Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant

by Janet J. White

  I shook my head as a feeling of recognition coursed through me. Now I understood one of the reasons that Dick had left our bed during the middle of the night, supposedly to sleep in the other bedroom so as not to disturb me. In lewd detail, the piece of literary filth described a man's sexual abuse of his two eleven year old twin daughters. Where reading interruptions took place, half the page was folded over. One of Dick's idiosyncrasies. Having risen to a new low, Dick falsely accused Clark of the hideous acts outlined in the trashy pulp fiction.

  When he returned Monday evening, I knew another battle had taken place. He walked past me as if he had not seen me, then sank into a chair. His usual arrogance had vanished. He gazed around the room with half closed eyes. Finally, with growing anxiety, I walked toward him. "Dick," I whispered. "What happened?"

  He got to his feet and went to the window, placing his hands on the sill and looking out as he answered haltingly. "Sonny said they've been in touch with William French Smith, the Attorney General of the United States in Washington, D.C."

  Had "Operation Fuzzball" reached the highest level? I wondered. Gradually, Dick turned and looked at me as though he had just awakened from a deep sleep. "The Feds very officially advised Thompson and me that they are trying to gather enough evidence to arrest me. Now they want to bring me to trial on a charge of Complicity. I'm told that if I still to refuse to testify, and continue to ask for our signed contracts, I'm to be tried alongside every man that I've trapped for the Justice Department!" Like dessert after a meal, the Feds had saved the best for last.

  Tears of fear blurred my eyes.

  "And when I left the Attorney General's office today, I was told not to show up tomorrow in Tampa. I think they want me to stew for awhile about their final ultimatum."

  Tuesday morning we drank a pot of coffee while trying to figure out what to do. Late in the afternoon, Dick decided to write another letter to Senator Chiles. "This is our last hope, Jen. I don't know what else to do."

  "Can I help you with the letter?" I asked.`

  He shook his head. "I can handle it, if the senator can read my handwriting. And since we don't have a typewriter here, it can't be redone anyway. Why don't you swim or walk the beach for a couple of hours?"

  "You don't want my input this time?"

  "Not really, Baby. I need time alone to formulate my thoughts and get it all down on paper."

  "Alright, Dick. As you wish. I'll see you later." I swam in the Gulf waters and walked the beach for hours, while I tried, unsuccessfully, not to worry.

  When I opened the condo door hours later, Dick was stuffing a yellow sheaf of legal-sized pages into a envelope. "You got any stamps?" he asked.

  "Yes. Mind if I read it?"

  "Let's not take the time. I want to drop this off at the post office right now."

  I wondered why Dick didn't want me to read the letter. Did it contain things he didn't want me to know about? Had the Feds threatened to have me arrested and tried along with him?

  "If any help comes from Senator Chiles, let's hope it arrives in time," Dick said on the way to the post office.

  On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, the telephone sat mute while Dick paced the apartment, bristling with anger. "I should be in Tampa," he repeated, over and over again. "Why doesn't Sonny call? What's going on with those pricks?"

  On Monday, May 23, 1983, the phone rang at 7:00 A.M. Dick listened for a few moments, said, "I see" then replaced the receiver. "Damn! That was Sonny. He told me I wasn't required to be in Tampa today."

  "Did he say why?"

  "No." He heaved a sigh. "Just said he’d be in touch later."

  As I noted the depth of his concern, my stomach heaved. "Have you talked with your attorney?"

  "I can't get in touch with him. I don't know if he's meeting with the Feds or what. Every time I call, his secretary just says that he's out of the office."

  When the telephone rang three hours later, Dick dashed across the room and answered it. As he gripped the receiver, I could see the color drain from his face. Thirty seconds later, he meekly said "Good-bye."

  Hanging up the phone, he struggled to speak. "I've just been fired by the FBI and every other agency of the Justice Department! My services are no longer needed. As of this moment, I'm off the payroll. Sonny told me that there was nothing more to talk about. That I wasn’t to call them EVER AGAIN.'"

  The final curtain on the twenty-month drama had fallen with a crushing blow, a blow that plunged both of us into total silence. Dick sank down on the couch and stared at the floor. I slumped into an easy chair and closed my eyes. Neither of us spoke for a long time. Then, all of a sudden, Dick bolted up from the couch. "We've got to get out of here right away." He reached for my hand to help me up. "It's not only the Mafia families we have to fear, but the damned

  Feds as well."Oh God! Now we were in the same boat as the other couple who had to run for their lives! I felt so exhausted, so tired of everything. Almost in a blur, I watched Dick frantically packing his clothes in this unending nightmare. Finally, I started getting things organized. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him surreptitiously transfer a small plastic bag from his briefcase into his duffel bag, then zip it closed. My suspicions aroused, I unzipped the bag while he was using the bathroom and found hotel sample bottles of shampoo, shaving gear and other toiletries along with one of his white hanky's smeared with bright red lipstick. Not mine.

  I closed the bag.

  Dick came out of the bathroom and poured a couple of drinks. Handing me the glass, he smiled. "Cheers, Pussycat."

  Everything that I had held back for so long shot forth in a fiery outburst. "Blast your hide, Dick!" I cried. "This didn't have to happen to us. You got so full of yourself you wouldn't listen to anyone. Not to me, not to your detective buddy who said the same thing; or to the attorney who couldn't handle the Feds but urged you to find one who could. Why did you back down at every step along the way? Before the third wash, we still had a chance to avoid this disaster! I laid it all out for Sonny, as you asked. All you had to do was nod your head if you couldn't get your mouth to work."

  Dick ranted, “I suppose you could have done better with the Feds? You're supposed to help me. But no, all I hear from you is bitching. You think you're so almighty smart. There's no way in the world you could have done what I did. I got them all! I put all of them in the greatest trick bag they've ever seen. They'll remember me for the rest of their lives. I can't help it if the Feds broke all their promises. Don't blame me for something somebody else did or didn't do. I can't help that!"

  "Nobody's trying to take that away from you,” I said. "You did what the FBI couldn't do for nine years--close down Solomon's operation. And because of your efforts, the Justice Department will reap tens, possibly hundreds of millions of dollars. That's what they got! And what did we get? We got our lives torn up by the roots and now we're in mortal danger. You allowed us to be used by the Feds, even financially. So now we've ended up just like that other '60-Minutes' couple--running for our lives. Did all this happen because of your Mount Rushmore sized ego? I think yes! On top of everything else, I just discovered what you were trying to hide, your hotel samples and the lipstick-covered hankie. Didn't you have enough excitement in Tampa these past two weeks wrestling with the Feds? You're a skirt chasing, lying, cheating, womanizing jerk! Like a dog in heat, you're sniffing after another female while the Mafia's jotting down our names on a search and destroy mission!"

  He stopped packing to glare at me. "You should talk about having a little something extra on the side. If you want to throw stones, you'd better move out of the glass house, Baby! I know dammed well you had an affair with your former lover, your precious Italian, while I worked my ass off in California. You can't fool me. That's why you called him and invited him to the house. That's all bullshit about his only being in the garage for a few minutes to look at the paint machine. So, don't talk about me about being unfaithful. At least I'm not h
aving an on-going affair. Hell! For all I know, lady, you two have been fucking each other since we've been married. So get off my back!"

  I fumed. "So that's why you suggested I call him while you were in California. You planned to put me in one of your infamous trick bags. You know very well that I've never been unfaithful to you. It's not my style...nor is it his. But it is your style to accuse me of what you're doing."

  I lost all control and simply couldn't quench my fury. "You could have protected us as you promised to do before I agreed to help with this operation. But no, you thought you were smarter than everybody else...not only me, but Sonny and every FBI agent with a law degree, even the entire Justice Department. You're the big shot. You thought you could out-think and out-maneuver all of them--all by yourself. Had you tried, you could have found an attorney like James Thomas at the onset. Then we wouldn't be standing here wondering which hole we can crawl into and pull up over our heads! You lied to me time and again. You kept stalling until it was too late. You even prevented me from finding an attorney. And I'm not guiltless either. I was wrong in allowing myself to be led, intimidated and manipulated you. I've been a fool to believe in a fool."

  I took a deep breath and continued. "You actually issued the license to the Feds so they could feed us to the sharks. I don't know whether or not you harbor a deep-seated death wish, but I do know that the FBI didn't need to put signed contracts under your nose to get you to perform their death defying tricks like a circus monkey. All they had to do was keep stroking your ego with that pile of dung they shoved at you."

  Dick's face turned splotchy. Hatred narrowed his laser-blue eyes as he lunged across the room and slapped my face. "I have to destroy you," he hissed.

  I backed away.

  "I could kill you whenever I want to," he spat through clenched teeth. "Get out of my sight or I'll rip the flesh from your face!"

  I turned and ran into the bedroom, and quickly closed the door, before realizing it had no lock. With the bedroom window way too small to shimmy through, there was no way of escape. And my gun, my only protection, remained in my car, wedged between the front seats. From the other side of the door, I could hear Dick making growling, frightening, guttural sounds. I caught a glimpse of my face in the bureau mirror. It had only been seconds since I had been slapped, but already green, purple and red welts had begun to appear on my left cheek. I felt like the devil himself had struck me. A terror deeper than anything I had known throughout our two-year marriage made my body shake. I truly believed that one of Satan's army of demons was shrieking with hatred on the other side of that door. I started praying for protection from my Guardian Angel. I had to get as far away from him as possible.

  Forever.

  For another half an hour, Dick heaped foul words on me through the closed door. I clasped my hands tightly over my mouth to prevent the sounds of anguish from reaching his ears, and inciting him further. Then, as though a switch had been turned off, there was silence. I pressed my ear to the door and waited, breathing a sigh of relief when I heard the condo door slam. I waited a couple of minutes, then grabbed my handbag, a sweater, and ran out of the apartment in bare feet. Both cars were still parked there. With my car keys clutched in my hand, I looked around in a state of panic. Where did he go? I couldn't take the chance that he was lurking nearby waiting to pounce on me during the few seconds it would take me to unlock the car door and get safely inside. I couldn't risk it. The sun had almost dipped into the Gulf of Mexico as I sprinted across the road and down the narrow path to the water's edge. I raced along the sand until my legs ached, then I slowed to a walk. Exhausted and frightened, I searched for a place to hide. Spotting a clump of sea oats in a protected hollow, I lay down and flattened by body into the quickly cooling sand.

  An hour later, I heard Dick calling my name. A full moon had risen, casting enough light for me to see his massive frame trudging along the beach in search of me. Feeling helpless, I watched him hunt through the clusters of palm trees, before bending over to check under an upturned boat. Finally, he turned around and made his way back up the beach toward the condo. I watched until he disappeared from sight.

  I remained hidden throughout that cold and miserable night, aware that I could not return until the grip of killing madness had released its hold on him. I knew how Humpty Dumpty felt: For I, too, could not put this life back together again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dick’s Gone, Gone

  "Knowledge is the only instrument of production that is not subject to diminishing returns."

  --J. M. Clark

  With the first streaks of light, I rose from the damp, cold sand. Chilled to the bone and body aching, I stiffly made my way back to the condo. Dick lay sleeping peacefully on the couch with the television blaring. His face, in repose, did not reflect the maniac of the night before. He didn't stir as I made my way into the bathroom and locked the door. I stripped off my sand-imbibed clothes and stepped into the stream of hot water until the trembling ceased. Thanking my Guardian Angel for protecting me on that sleepless and endless night, I climbed into my pajamas and crawled into bed. Sleep came the moment my had touched the pillow.

  When I awoke, Dick was busying himself in the kitchen. As he picked up a small knife to slice some fruit, a disquieting feeling came over me. Sensing my dismay, he looked at me and smiled. He made no mention of last night or the four welt lines visible on my cheek. "We need to leave here as soon as you're ready," he said calmly. "The sooner the better."

  "Alright. I'll start getting things together as soon as we finish breakfast."

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh yeah, we need to get rid of the rest of the cocaine. I'm glad Melvin Pome bought most of it before we left Sarasota. If the Feds make good their threat to arrest me, finding it on us would do the job. I think we should bury it before we start looking for another apartment. I know just the spot."

  Once again, we packed up and piled the luggage and boxes next to the door. I got into Dick's Lincoln. We parked some twenty minutes later at the same location that Dick and Sonny had met before the FBI had fired him. Dick got out of the car. "No sense in your getting dirty too. I'll only be a few minutes." Slipping the small paper bag containing the tightly taped jar of cocaine in his pocket, he removed a shovel from the trunk and disappeared into the scrub pine woods at the end of a cull-de-sac of the abandoned housing development.

  Fifteen minutes later, he replaced the shovel in the trunk, got in and started the engine. "Somehow, that seemed like the appropriate spot to bury the evidence Sonny would use to throw me in jail and hold me there until he could slam-dunk me with a long list of phony charges."

  We went back to the condo, packed both the cars and drove 20 miles north of Naples to Bonita Beach. Since May in Florida is off-season, there were plenty of rental vacancies. A real estate agent guided us to a ground floor condo at the Bonita Beach Club, a mid-rise complex directly on the Gulf of Mexico. "We got lucky," Dick said. "I like the idea of living in a gated complex that has around-the-clock security."

  It seemed that my entire world revolved around moving from place to place, packing and unpacking, and living in fear.

  We unloaded the cars and I started to unpack as Dick picked up the telephone. "I'm going to call my attorney in Tampa." Minutes later, he hung up. "Thomson says there's nothing he can do about my being fired. It's a dead issue."

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  By evening, we had settled into the small, one bedroom apartment. "Let's sit on the screened patio for awhile," Dick said, placing two large glasses of orange juice on the small round table next to two padded chairs.

  "Okay." I sat down and put my feet up. "I'm ready for a break."

  "I think what we should do is move to either North or South Carolina. The Mafia probably wouldn't find us there, because they’ll be focusing on Florida. After a while, they'll probably just chalk up the hunt to a lost cause."

  I didn't know how to respond. "Well,
it's something to think about," I mumbled.

  While Dick viewed the predicament lightheartedly, I saw our circumstances as catastrophic. He discussed plans for hours on end. I said very little, nodded my head occasionally and tried to smile. I expressed no opinions, asked no questions.

  Within days of the latest move to Bonita Beach, Dick began to get bored. "I think I'll deliver newspapers. It's something to do and they don't ask a lot of questions or want identification. Plus it'll bring in some money."

  Dick's plans no longer mattered to me. Although it had been over a week since he had slapped me, the four yellow-green, finger-shaped welts remained. Every time I looked in the mirror, I started to shake all over again. He mentioned neither the slap, nor the resulting marks. I knew I had to act soon. The combination of liquor and marijuana made him volatile, so timing was a critical factor. I wanted to escape from Dick without receiving a broken arm or a crushed skull in the process.

  Or ending up dead.

  Dick began his early morning paper route, which would have been comical, if it hadn’t been so pathetic. For over twenty months, he had been overflowing with superior knowledge and pride for playing in the big leagues with FBI agents and underworld figures. Today he was a paperboy.

  Returning for breakfast after the last newspaper had been thrown, he launched into a daily diatribe about leaving Florida. Still, he never mentioned my household possessions still in storage. Nor did I bring up the issue. All of his plans included me, so I forced myself to set a deadline. Tomorrow, right after breakfast, I thought, hoping a full stomach might cushion the blow.

  The next morning, I struggled with how to say what had to be said. Dick, in a good mood after wolfing down a pile of pancakes and bacon, sat with his nose buried in the newspaper.