A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath

by Barbara Bentley

  At the end of our meeting, Janette slipped into her bedroom and came back with a small gift bag for me. I pulled at the tissue paper and extracted a small jeweler’s box. Inside was a delicate ring, made up of three separate bands of semiprecious stones.

  “Janette, you shouldn’t have,” I protested. I bit my lip and tears welled in my eyes as I slipped it on my finger. It fit perfectly. I hugged her. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you.”

  “You’ve been through a lot. It’s the least I can do.”

  “You’d make a wonderful mother-in-law.” I laughed. “Too bad I won’t be your daughter-in-law much longer.”

  For the next three months, I worked with the jail system to get psychological help for John. By the end of the year, John was assigned to maximum security at the Powhatan Correctional Center, and he wasn’t getting any mental help. The divorce was still stalled. John threw a monkey wrench into any proposed settlement, and foreclosure lay just around the corner. My last Christmas in the Concord house was definitely not merry, and the New Year did not look bright.

  After the house was foreclosed in February 1992, I moved into the spare bedroom of a longtime friend. One month later my fragile world suffered another earthquake. Debbie, the friend who’d introduced me to John, called to tell me that he was up for parole and he needed a viable parole plan before he could be released. He wanted to live with her during his integration back into society. Parole! The word plunged me into a panic. He had been in jail for only thirteen months! I had not been notified. Fear engulfed me. I was about to play the victim part again. With our divorce still far in the future, if I were murdered now, wouldn’t all our joint assets still go to him? Fortunately, Debbie had refused. He was stalled, for the moment. He would have to find another way out.

  My survival was tied to my ability to act, not react, to John. I took immediate steps to protect myself. I contacted the prosecuting attorney, the homicide detective, the parole board, my attorney, and the three local police departments that had my restraining order. I received confirmation that John was up for parole, and that I had only the rest of the day to submit my victim impact statement. In the end, it didn’t matter. A month later John was granted parole after only fourteen months in jail. Luckily, it would take him another eight months to come up with a reasonable parole plan. For the moment, he was still in jail.

  Three weeks later I bounced into my mother’s kitchen. “Hey, I’ve got something to show you,” I reported cheerfully.

  Julie looked up from stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce, and her son stopped rolling his Matchbox cars across the floor. My mom followed me to the table and we sat down. I grabbed a small box out of my purse.

  “Remember the inaugural ball necklace and earrings? I’ve been waiting for the day I could afford to do something with them.” I flipped the lid on the box and took out a shining diamond-studded ring. “This signifies my life—taking old and making new.”

  I handed the box to my mom and she ran her finger over the stones. Julie stopped stirring and looked over Mom’s shoulder. Mom slipped the ring onto her right index finger and moved it around to catch its sparkle.

  “Not to be outdone.” Julie laughed, “I have something to show you.” She grabbed a brown paper bag set by the back door. “I pried apart the two yellow plastic planters you gave me and this is what I found.”

  Mom laid several paper towels on the table. Julie opened the sack, extracted two decrepit boxes, and placed them on the towels. The boxes were moldy and stained from dirt and water. I picked one up and opened it. “Oh, my God.” I gasped. “It’s the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

  I carefully fingered the long-lost medal. Its ribbon was discolored and deformed and had a putrid odor. The next box contained the admiral’s bars. “He’s good,” I said. “Imagine burying them so the FBI wouldn’t find them! The FBI will get a kick out of this.”

  Four months later I had moved back to my Antioch house. It had been eighteen months since the murder attempt. John was still in jail after the two parole plans he submitted were rejected as being nonconducive to his rehabilitation, whatever that meant. The divorce was still not final. The property settlement was a shambles. I felt trapped by the attorneys’ lack of action and once more confronted Ross Grissom in his office. “Ross,” I said, “I want to be divorced now.” He leaned back in his chair, thumped his pen on the desk, and drawled, “John keeps telling his attorney he’s getting out any day. Trust me, it will be easier to wait until he’s released.”

  It was the same old story, and I was tired of hearing it. “Delaying the divorce is costing me. Your bill is over six thousand dollars.”

  Ross leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “How would you like to be co-attorney on your case?” he asked. “Then you can deal directly with Alan Bradley, his attorney.”

  I walked out of the office, triumphant. From now on Bradley would have to deal with me. It would save time and money, and possibly bring sanity to my insane world.

  John was released from prison four months later, in December 1992, after serving only twenty-two months in jail for trying to murder me. I got only two days’ notice. My surprise and disgust turned to panic. John was now on the street, and might attempt again to kill me... or have someone else do it.

  The Virginia victims advocate told me John was released under a reciprocal program to the state of Washington. A parole officer in Seattle would monitor him. I wouldn’t find out until later that Hal Ledman, a former Two Star business associate who worked as a civilian contractor for the Navy, had vouched for John and gave him a place to stay, along with backing John’s plan to start a plant import business. Leave it to John to pick an area with a strong Navy presence so he could pick up where he left off, I thought at the time.

  I concentrated on the facts. John had continued to delay the divorce. If I died he could still try to get all the assets. John knew how to manipulate the system. I wanted additional protection, a new temporary restraining order, but when I called my attorney he said I was being melodramatic.

  “By the way, Bradley called,” he said. “John is willing to finalize the divorce and leave the property settlement until later, but he has one condition.”

  I braced myself. “What?”

  “He wants you to relinquish the Perry name.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” I laughed. “What an ass! John trying to control me through his name is a joke.” At one time his request would have been devastating to me, when I was weak and basking in the history of his name. John’s request showed that he still didn’t understand how I had changed and what I had learned.

  “Tell the bastard I decided I didn’t want his name a long time ago. Let him know he’s finally getting me my Bentley.”

  Then I turned serious. I offered to let John use the annuity until he died, on the condition that he back off my retirement and alimony. I believed my life was still in danger as long as there was a possibility of financial gain for him after my death. Yes, Ross had said I was being melodramatic, but he hadn’t been the one with ether on his face, or glass in his hair, or bruises from a fall down the stairs.

  When I hung up the phone, I took the next step to try to ensure my safety. I bought a cell phone. Later that evening, after I meditated, I wrote in my diary, My mind is heavy. This has been the week from hell.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Awakening

  John roamed the streets at will, a chameleon who could outwit any parole officer, a snake who could easily slither away from Seattle unnoticed. I spent the weekend after signing the divorce papers in deep mourning and utter mental chaos.

  Monday morning in my shower, my inner voice whispered, “Call Melvin Belli.” Melvin Belli, an internationally known flamboyant lawyer nicknamed the “King of Torts” for his work representing the rights of the individual, conducted business from his main office in San Francisco. His deep baritone voice set him apart, as did his work in sensational criminal justice or personal injury cases. In the San F
rancisco Bay Area, he was a legend, an aging legend.

  “Call Melvin Belli,” the voice repeated. I dismissed the idea as fantasy and finished getting ready for work. No way was a world-famous lawyer going to listen to me.

  Later that morning as I sat at my office desk, my persistent inner voice spoke once more. “Call Melvin Belli.” I gave in, got the phone number from San Francisco information, and dialed. Once the ringing started, I panicked. Who would I ask for? A deep male voice answered, “Law Office.”

  “Mr. Belli’s secretary, please,” I stammered. When she came on the line, she quickly assessed my situation and said, “Sounds like Mr. Belli should handle this. Can I have him call you around noon?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll be here.”

  The phone rang exactly at noon. On the other end of the line a booming baritone voice said, “This is Melvin Belli.” Goose bumps rippled along my arms and I shook with nervous agitation. I need not have. Before the conversation ended, Mr. Belli had set up an appointment for me to see him in two days, even though he knew I didn’t have a lot of money and there was no large estate. I hung up the phone and pranced around like a giddy schoolgirl.

  My euphoria was short lived. Two days later, on the morning of my appointment, I got a call from Marie, in Cupertino. She told me John had brazenly shown up on her doorstep the day before. They not only asked him in, but had him spend the night. I couldn’t believe it. He had used their former friendship to manipulate them, regaling them with his current exploits, and telling them he was in a government witness program. My dismay turned to terror when Marie told me John said he was going to cause me a lot of trouble. It made my trip today to see Melvin Belli even more critical.

  That afternoon my mother and I sat in Belli’s antique-filled reception area. When the receptionist called my name, Mom waved me on and I followed him into an office reminiscent of a bygone time. Mr. Belli rose to greet me. An old-fashioned gentleman, larger than life, he smiled broadly and extended his hand. Although now eighty-six, he was a striking figure with thick silver hair and deep wrinkles. Once we were seated, he prompted me for information and, as I spilled my story, I emptied my evidence from the briefcase. Bits and pieces of a once-happy life with the admiral lay on Melvin Belli’s desk.

  “He’s even using his admiral rank again,” I sobbed. “He showed up at the storage company in Martinez and said he was Admiral Perry. I promptly called the FBI.”

  “I’d like to beat this guy up and feed him to the sharks,” Belli groaned. “Unfortunately, the law’s the law. I’ll have you talk to my assistant who handles the firm’s family law.” His assistant told me the law was not on my side.

  I was looking for confirmation that the divorce law was insidious, while hoping there would be a way out of the financial injustice. I got the former, but not the latter. Disgruntled, I returned to the reception area and sank into the soft couch.

  “What happened? Any luck?” Mom asked.

  The ticking of the antique clock filled the room. I gathered my thoughts, analyzing what I had been told. “I thought Mr. Belli would have the answer, but there isn’t any. He said the law is the law.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  I shrugged. I had no plan. As we rose to leave, innocently and out of ignorance, I spoke. “I guess I’ll just have to change the law.”

  For the next three months I lived an endless nightmare, caught in a vise between the divorce lawyers, the judge, and John. I felt like a mime, moving my feet to get ahead while remaining in the same place, and it wasn’t funny. No matter how hard I tried to keep the property settlement moving forward, John thwarted my efforts to reach a fair and even division, even denying the accounting in my copious detailed records.

  We met twice, once in family court and once in Alan Bradley’s office, without success. All I could see was my hard-earned money sprouting wings and flying into greedy hands. The lawyers were wrong to wait until John was out of jail. The negotiations were just as difficult, and the property settlement was at an impasse. I had not been able to appease John’s appetite for my possessions, and I would not give in to his blackmail.

  Was it any wonder I balked at the next settlement conference scheduled for the end of March in Judge Lawrence’s chambers? I couldn’t contain my disgust with John, the lawyers, the family law court, and the California divorce law. The frustration gnawed at me. It was a miracle I had not developed an ulcer by now. When I asked Ross to cancel the meeting, he offered a compromise. “You’re co-counsel,” he said. “Why don’t you go to the hearing and represent yourself?”

  “I never thought about defending myself in court.”

  “Why not? You’ve got all the facts. You know the case inside and out. You’re intelligent. I’ll fill you in on protocol and you’ll do just fine.”

  Another door opened in my life. I stood at the threshold of this new experience, accepted the challenge, and stepped through to the other side.

  In the judge’s chambers, Bradley presented John’s accounting. John figured I owed him $14,000. Ridiculous! Anger superseded nerves. I opened my briefcase, ready to pull out my ledger of detailed records and dispute each ludicrous demand. This was my day in court, and I needed to show my strength and intelligence so John would not get the best of me. “Your honor,” I began. “I’m the victim in this case, not John Perry.”

  “I’m acquainted with the details,” Judge Lawrence said wearily, shaking his head. “Very sad, and most unusual. This is the strangest case I’ve ever had in my courtroom.”

  Great, I thought. Another one admits this is the strangest case they’ve come across. That didn’t help me as I struggled through the process, and more often it was a hindrance. Ignorance breeds delays. Without precedent to fall back on, we were forging our way through unknown territory.

  “Your honor, I’ve negotiated with Alan Bradley and his client in good faith for over two years.” I grabbed my green sheets in the briefcase and passed out copies to Bradley and Judge Lawrence. “I’d like to go through my detailed response from their last attempt to financially rape me.”

  The verbal and legal fisticuffs began. We argued over airline mileage, the annuity, the custody of the animals, monies expended by me to keep the household going, joint monies diverted by John into his personal account. In the end the judge glared at Bradley and growled, “Tell Mr. Perry he needs to accept Mrs. Perry’s offer. She’s being more than fair. I think that’s enough for today.” He rose and left the room.

  Hooray! I had just won a victory in chambers, representing myself. We gathered our things, left the chamber, and paused in the courtroom. Bradley frowned and said he’d get back to me.

  The next day Ross Grissom called me and ranted on for almost ten minutes about how I should get on with my life. I assumed that Bradley had whined about his client’s stubbornness, and both attorneys were getting tired of the circus. “What’s the matter, can’t Bradley control his client?” I asked.

  “He is having trouble with John.”

  “Just remember, I’m the victim here. Why should I settle for being victimized again? What kind of legal system do we have? And whose side are you on anyway?”

  I slammed the phone down, feeling out of control, disoriented, fearful, and stressed. Constant nightmares about John, murder, and fraud disrupted my sleep. I realized it had been almost a year since my last session with my therapist, when I had sought her advice for a summer romance. It had been a wonderful summer in the California Delta, what my soul needed as I sunned myself on the deck of his houseboat or cooled off flitting about on his Jet-Ski. But by the end of the summer I realized that the relationship was toxic. The man was emotionally unavailable. We separated as friends and when I checked in with Carolyn, she affirmed my decision. I immediately called and set up an appointment.

  In mid-April 1993, I sat in Carolyn’s office and bared my soul about the effect John’s crazymaking behavior had on me. Her good counsel had directed me to sanity before the trial and after
the brief summer fling. Once more I looked for her guidance. At the end of the hour I left with a new resolve that John would not get the better of me.

  Thirteen days later, Carolyn called me into her office for my next visit. She sensed at once that I was not the weak, emotionally distraught person who had dragged into her office two weeks before. I radiated energy, and it permeated the room.

  “Walking tall today, I see,” she said as she sat down.

  I settled into the now-familiar wing-back chair, laid my briefcase in my lap, and zipped it open. I was a woman in command. “I feel liberated,” I said as I shared with her how the emotional energy pent up inside me had burst into vigorous activity over the past weekend. “I’ve decided that John will not ruin my life, and that it’s time I get on with it. I’m now ready to go beyond myself.”

  I showed her my handwritten letters: one contacting an advocate for victims’ rights and one to Hannelore Hahn, the founder of the International Women’s Writing Guild. I shared my computer-generated letters: one to Governor Pete Wilson; one to my assemblyman, Robert Campbell; and one to my state senator, Daniel Boatwright. Each had the same content. I stated my case and gave a brief background on the murder attempt and John’s criminal history. I ended with an appeal for help in stopping the legal extortion and requested that the law be changed. “They’re all in the mail,” I said.

  I hugged my pile of papers. By acting on my passions, with patience, persistence, and a belief in my process, I had emerged a victor. It was my last visit to Carolyn’s office.

  Three months passed. I was no closer to a settlement with John, but still moving forward with my life. When offered an opportunity to disprove John’s stories, I jumped at the chance. That’s how I ended up in Sacramento, at the Doris Tate Award Ceremony. Harriet Salarno, the founder of Justice for Murder Victims in San Francisco, and a recipient of one of the awards, had invited me. Bells clanged when I found out the governor would hand the awards out. Fate had intervened, and I planned to take advantage. I would find a way to speak to Governor Pete Wilson to confirm or deny two of John’s stories that involved Wilson when he was the mayor of San Diego.