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

by Barbara Bentley

  “Don’t worry,” Anne said. “He’ll be here.” She marched to the short front row on the right of the room and showed us where to sit. The committee was scheduled to start at nine a.m. sharp. I checked my watch. It was 8:53. Still no Rainey. I pulled out my speech to read it over once more. Anne shuffled her stack of papers.

  “Here, this is for you,” Anne said, handing me a small newsprint pamphlet. “This is the Assembly Daily File. All the assembly committee meetings for this week are listed.”

  My heart pounded as I flipped through its one hundred pages until I found what I was looking for on page 73, under the header: Wednesday, May 3, 1995 JUDICIARY. There it was, the second measure listed: AB16—Rainey—Exemplary damages. My lower lip trembled and I fought back tears and passed the pamphlet back to my mother and my witnesses. I pinched myself. It was real. I was here. It was going to happen.

  A woman stepped down from the dais, walked in front of the railing, and smiled at me. “Nice dress,” she said as she passed me by. The compliment felt good. I had dressed for success and someone noticed.

  Loud chatter filled the air. I looked at my watch and held my breath. In the crowded room there was standing room only. No Rainey. I slowly turned back to focus my attention on the dais. Piles of papers were being delivered to each seat, and technicians were adjusting their equipment for closed-circuit television.

  “Anne, where are all the committee members? There are a lot of empty chairs.”

  “Some are still standing,” she said. “Not all assembly members attend their committee meetings. Today our quorum is ten members. Don’t worry. Sometimes the sergeant-at-arms has to make a call to their offices to pry them away.”

  I started counting ... one ... two ... three ... Isenberg entered from a door behind the dais and sat down in the middle seat. Several members scrambled for their chairs. Four...five...six...Papers were shuffled. Microphones tapped. Seven... eight... The side door opened and three more members slipped into their seats. Eleven. We had one to spare. Another hurdle cleared.

  In spite of that, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Where were the remaining three? I had visited the offices of each committee member more than once. They all knew how important this was to me and to other victims. What could be keeping them away? As I have done most of my life, I personalized my fears when people don’t show up. Maybe they didn’t like me. Maybe... I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Rainey said as he slipped past me to the other side of Anne, giving me a warm smile and a thumbs-up. “We’re number two on the calendar.”

  Here we go, I thought, sucking in my breath.

  “AB Nine-Twenty,” Isenberg barked, and the gallery hushed. I looked in my daily file. The bill had something to do with corporations and shareholder derivative actions. It sounded Greek to me.

  Four people positioned themselves at the tables behind the railing; two faced west, two faced south. “The proponents are the ones with their backs to us,” Anne whispered. “That’s where you and Dick will be sitting.”

  “What about the others?” I whispered.

  “They’re the opponents, the ones against the bill.”

  The opponents! Anne’s words hit me like a sledgehammer. In all the excitement I had forgotten about the opponents, like the Judges Association, who thought my bill would open up a legal can of worms. I had worked with their representative to get them to understand, but I didn’t know if they would send someone to testify.

  My facial muscles tensed, my mouth went dry, and I felt light-headed. The unknown was chipping away at my confidence. I turned and looked at the crowd in the packed gallery, wondering whether any of my enemies were out there. I faced forward, gripped my speech to my chest, and slumped in my seat.

  The drone of those who were there to observe the procedures made me think they were not paying attention. At one point they drowned out the proceedings up front. Isenberg pounded his gavel and bellowed for silence. The shock brought me out of my stupor. The gallery quieted down and testimony continued.

  As talk about the first bill became more contentious, my attempts to remain calm failed. I feared the same thing would happen to my bill. It would not be clean and swift, as I had imagined, but dirty and vengeful. I was not prepared for the reality of politics.

  The opposition grew more boisterous, and so did the gallery. The battle of words went on for more than an hour. Would they ever take a vote?

  I dabbed at the tears welling in my eyes. I began to feel like a victim once more, caught in an ever-tightening vise. Today I was a victim of time and an unfamiliar process, held at the mercy of eleven committee members. I couldn’t seem to shake the role. I rested my throbbing head against my hands and closed my eyes, trying to fight the constriction in my throat. As the bickering in the front of the room grew louder I wanted to yell STOP! But I couldn’t.

  Chairman Isenberg pounded his gavel, and I emerged from my reverie with a rapidly beating heart. The gallery continued to buzz. The gavel smacked once more, and the sound level diminished, but it did not completely disappear.

  “That’s it. Enough of this disagreement,” Isenberg barked. “Go back and work out the bugs before you set foot in this room again. There will be no vote today.”

  He slammed the gavel down once more, cutting off Assemblyman Cunneen as he tried to speak up for his bill. I was stunned and scared. Could this happen to my bill, after all these months? Oh, God, please don’t let this happen to my bill, please let there be no opposition. The cluster of witnesses gathered their papers, stuffed their briefcases, and shuffled out of the room. There were still vacant seats on the dais, and I leaned across Anne to murmur my concern to Rainey. Anne patted my hand. “Don’t worry,” Dick said. “It’s not unusual to have only a quorum, especially at the beginning of the session.”

  I settled back in my seat just as someone bellowed “AB Sixteen. Author: Assemblyman Rainey. Please come forward.” Every muscle in my body went rigid. I swallowed hard. Dick rose and looked at me. “This is it,” he said.

  Dick motioned me to join him. Anne asked the rest of the witnesses to follow. Dick directed Delores and me to the witness table. Harriet and Kevin stood to one side, in back of us. I didn’t understand why they couldn’t join us; there were several empty seats at the table. Then I remembered that the empty seats were reserved for opponents. I waited breathlessly. No one came forward to fill them. Was I safe? Dick approached the podium. I laid my speech on the table and rested my folded hands on top of it.

  “Good morning, Assemblyman Rainey.”

  I hardly dared to breathe as Dick reeled off a quick synopsis of AB16. I felt suspended between reality and fantasy; between hope and despair, caught up in the drama of legislative proceedings.

  “I’ve read yesterday’s rewrite,” Isenberg said. “No need for the second committee meeting. Today is it.”

  I gasped and tried to decide whether that was good news or bad. Good, I concluded. This way it doesn’t get strung out, and I don’t have to impose on my witnesses. Dick jotted down a note, thanked the chairman, and continued.

  “Mr. Chairman, I would like to introduce Barbara Bentley, the sponsor of AB Sixteen.”

  I choked back tears of excitement. Isenberg stared directly at me and smiled. “I’ve seen Barbara around the last two days,” he said. “She’s been doing a great job as a sponsor.”

  I was thrilled at his words and smiled back. This was it, the goal I’d fought for during the past two and a half years. I felt in charge; my palms weren’t sweaty, my stomach was not queasy, and I didn’t have a pounding headache. I had learned my Skidmore lesson well.

  Ready to do battle, I picked up my speech, adjusted my reading glasses, and leaned toward the microphone on the desk.

  “Mr. Chairman and members of the Judiciary Committee, my name is Barbara Bentley and I am the sponsor of Assembly Bill Sixteen. I come before you today representing all victims of spousal violence as they seek a divorce from t
heir convicted partner.”

  My voice cracked and I began to quiver. Hearing my words pierce the legislative air triggered the pain pent up from years of abuse, emotional and physical. Don’t cry now, Barbara, not now. But I couldn’t stop the salty tears from rolling down my cheeks.

  “In February nineteen ninety-one, my husband attempted... attempted to ... to ... murder me ... by ether asphyxiation.”

  I choked on my words. An assemblywoman went over to a service table, poured a glass of water, grabbed some tissues, and brought them to me. The gallery sat in total silence while I composed myself.

  Remember your three Ps, Barbara. Passion, patience, and persistence will get you through this as they did after the murder attempt, the investigation, the trial and recovery. Remember, it’s been an uphill battle since you walked out of Belli’s office, saying you were going to change the law. I silently repeated my three Ps and concentrated once more on the task at hand. I would prevail. My eyes focused on my written testimony. I blew my nose, took a cool drink of water, and continued.

  “When I started divorce proceedings, I became the victim of the community property divorce laws of California. It mattered not that my husband had tried to murder me for financial gain. It mattered not that I lost twenty-five thousand dollars when he surreptitiously added to the home equity loan...”

  I was on a roll now. With each word, with each sentence, my voice grew stronger. The committee members watched me, and I stared back into their eyes, one by one, as I emphasized my words. I used positive action to remedy my pain.

  “The law said he was entitled to fifty percent of everything obtained during the marriage. The law said he was entitled to half my pension plan. The law said I would have to pay him alimony. A victim of spousal abuse is often a silent victim. It takes great courage for a victim to overcome her fear and testify in a criminal trial. Let us not continue to traumatize the victim in the divorce court. In the name of victims of spousal abuse, I respectfully ask for your aye vote. Thank you for your kind attention.”

  I sat back in my chair. It was done. My voice had been raised to right a wrong, but would it make a difference? Dick thanked me and introduced our next witness, Delores Winje. She leaned closer to her microphone, cleared her throat, and began to read. Within moments, her pain boiled to the surface. Her words began to falter, ramble, and drag.

  Isenberg glanced at his watch more than once. When Delores finished, Dick thanked her. Isenberg intervened. “How many more witnesses do you have?”

  “Two.”

  “We’re running late. The committee would like the rest of the proponents to give only their names, what organization they represent, and their stand on the bill.”

  My heart sank. Harriet and Kevin had come all the way from the Bay Area, and now they would not be able to testify. Damn that first bill. They had no right to usurp time like they did. Harriet and Kevin moved forward to the podium, did as they were instructed, and returned to stand behind me.

  “Are there any opponents?”

  I turned and looked over my shoulder. The gallery had maintained a modicum of decorum since I testified. My eyes scanned the crowd. Gratefully, no one seemed to be moving forward. Anne smiled from the gallery and gave me a thumbs-up.

  “This is the second and final call for opponents,” the chairman said.

  I barely breathed as once more I glanced over my shoulder. What about the Judges Association? Would someone race in at the last moment and sabotage the bill? I never did get a final answer from Marty. No one moved, not even to go out the door.

  “Then let’s vote,” Isenberg said.

  I swallowed hard and took a sip of water. My throat and lips were parched. I watched intently the actions and reactions of the committee members as they were polled. Some were already collecting their papers and filling their briefcases. Some tapped their pens. Some said aye. Some abstained. Not a single one said nay. I felt victorious.

  “AB Sixteen passes out of committee with eleven ayes,” Isenberg declared. He banged his gavel and called for the lunch recess.

  Sweet success! I had made it past the first hurdle in this final race, with the endorsement of family, friends, my witnesses, and strangers. I paused and thanked God for their concern and support. The witnesses started down the ramp with Dick, and as I passed the assemblyman seated at the end, he leaned down.

  “Congratulations on your courage.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Anne rushed up to me and gave me a bear hug. “I knew we had it in the bag when Isenberg acknowledged you at the beginning,” she grinned. “He rarely does that, and only when he supports what’s on the floor.”

  “I wish I had known that.” I laughed. “It would have saved me a lot of worry.”

  The Rainey contingent now forged its way through the standing-room-only crowd at the back of the chamber. One observer patted me on the shoulder. “Powerful testimony.” Outside the door another gentleman approached me. “Great job.”

  We made our way up the short flight of stairs and stood in the solarium. I pulled out my camera and accosted a stranger as she walked by. “Would you mind? I’d like to document my victory today.”

  The woman obligingly poised the camera. “Say cheese,” she said.

  “No, no. On three, say victory.” I laughed.

  The next morning, the article “Brutal Alimony Story” appeared in the Oakland Tribune, right next to a report on the O. J. Simpson trial. I had not sought publicity out of fear of John Perry’s litigious soul, but seeing my victory in print gratified my soul.

  Two weeks later I sat in my office, trying to concentrate on my job, but I couldn’t. No way. AB16 was on the assembly floor today, and I was waiting for the phone to ring. Anne said she would call me as soon as there was a vote. I needn’t have been so apprehensive. The recent signs seemed to bode well for passage. Even the judges’ position had mellowed. The previous week Marty had called to tell me so. The double ring of an outside call interrupted my thoughts. I grabbed for the receiver. It was Anne.

  “Are you sitting down?” she said.

  “Yes, I’m at my desk.”

  “Congratulations, girl, the assembly passed AB Sixteen on to the senate,” she giggled, “with a vote of seventy to zero. AB Sixteen came out as a bipartisan bill!”

  “Oh, my God,” I squealed. “Seventy to zero! I can’t believe it. Not one negative vote, even with all the political bantering going on.” Happy tears formed. A major battle had been won in the war to change the law.

  I hung up the phone and sat silently, staring at the computer screen but not seeing anything on it. Then, in gratitude, I bowed my head and prayed. My hand swiped at the solitary tear that trickled down my right cheek and I continued to sit in silence, unsure of my feelings. I thought I should probably run up and down the hall, screaming with joy, but I didn’t. Instead, I remained in the chair, voiceless.

  I wanted to remember this moment and was puzzled that the excitement wasn’t there. I should be bounding around the room with the good news. Perhaps the struggle had been too long, or too exhausting. Perhaps I knew this was just one more notch toward the goal, not the goal itself.

  My thoughts now turned to the senate.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The Senate

  Coming off my victory in the assembly, I was not prepared for the sinkholes that appeared in my road to the Senate Judiciary Committee. I soon discovered that there would be no superhighway through the senate to the governor’s desk. Anne broke the news to me with a telephone call.

  “Chairman Calderon is looking at AB Sixteen as a typical domestic issue, another women’s thing.” There was a definite pause, and Anne cleared her throat. “He’s against the bill.”

  I gasped and clenched my fist. I knew enough from my recent experience with the Assembly that this was not a good thing. Without the chairman’s backing, a bill would languish and never make it out of committee. We needed to show that the bill would also help men, and as th
e bill’s sponsor, it was up to me to prove it. But how? I hung up the phone and prayed for guidance.

  My prayers were answered two days later when Anne called.

  “A male victim has appeared,” she said excitedly. “Steve Peterson. He saw the latest AB Sixteen story in the Oakland Tribune.”

  Twenty years earlier, Steve Peterson’s wife hired two people to kill him. He survived the attack, and his wife and the hit couple were sentenced to prison. In another fine example of the skewed legal system, his ex-wife was incarcerated for only three years. When Steve retired, his ex-wife retained an attorney to go after her share of Steve’s retirement pension. She got twenty percent.

  “He’ll make a great witness,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, but we may have a problem,” Anne said. “He wants the law to help him, to be retroactive, which we can’t do. I told him I would have you call him.”

  It took all of my negotiating skills to sway Steve into lobbying and testifying with me. I talked to him on the phone and met with him in person. Each time he spoke of the attack he broke into tears. When you’ve been a victim, the pain is never far from the surface, especially when you’ve just learned that you are going to have to pay the woman who tried to murder you $500 a month. Reluctantly, he agreed to my request. I had my male voice.

  Four days later at work, I filled my coffee cup and slipped back into my desk chair just in time to catch the ringing phone. It was Anne, and she was alarmed. “We have a problem,” she blurted. “We heard from the Judges Association, through a letter from Marty Montano. The judges ... well, there’s no easy way to say it. They’ve come out against the bill.”