerous situation.”
My heart pounded as I left. I had survived and was on the road to recovery, although I didn’t know if it would be a bumpy trail or a smooth path. Eventually I would find it was both.
In the bookstore, I stood and flipped to a page somewhere in the middle and read:
We may even convince ourselves that we can’t live without someone and will wither and die if that person is not in our lives. If that person is...deeply troubled, we may tolerate abuse and insanity to keep him... in our lives to protect our source of emotional security.
That was me! Melody Beattie, the author, had just described my actions, feelings, and emotions. I was frightened and excited at the same time as I clutched the book tightly and walked to the checkout stand.
Thursday morning I woke and counted six days after terror had invaded my life and turned me in a new direction. It seemed like an eternity.
After breakfast I went into John’s office. Yesterday’s appointments had slowed my progress. I still had a lot of papers to review, categorize, and file. The detective’s comments about proving John’s military rank were foremost in my mind.
What can you do to confirm an admiral? Of course, why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? I’d get in touch with the rear admiral who was a consultant for John’s company, the one who had formerly commanded Treasure Island. I had always wondered why he and his wife had stopped being our friends. When I mentioned it to John, he scoffed at the rift, saying it wasn’t important. I found the rear admiral’s number and dialed.
“Hi, this is Barbara Perry, John’s wife.” There was an uncomfortable silence before he acknowledged me. I explained what had happened and asked him if he could help me prove that John was a retired rear admiral from the U.S. Navy.
“Don’t you know about the FBI?” he said.
“FBI? No. What about the FBI?”
“John is being investigated by the FBI for impersonating an admiral.”
I just about dropped the phone. For all my suspicions of John, I had become fairly comfortable with his rank. I had lived the proof. We had been piped aboard ships. He had worn the Medal of Honor. We had been guests with other admirals on a commanding admiral’s ship, and the Blue Angels had given us a photograph signed to Rear Admiral Perry. We had been allowed entry onto any base that we visited.
“I called the FBI and reported him in the fall of eighty-nine,” the rear admiral said in clipped tones. “If you want any more information, call the Concord FBI office. And please don’t contact me again.”
I hung up the phone and dug into my memory. About the time the FBI showed up at our door, John stopped working. Could those events have been connected? I called the FBI office and spoke to the agent the rear admiral had contacted. I explained who I was and what I was looking for. He was respectful and confirmed what I had been afraid to admit to myself. John was the object of an ongoing investigation. “He has a history of this kind of behavior. Did you know he spent three years in federal prison for impersonating an Air Force officer?”
“No.” I gasped. It was a good thing I was sitting down.
We continued the conversation. The agent gave me as much information as he was allowed to divulge. “I have the case of medals that we confiscated at your house,” he said. “Since John’s involved in a more serious charge, I think we’ll stop the investigation. Can I drop them off to you?”
“Sure, just let me know when you want to come by. I’ll let Homicide Detective Greg Smith know about your investigation. You’ll probably get a call from him, as well.”
“Oh, one more thing,” the agent said. “The Medal of Honor wasn’t in the case. Do you know where it might be?”
I didn’t have any idea. I hung up the phone. So that’s what happened to the medals, I raged. All those lies, all those times I was stressed out by John’s indifference. “I hate you!” I shouted to the empty room. I immediately called Greg Smith and reported my findings.
“Great,” he said. “With this information I think the PA can get the bail raised back to twenty-five thousand dollars. You’re amazing. You’ve really helped this case along.” Then he added that he had talked with the FBI agent. “Have you ever heard of John’s aliases?” he asked.
“Aliases?”
“The FBI said he’s gone by Calliet Delvin, Guy D. Delvin, Daniel F. Malley, Robert Lee Stuart, and Thomas John Mudge. Ring a bell?”
“I’ve never heard those names before,” I said. “But I’ll keep a lookout as I go through his office paperwork.”
When I hung up the phone, I felt proud of myself. In spite of my grief, I had been able to function, to move forward, and in doing so I found enough evidence to allow the case to go to trial. But my job as investigator was far from over, and my recovery had just begun.
TWENTY-TWO
The Trial
Five weeks later, in Arlington, Virginia, I fidgeted with my foam coffee cup in the office of Alexandra Kouracos, the prosecuting attorney assigned to my case. She had been convinced John was a criminal from the start. Today, she had to convince the family court judge of the same, in order to move the trial to criminal court.
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Alexandra whizzed into her office, a pile of folders in her hand. With her distinctive features and brunette hair, she closely resembled the portrait, hung prominently on one wall, of a judge in his court robes.
“My father,” she said, smiling. She exuded strength and confidence. “Let’s review your testimony while we wait for Greg Smith.”
“I’ve worked hard to be ready for today,” I said.
“You’ll do great. I have to tell you this is the strangest case I have handled.”
“Thanks. First my divorce attorney tells me that, and now you. I feel like a freak.”
When Greg arrived we gathered our things and meandered through a maze of hallways and elevator rides. Outside the courtroom Alexandra asked me to take a seat on the bench while she took care of a last-minute detail. Greg also disappeared.
I was nervous. Today would be the first test of my newfound freedom. I had to be strong. John’s intimidations during the proceedings could not sway me. He no longer had power over me, and I had to let him see my determination. I wondered how it would play out. I twitched each time the prisoner elevator or holding cell opened and someone in a blue jumpsuit emerged.
It had taken a lot of time and hard work for me to regain my power. I made a major breakthrough when I discovered how to tap into my inner strength using techniques associated with healing the inner child. I was amazed at what happened next. This new self-realization propelled me through recovery, as Carolyn referenced my writings and drawings for our discussions. By the fifth session I was amazed at my emotional growth.
“I feel I’m progressing too fast,” I confessed to her.
“Don’t you know why? You had to regain your strength before the preliminary hearing. You persevered. You found that recovery takes more work than just sitting in my office for fifty minutes a week.”
Today, seated on this hard bench in the corridor, I was in agony. Alexandra and Greg had not returned. Nervous anticipation ate at me as the minutes ticked away. Needing reassurance, I reached inside my purse and pulled out the horoscope from the morning’s Washington Post, and found solace in the words: You’ll no longer fear the dark. Focus on inside information...Family member “explains” bizarre plan. Maintain balance, perspective. Say, “NO!”
That’s what I’m going to do today, I thought. Say no to John. I will not crumble. The holding cell door creaked and I glanced up. John shuffled out in handcuffs and shackles, wearing blue prison garb. An armed guard escorted him toward the courtroom. My breathing turned shallow and I turned away. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not yet.
I needed to refocus and think of all the things I had recently uncovered. The paintings John said he owned were not his. He’d “borrowed” them from another woman and never returned them. Then he talked the same woman into a $5,000 loan. That was the $5,000 he said came from his grandmother. Think of the pain he caused you, when you felt like a criminal as the divorce judge issued a restraining order against the both of you. Think how you told John from the start that honesty was the most important thing to you. Think of the nightmares that haunt you, your loss of sleep. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy or support.
Alexandra appeared and said, “This is it,” and opened the courtroom door for me. Greg rushed up and joined us. The room looked like a church with blond pews, a middle aisle, and a wall of windows on one side. The “altar” was the judge’s bench. Would I be the sacrificial lamb today?
John and his public defender, Kent Whistler, sat at the table on the right, with one man in the first bench behind them. Alexandra guided me to the left, and I sat with Greg and the rest of the prosecution witnesses. Just like a wedding, I thought, with the groom’s family on one side, the bride’s family on the other. The parody was that it was not a gathering for a celebration of beginnings, but rather one for the tragedy of endings.
The judge called the proceeding to order, asked the witnesses to stand, and had us sworn in, after which we were asked to leave. This was not like the Perry Mason trials.
Greg explained, “This way witnesses don’t compromise their testimony based on what another witness has to say.” His deep, caring voice grounded me.
We mingled outside the door. I sat once more on the bench and silently prayed, Dear God, please give me the strength to persevere.
The bailiff opened the door and called my name. I couldn’t move. I took a deep breath and willed my feet to take me to the witness stand. I sat down, and immediately John locked his steely blue eyes onto mine and glared. In times past I would have averted my eyes and crumbled. Not today. I stared back at the old, pathetic figure in dark blue.
I silently projected my thoughts to John. You no longer have any power over me. You no longer have any power over me. Did he understand I had changed? I repeated my mantra. John squirmed in his seat and looked away. I won. I won! It didn’t matter that no one else in the room was aware of my victory. I knew. I was ready to testify.
Alexandra asked questions about our marriage, our financial affairs, and how we got to room 173 at the Marriott. “I’d like you to take a look at these photographs, Mrs. Perry. Is this you after the attack?”
Kent Whistler rose from his seat. “I object, your honor. Only thirty-five-millimeter photographs are allowed as evidence.”
Alexandra questioned me further, and I explained that the photos had been taken with my thirty-five-millimeter camera.
“I object. The witness took her own photograph. She could have doctored her face to look beat up.”
The judge looked at Kent, shook his head, then turned to me and asked who took the photograph. I told him Homicide Detective Greg Smith. “Objection overruled,” the judge bellowed. “The witness has given testimony to all conditions being met and the pictures will be entered in evidence.”
I thanked God that He had intervened after the attack, and that the officer’s Polaroid had failed to work. Otherwise we wouldn’t have had photographs to enter as evidence.
Kent had his turn at me. He tried to distort the facts, to get me to change my story. He pounded away, but I did not weaken, even when John gave me another of his cold, hard stares.
I was released and allowed to remain in the courtroom to hear several police officers testify. The prosecution rested. Kent Whistler called only one witness, an expert to testify that John was addicted to ether. Alexandra blew his weak testimony out of the water. The defense rested.
The judge shuffled through the papers on his desk. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke. “Based on the evidence presented, I remand John Perry to criminal court to stand trial for attempted first-degree murder. His bail is to remain at twenty-five thousand dollars.”
He banged his gavel, and it was over. I watched John slump out of the courtroom. My victory felt bittersweet. I knew John was mentally ill, and I prayed he would get the help he needed. I still didn’t understand there is no changing a socio-psychopath.
Three weeks passed. I sat at my desk at work and waited for a phone call from Greg. We touched base often, sharing evidence that either of us had dug up. It was a strong working relationship built on mutual respect and trust. The previous night I had faxed him new information. I pounced on the phone when it rang.
“Guess what I discovered last night?” I told him excitedly. “I found the woman who impersonated me on the real estate loan.”
I explained that when I took the garbage out I saw my next-door neighbor and struck up a conversation. We chatted briefly when, out of the blue, she asked, “How did your loan application go?” She told me John had asked her to sign for me; he said I was on a business trip and it was most important that the papers get processed. She was hesitant, but he told her not to worry, he’d do all the talking. Later, when the loan officer wanted a third-party identification, John had her stand by the bank door and smile and wave when he pointed her out to the loan officer and bank manager. Then they went to the car and signed the papers. The loan officer said he would notarize it when he got back to his
office.
“Good work,” Greg said. “She’ll make a great witness.”
“I don’t know. She’s pretty embarrassed about the whole thing. Said she didn’t take any money, she was just doing us a favor. She’s afraid she’ll be prosecuted.”
“I’ll talk to her. She has nothing to fear from this end.”
We reviewed the documents I faxed to him. There was the letter from the UC Davis vet denying he had prescribed ether. There was a letter from the travel agent confirming the dates John purchased tickets and his subsequent suspicious behavior. There was a letter from the Concord vet explaining how John had lied to get the bottle of ether from her.
“We need to have the Concord vet testify,” Greg said. “Now that you have two witnesses, I’ll fly out to California and take their statements.”
As I hung up the phone, I wondered once more about the notary process. I always thought it was meant to keep fraud from happening. I no longer had faith in that procedure.
Between work, therapy, investigations, and haggling with John about the divorce, the next month passed quickly. Dealing with John was the most difficult. He sat in his jail cell and scribbled a list of everything we owned, from the Mercedes down to and including dish towels and washrags, and wrote his estimated value of them.
John controlled the divorce proceedings. He was clever, and it amazed me how much power he could exert from his jail cell. His latest tactic was to return my correspondence unopened. I felt as helpless and emotionally drained as I had when we were together. He continued to set up roadblocks.
In desperation, I arranged for the sergeant at the jail to intervene. That got results. John finally agreed to talk with me. The phone rang. I accepted the collect charges. After a bit of small talk, I jumped into the matters at hand. I needed John’s consent to lower the prices of the Concord house and the 450SL. In typical fashion he led me along, acting as if he were all for it, then reneged. Even my rationalization about being able to pay his attorney with the funds backfired.
A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath Page 26