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

by Barbara Bentley

  The crowd began to swell. It was close to lunchtime, and my table generated interest from victims’ rights supporters, curious visitors, and the press. A man walked up to me, handed me his card, and said he was a reporter for the Oakland Tribune. “I’ll watch for your testimony,” he said.

  Anne came down to check on my progress and prompt me for my speech. “Can you get it to me by Friday?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I knew it would be easy to capture my passion on paper.

  “I’m still working with the legislative counsel on some amendments, to see if we can keep Isenberg from killing the bill. You need to be available for the next couple of days.”

  I frowned. “I’ll be in training classes the next two days, and away from my desk, but I’ll check in with you during morning and afternoon breaks, if that’s okay.”

  “That’ll work,” Anne said. “What about your witnesses for next week?”

  “All three are confirmed.”

  “You’ve done a great job as a sponsor, Barbara,” she added.

  It was time for participants to clear our tables and move to the big white tent set up on the lawn behind us. After the catered lunch, State Attorney General Dan Lundgren gave a moving speech about victims’ rights. That ended the program. I gathered my courage, made my way to the podium, and introduced myself to Mr. Lundgren.

  “I’m the sponsor of AB Sixteen,” I said. “I’m in the process of changing the no-fault divorce law to help victims.”

  “I wish you well,” he said, with a broad smile and a strong handshake. “Keep up your good work.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Lobbyist

  Six days before I was to testify before the Assembly Judiciary Committee, I sat trapped in a training class at work, counting the minutes to the morning break, and when the instructor released the class, I bolted down the hall, desperate to reach the phone bank before the others from my class got there. I had to know whether the bill I sponsored had survived the night.

  When I reached the communication room there was, thank heaven, one available phone. I took that as a positive sign. I punched in the number for Assemblyman Rainey’s office, set my notepad on the shelf, and held my pen poised for the notes I wanted to take.

  The phone rang and rang. While I waited for someone to answer, I reviewed my notes from yesterday’s phone conversations with Anne Dunsmuir, Rainey’s legislative aide. I was sure the wait would be worth it. Anne would get on the phone, set my mind at ease, and assure me that my Assembly Bill 16 was not in trouble, after all. Wouldn’t she?

  Uneasy, I realized I expected no such thing. I expected trouble. Still, I was glad Rainey had assigned Anne to work with me on the assembly bill I was sponsoring to change California’s divorce laws. Anne was bright, effervescent, and an extremely helpful guide through the many mysteries of politics. At twenty-eight, she had proven to be a remarkably mature confidante as well. There was no doubt in my mind that if the bill was still in trouble, she would do all she could to help me turn things around, and she’d tell me the truth whether it was what I wanted to hear or not.

  Yesterday she’d informed me that the chairman of the Assembly Judiciary Committee, Phil Isenberg, was not happy with the wording of AB16. She had met with the committee’s counsels and with Isenberg’s legislative aide and massaged it once more. When she faxed me their revision for my approval, she expressed the belief that the changes would satisfy Isenberg’s concerns.

  Nevertheless I worried, because before she hung up Anne asked me to phone her this morning, and there was a cautionary tone in her voice.

  As I waited for her to come on the line I glanced at my notes. The words in front of me blurred as my eyes misted. AB16 and I had been a team for an arduous two years. Passion, patience, and persistence had brought us this far, abetted by my organizational skills, my attention to detail, and the copious records I’d amassed. Feeling optimistic again, I looked forward to next Wednesday, when AB16 and I could... no, would... finally have our hearing before the Assembly Judiciary Committee. All of us, my witnesses and I, were lined up and ready to testify. The bill had to make it out of committee. If not, that would be the end of it.

  “Barbara?”

  Finally!

  “Sorry,” Anne said breathlessly. “I was in Marty’s office.”

  I wet my lips. “So? What’s the word from Isenberg?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. My palms began to sweat; my heart beat faster.

  “I’m sorry, Barbara,” Anne said when she finally spoke.

  No, I thought. Don’t say it. Please don’t! I held my breath.

  When she did say it, I thought I might collapse. “Sorry, he still wants to kill the bill.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “Barbara? Barbara? Are you still there?” Anne yelled into the telephone. “Did you hear what I said?”

  My heart pounded. This was the all-important call I had awaited with such mixed feelings, and Anne had just confirmed my worst fears. “I’m here, Anne. I can’t believe Isenberg still wants to kill my bill. We’ve worked so hard these last couple of days...the faxes ... the editing ... the phone calls. My God, what else does this man want?”

  “His aide said he still doesn’t like the wording.”

  “The wording? We’ve changed it a dozen times.”

  “You know Isenberg; he’s a lawyer, so he scrutinizes all the legal implications.”

  Anne always explained legal matters in terms I could understand. I appreciated her for that. “Well, I’m no lawyer,” I answered, “but I know what I want the bill to do. Quite honestly, the way it’s written has always confused me. Why does it have to be tied to that section on fiduciary duty?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, it’s what the committee came up with.”

  When I decided to get the California divorce law changed, I asked my divorce attorney to help me draw up the bill. He turned me down. Too busy, he said. Or maybe he just didn’t want to get involved. I approached other groups. They didn’t want to get caught up in something that looked like a losing battle. It was always the same old story; there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell to change the law. Damn sacrosanct no-fault divorce! Ultimately I had to rely on the Republican legislative counsel and legislative committee to draft the bill. Perhaps I had misplaced my trust. The wording had become a major roadblock.

  “We’ll need a miracle,” Anne said. “Without the chairman behind the bill, we can kiss it good-bye. He told his legislative aide to pull it from next Wednesday’s agenda.”

  “He can’t. I have witnesses all lined up to testify.”

  “He can do anything he wants.”

  Her words stung. I leaned against the wall. I had not come this far to let one man blow away what I knew must be done. Deep inside me, anger and frustration bubbled up and took control. Out of some deep survival instinct, I uttered words that astounded even me. “Guess I’ll have to come up next Tuesday and lobby the committee assemblymen on my own.”

  Lobby? I knew nothing about lobbying, but I believed that if the committee members saw me and heard me, they would see my point of view. I was so naïve.

  “That’s fourteen offices, Barbara.”

  “Fourteen, huh?” I had to change my strategy fast. “Okay. I’ll come up Monday and Tuesday.”

  “Good plan,” Anne said.

  I hung up, determined not to let AB16 languish and die in some fusty old committee.

  The following Monday morning I arrived at the capitol ready for battle, spiffed up in a smart two-piece navy print dress with jacket and clutching my black briefcase. It was a businesslike look I hoped would impress committee members and get their attention, then their support.

  I found Assemblyman Rainey’s office, took a deep breath, and entered a small reception area. A pleasant-looking woman in her early forties stood, removed her reading glasses, and extended her right hand.

  “Hi, I’m Daisy. You must be Barbara. Anne told us you were coming today.” I s
hook her hand and quickly scanned the room. I saw no one else. I shivered even though the room was warmed by sunlight streaming in the large windows.

  “Yes. I have an appointment with Anne at nine. Is she here yet?”

  “I’m sorry, she won’t be in. She called in sick just a few minutes ago.”

  Another roadblock. I squeezed my briefcase handle. Breathe, Barbara, breathe. It took all my concentration to keep smiling, even though I was close to tears.

  “Don’t worry,” Daisy continued. “Anne said you could use her office. She’s really sorry. But she says you’ll do fine.”

  Daisy walked around her desk and pointed me to one of two small offices at the end of the reception area. “Make yourself at home. Coffee’s in the kitchenette, back the other way. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered, knowing Daisy would be unable to provide what I needed. I would have to find it on my own.

  I trudged into the cluttered office, cleared a space on the desk, and laid my briefcase down. I glanced back into the reception area and focused on the light streaming through the windows. Because I needed every bit of self-encouragement I could muster, I took it as a positive sign that I would prevail. Without Anne, though, the day ahead looked bleak and ominous.

  I unzipped my briefcase and took out the ammunition I had prepared for my assault: fourteen letters, one for each committee member, containing the picture of my swollen, bruised face, photographed after John’s murderous attack. I planned to visit the offices by area, to conserve energy and time.

  Daisy stuck her head in the door. “One more thing. Anne said it would be hard to see assembly members on such short notice, without an appointment, so first introduce yourself. Then ask to speak to the legislative aide handling AB Sixteen.”

  “Thanks.”

  I grabbed the first stack of letters, my notepad, and my pen and headed toward the door.

  “Here goes the lobbyist,” I giggled, “a very nervous lobbyist pushing off into uncharted waters.”

  “You’ll have smooth sailing.” Daisy smiled. “The wind is at your back.”

  Perhaps I was wrong. Daisy did have something to offer me—her kindness and encouragement.

  Off I went, into the dark depths of the capitol. It didn’t matter that I was the most inexperienced lobbyist roaming the halls. I was on an adventure, armed with passion, patience, and persistence, a trio that had helped me rise like a phoenix out of my tragedy. Together we were strong and effective. I entered the first office full of fire and met immediate resistance.

  “Who’s the sponsor of your bill?” the middle-aged receptionist asked.

  “I am.”

  “No, I mean which group is sponsoring the bill?”

  “I am. There is no group. It’s just me, an ordinary citizen.”

  The receptionist furrowed her brow, pursed her lips, and shook her head. “It’s a hectic Monday morning. Come back later, in the afternoon.”

  Undaunted, I recorded this on my notepad and prepared for my next assault. My lobbying juices started to flow. It would be a morning fraught with frustration, when negativity chilled the air and my spirits sagged. It would be a morning of exhilaration, when positive remarks warmed my soul and my spirits soared. Each office responded differently, and when I even lobbied in the hallway, as I caught one legislative aide dashing out to the travel office, I was proud of my ability to think on my feet and survive under pressure.

  Right before lunch I dashed up to the sixth floor to deliver my most important letter of all, the one to Assembly Judiciary Committee Chairman Phil Isenberg. His office, with its intimidating set of double doors, stood alone and smacked of importance even before I entered. I took a deep breath and slipped inside. It was elegant, richly paneled in wood and handsomely decorated. I approached the smiling receptionist and repeated my now-familiar introduction.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ve paged the legislative aide. He’ll be just a few moments.”

  Around me, men and women hurried about. Busy, busy, busy. More than once my heart skipped a beat as a man approached, only to say good morning before he left the office through the double doors. It felt like hours had passed, but it was only minutes according to the antique clock on the wall behind the receptionist. Finally, a tall, lanky man with sandy brown hair approached, smiled, and extended his hand.

  “Let’s go into the library,” he said. “It’s quieter and more conducive to conversation.”

  I sidestepped a pile of law books and seated myself at a round wooden table covered with stacks of books and a few single volumes, laid open. This is where it all happens, I thought.

  “Isenberg’s sure to like the bill now that the revised language has been inserted,” he said, sitting down opposite me. “Requiring a felony conviction for attempted murder in order for the law to apply tightens it up.”

  “Wait a minute. Anne told me last Friday that Isenberg still wants to kill the bill, even with the new language.” I could still hear her words and feel my fear.

  “She must be mistaken. He hasn’t seen the new wording yet. I can’t imagine why he would be against it now. I’m going to push him on it. It’s a law that makes good sense.”

  I pressed my luck. “Would it be possible to have an appointment with Mr. Isenberg today so I can discuss AB Sixteen with him personally?” I pleaded. I realized this would be the only way to discover where he stood. Enough of this middleman stuff; I needed to talk to the main man.

  “I wish I could accommodate you, but his schedule is very tight. He serves on five committees, and two of them meet today. He’s at the first right now. After lunch he’ll be in the second one until the end of the day.”

  That was not what I came to hear. Do something, Barbara! I mustered my persistence and my passion and found the answer. “What time does Mr. Isenberg leave for his afternoon session?”

  “It starts at one thirty. He usually leaves about one fifteen.”

  “Could I meet him here at the office and walk with him to his meeting?”

  “You sure are one determined lady. Let me check with his schedule.”

  He sauntered over to the receptionist’s desk. After a short discussion, she made a call, then wrote something down while I kept my fingers crossed. “You’re on,” the aide said when he walked back into the library.

  “See you at one fifteen,” the receptionist said. I gathered my things and floated toward the massive double doors. I had just done the impossible ... gotten a same-day appointment with the chairman of the Assembly Judiciary Committee.

  At lunch in the nearby cafeteria I snatched a leftover newspaper and flipped it open to the horoscopes. I had become a horoscope junkie ever since John tried to murder me. It was amazing how many applied, like guiding beacons of light showing the way, or reflecting my past actions. Virgo. My finger traced down the page. What did Jeane Dixon have for me today? I gasped as I read, Influential people like the way you think and work. Why not? After all, Isenberg had agreed to meet me. Your business acumen helps you meet an important deadline. My testimony was only two days off. Maybe I’d be able to testify on Wednesday. New fame and fortune will follow. Keep your own counsel about emotional or financial concerns. Did this mean my bill would pass to help others?

  My heart raced. It was a wonder how the words fit so closely to my day. I ripped out the horoscope and stuffed it into my briefcase, another addition for my expanding horoscope file.

  After lunch I arrived five minutes early. I couldn’t take a chance that I’d be late for my golden opportunity. Fifteen long minutes passed before a man wearing a navy jacket and tan pants came rushing out from the back, carrying a briefcase. I stood, sensing this was the big moment. I could scarcely breathe.

  “I understand you won’t take no for an answer,” Isenberg said, smiling. “I admire determination.” He extended his hand and apologized for being late.

  He took my arm as we left the office and led me through an unmarked door to a narrow, cr
owded hallway. “Welcome to the assemblymen’s labyrinth,” he said. “It’s a shortcut to the assembly wing. Careful. It gets a little tight as we all rush to our afternoon meetings.”

  What a thrill! Here I was, walking in a secure pathway designed for the restricted use of legislators alone. My high heels clicked on the shiny linoleum floor as I tried to keep up with Isenberg’s long-striding gait.

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he started, “but the language of AB Sixteen could create all sorts of legal ramifications. For example, the bill does not specify any difference between a felony conviction and a misdemeanor conviction. Also, there’s the embedded fiduciary duty and family sections that muddy up the water.”

  “Frankly, I’ve always been confused about the fiduciary duty and family sections.” I began, then proceeded to explain what had happened to me, the unjustness of the current divorce law, and what I was trying to accomplish with AB16. I bombarded him with words as we maneuvered our way down two short flights of stairs and around several bends in the tube. “All I want is to protect crime victims from being victimized again, financially and emotionally, by the divorce law,” I pleaded. “I want to protect their retirement funds, and block alimony, insurance, and medical payments to the criminal.”

  “I understand. However...”

  “Last Thursday we changed the language of the bill so it applies only for criminal convictions. Haven’t you read it yet?”

  He stopped walking and I bumped into him. Had I gone too far? Should I apologize? Hell no! I was in this to win, working like a dog to get the wording right, and I wasn’t going to back down now. I held my breath and noticed that we were now in the middle of a solarium, a large area drenched in light with potted ferns and seating areas. The journey was almost over. Maybe I was, too.

  “My committee room is just ahead,” Isenberg said. He held out his hand. Mine trembled as I took it.

  “You know,” I said, “I had to trust in the committee I’ve been working with on the language. They’re the experts, not me. But we did limit it to a felony conviction.”