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

by Janet J. White

  "Would you like more coffee?" I asked.

  "Okay," he said.

  Refilling our cups, I sat down and looked at him from across the table. "Dick, we need to talk."

  He folded the paper and laid it down. "So, shoot," he said, appearing calm, as though nothing were amiss.

  I felt my mouth go dry. "Dick, what I have to say is not a spur of the moment decision. It's been building for almost as long as we've been married. You've heard it before so it won't come as a surprise. First, I'm asking you to remain calm, because anger won't help or alter my decision."

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Go on. I'm listening."

  I took a deep breath. "I think it's only fair to tell you that your future plans should not include me. I can no longer be a part of your life. I'm sorry."

  He waved his hand for me to continue, taking long gulps of coffee.

  "Our relationship, our marriage...it's not working now, and it hasn't worked from the start." I drew in another deep breath. "Simply put, I cannot go on living with you."

  He stiffened. "Look, Jen, I know I've been rough on you, but I'll settle down. Things will get better soon. I promise."

  I leaned closer. "I'm not asking you to change. It's a question of basic differences. Our thinking and beliefs are worlds apart. You obviously enjoy continual intrigue and danger. I don't. There have been too many days that I haven’t even wanted to get up in the morning. Our life together is tearing me apart. You're a handsome man with a lot of charisma and you can easily find another women--just as you have on several occasions while we’ve been married. Bottom line is, you'll be better off with someone who thinks like you."

  His eyes turned icy blue. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Well, I've done some preliminary checking with an attorney right here in Bonita. He can draw a simple uncontested divorce in one day. Although working for the Feds has taken a big bite out of my savings, I'm willing to pay for the divorce. I'm not asking for anything. No alimony, no settlement. I'll have my name changed, that's all. You keep what's yours, I'll keep what's mine. Whatever you have in storage I'll leave at Miller's place for you, or ship it on to you, whatever you prefer. The Lincoln is yours and I'll sign off on that. I know you're anxious to head north and start a new life. I'd like to part as friends."

  Standing up, he braced both hands on the table and leaned in close to my face. "Fuck you, bitch!" he hissed.

  Overwhelmed into silence by his foul words, I remained seated. I reached for my coffee mug and wrapped my hands around it, clinging to the last of its warmth.

  Again, his rage had been uncorked. Storming into the bedroom, he tore open closets and drawers, throwing his luggage and cardboard boxes on the bed. Whirling through the small apartment, he laughed scornfully. "Go screw yourself, Baby. If you want a divorce, you'll have one heck of a time finding me to serve the papers. How does that grab you, Sweetheart?"

  His packing to leave should have been a relief, but instead filled me with a new dread. If he pulled a vanishing act, as he had on his first two wives, it would become difficult, if not impossible, to divorce him.

  In a cold fury, Dick slammed closet doors, bureau drawers and house doors while I danced around the small apartment like a ballerina, trying to stay at least an arm's length out of his reach. He obviously planned to leave as soon as he could stuff all of his belongings, and some of mine, into his car. I felt angry that I couldn't stop him.

  "Please, Dick," I pleaded. "Don't leave today. Wait until tomorrow. The attorney can have the no-fault papers ready in a matter of hours. I'll call his office right now and get things started, okay?"

  "If you think I'm gonna make this easy for you," he snarled, "you're sick in the head!"

  God, how I hated him!

  What with slamming doors and quick dashes back and forth to his car, the commotion drew furtive glances from folks around the pool. Remembering his story of slashing all four tires on a car in revenge, I knew I needed to keep an eye on him. Our cars were parked side-by-side. Giving him a wide berth, I followed him each time he scurried between the apartment and his Lincoln with another armful of his belongings. When he hauled out his gun arsenal, cradled in his arms like pedigreed puppies, heads snapped around, those watching now openly keeping track of his movements. Within an hour, he was ready to leave.

  As he slammed the condo door for the last time, I stepped into his path on the sidewalk. "Please give me the condo key and the keys to my car." He glared at me, then, to my surprise, he twisted three keys off his key chain and slammed them into my upturned hand.

  "You haven't taken my gun have you?" I asked, trying not to tremble. "The binoculars were mine, and you can have them. But at least leave me something to protect myself with."

  Climbing into his car, he growled, "No, I haven't taken your gun! It's still in your car." He slowly backed out of the parking slot, and shifted into drive. Then he paused. The electric window slid down. With a twisted smile, he hissed, "Your gun is going with me. If somebody kills you, it's all the same to me. I don't care whether you live or die!" As the window slid back up, his head flew back in silent laughter.

  I stood frozen to the spot as I watched his car curve slowly around the gatehouse and disappear. That was June 1, 1982.

  As I returned to the condo, my legs felt wooden. I locked the patio and front doors, closed the drapes and sank down onto the couch. The impact of Dick's bone-chilling words struck me like a whip, like another physical blow, as tears began to stream down my cheeks. I felt bruised to the very length and breadth of my soul.

  Hours later, after complete exhaustion took hold, the tears finally stopped. Off and on, I would drop off to sleep, only to be jolted suddenly awake again, with more tear-less sobs racking my body. Around nightfall, I spoke to myself aloud. "Okay, Jen, if you can't control yourself, then go with the flow and let it all out of your system."

  On the cocktail table, I set out a three-liter bottle of burgundy wine and the biggest goblet I could find, all the while continuing to talk to myself. "A bottle of wine makes a good companion so we'll have a Dick Lee bon voyage party. Just you and me." I patted the bottle and turned on the stereo. "Music is a must for a party, and we've got a lot to celebrate. First, let's toast to Dick Lee. Damn them all. Damn him for being an ego driven fool. Damn the FBI, IRS, and the DEA! Damn me for helping Dick with ‘Operation Fuzzball’.”

  I drank to Dick Lee again and again, then I toasted Sonny Knight, then all of his cohorts at the Sarasota FBI office. I drank to the black FBI agent, Jake Bartel, another import from somewhere in bureau-land.. I drank to everyone in the grand and glorious Justice Department, who had reaped the rewards, while raping my life. Then, I drank to Winnie and Clark Rainier, the endearing, grandfatherly master money mover, whose lives had also been destroyed. I toasted Jackson Deaton, the personable and thoughtful attorney who added intelligence and charm to the circle, now imprisoned with his life shot down in flames. I drank to the always mysterious, never met 'Kingpin', Bruce, who moved to California to escape the murderers and killers of Florida's drug trade.

  Much later, a voice sounding quite similar to mine swayed the room to the tune of singsong phrases: "Roses are red, violets are blue, you picked out a husband who said...screw you."

  "What's the matter, Jen?" another voice similar to mine chided. "You're the gal who could take things in stride. You miscalculated, misjudged and missed the mark altogether. No place to run. No place to hide. No reward monies to run with. No new identity. No protection program. The Feds saved a bundle by getting rid of Dick, didn't they? Now that's the epitome of a cost-effective twenty-month investigation. So now, your future appears rather dim. And there's a good chance Dick will be killed when and if they find him. The only winners will be the Justice Department and their bloated coffers. How very neat and clean and profitable!"

  Throughout the night, I poured glass after glass of wine, while pacing the floor, talking
to myself, and dancing around the condo. I cried, then laughed, then forgot about eating, before toasting everyone again and swearing like a sailor on a shore leave.

  Sometime during the middle of that half-crazed, totally intoxicated night, I remember being amused about drinking enough wine to launder my clothes. I vaguely recall laughing hysterically at the thought that every article I'd wear for the next week would look pale orchid.

  By the time my solitary party had begun to break up, daylight was filtering in around the edges of the drapes. I switched off the lamps, and somehow managed to make it into the bedroom. I recall reaching for a bathing suit hanging on a doorknob, thinking I would greet a brand new day with a few laps in the pool. Fortunately, my Guardian Angel took charge and protected me from myself. Instead of diving into the pool, where I might have drowned, I either fell asleep or, more likely, simply passed out.

  When I finally forced open my badly swollen eyes, I was lying draped across the bed in yesterday's sweaty clothes. Whether the sun was coming up or going down, I didn't know. My head felt like a blue ribbon watermelon. Pulling myself up, I reached groggily for the telephone and asked the operator what day it was. It was an ascending sun, I clarified.

  I had slept for twenty-four hours.

  For the next two days, I tried not to think, because it hurt too much. A forced diet of milk and ice cream soothed the horrific hangover I so richly deserved.

  Three days after Dick's abrupt departure, I bought a .38 caliber pistol and a box of ammunition. While I prayed that I'd never have to use it, I programmed my mind not to hesitate if I did.

  I spent the next two weeks in a healing time capsule. I walked the beach, shared only with long-legged herons on their never-ending search for the next morsel of food. Exploring the shoreline sprinkled with tide-pools interwoven with clumps of mangrove and twisted roots, I thanked God for this beautiful refuge in which to restore my mind, body, and soul. I swam in the Gulf, walked the beach, ate when hungry, rested, and slept when I could.

  Soon I felt strong enough to tackle the mess my life had become. My head swam with questions. How was I to preserve my life, when the Mafia likely came looking for me?

  How would I divorce my husband, with him missing?

  And since I couldn’t return to Sarasota, I had no home. Where on earth should I go?

  My family and friends could be in danger because of me, so how would I know when it was safe to be close to them again?

  How could I regain my furniture and family treasures without risking my life?

  And how could I get my Plymouth station wagon back from my previous next door neighbors?

  Looking over my list of things to do, at least one bright spot remained. Despite the fact that my savings had been depleted by about one-third during the past two years, I still had about $30,000 in the bank. Not much, but I wasn’t broke.

  About a month after Dick's departure, a letter arrived from Senator Lawton Chiles.

  I took a deep breath as I opened the envelope addressed to Dick Lee. The Senator had also enclosed a copy of the FBI's response to his inquiry pertaining to "Operation Fuzzball:" The FBI had fired Dick on May 23, 1983. Eleven days later, they had lied to a United States senator when they claimed that Dick Lee, a covert operator, remained under the protective arm of the FBI.

  And what about the maintenance, security and relocation the FBI claimed to provide? Dick and I had run for our lives, not only from the Mafia, but also from the FBI itself the day after they had fired him. Thus, when they had replied to Senator Chiles’ inquiry on June 3, 1983, they had no earthly idea as to Dick's whereabouts. He had left Bonita Beach on June 1st.

  I shook my head with disgust for the FBI, the real masters of deceit, in my opinion.

  A few days after I had received the letters, Dick called. Weak in the knees at hearing his voice, I could hardly breathe. "Look Jen," he said. "What do you say we straighten out this mess. I love you and I'm lonesome for you.”

  "No! I will never change my mind. The divorce papers will be ready in a couple of days. The only thing I want to hear you say is that you'll sign them."

  He paused for a moment. "You'd better think this over and come with me. You're not safe, Baby. You have no protection at all. The Mafia can find you in a New York heartbeat. They can grab you while you're talking to me on the phone. I'm the only protection you have, lady, and if you're smart you'll take it!"

  "It's over, Dick. Tell me where to send the papers. If you prefer to keep your location a secret, that's fine. I'll have them sent to your mother's place. I'm not asking for a penny or anything that belongs to you. Please sign them so we can both get on with our lives."

  He laughed. "No chance, Baby!"

  I detested hearing his voice again.

  The next day, while browsing through the newspaper, I found a Fort Myers attorney running a special on simple divorces. With a money-saving coupon in hand, I went to see Thomas O'Grady, who turned out to be one of the best lawyers I had ever known. Tom listened patiently as I told him my story, and my firm resolve to refer to Dick Lee as my former husband. "Mr. O'Grady," I said, "if you choose not to represent me, I understand."

  With the heart of a lion, he agreed to help me. The next day, he called. "The Divorce Plea has been drawn, executed and filed. I'll send them to Dick Lee in care of his mother in North Carolina. Let's hope he gets and signs it."

  I heard from Dick a few days later. I felt honor bound to tell him of the letter from the FBI to Senator Chiles. "That's more of the FBI's bullshit," he said. "Now the Feds are telling Senator Chiles a string of dirty lies. Thanks for telling me, but that doesn't change anything. I got the papers and I'm not signing them. No divorce, Baby."

  Then he started calling on a daily basis. First, he tried tenderness. "Come on, Jen, let's start anew."

  I declined. "My answer was no yesterday, it's no today, and it'll be no tomorrow. What part of no don't you understand?"

  He hung up. But still he tormented me, calling three or four times every morning, forcing me to leave the phone off the hook in order to sleep. I disliked the vulnerability of being unreachable. Whenever I did answer the phone, he sounded like a broken record. "Have you come to your senses yet? I don't know how much longer you expect me to continue listening to your shit. I'm getting tired of this routine."

  I also felt stuck in a rut. "What's the matter with you? It's over. Stop calling me."

  A string of four-letter words would follow and then he would slam the phone down in my ear. I had hoped that being civil would bring him around to signing the divorce petition, but that hadn’t worked. I knew I had to stop his incessant phone calls! They put my healing process in reverse, as my nightmares returned in full force.

  One morning, I was sipping coffee and making a list of things I would say when he called again. And next time, I wouldn't be so civil. The phone rang.

  "Well, have you come to your senses yet?"

  I began the soliloquy in a calm voice. "Dick, I don't think you quite understand, so let me put this in another way. When we married, I made a commitment to you, mentally and physically. I made a bad mistake in trying to convince myself that you would change and decide to make an honest living. And your marriage vows meant nothing. You were unfaithful to me with at least three women that I know of, Michelle in Sarasota, Kim in Killeen, and a who knows who in Tampa. Then you tried to justify your despicable actions by accusing me of doing what you were doing, knowing it wasn't true. You've lied and cheated. I once loved you. Now that love is gone and it won't come back."

  "The broads didn't mean anything to me,” he swiftly interjected. “What's the big deal?"

  "Cheating is a big deal to me...not to mention the sexual diseases you could have brought home. It took me a long time to face the fact that you actually believe you can commit the most unforgivable acts and get away with it. And your cruelty to others, including my children, is something I want only to forget. I hope they can, as we
ll."

  I took a deep breath and continued. "Now let's move on to the business chessboard. I wanted no part of anything illegal, and I'm ashamed of myself for allowing my son and me to become involved in the drug trafficking scheme. Then you bragged to Clark about selling the pot in Chicago in a couple of weeks. When you couldn't pull it off, you lied to him. You cheat and lie even when it's not necessary. As a matter of fact, you're a pathological liar. You even lie to yourself. Then you promised me you'd quit Clark and find a legitimate job. You wouldn't. Instead, you turned informer for the FBI against Clark and Jackson, using a senseless justification. They were fairer and more generous to you than you deserved. You put that old, lovable, reprobate in prison for who knows how many years. And you did the same to Jackson Deaton. And what did you do it for? You said for the reward monies, but then did nothing to ensure it. And worst of all, you didn't protect us from the FBI. The one promise that you knew had to be kept. You've managed to destroy one life after another. You've hurt everybody, except the Feds. You did very well for them."

  "For God's sake." His voice had grown high and scratchy. "Can't you understand anything?"

  "I understand you," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "That's the problem. When you slapped me, you added physical abuse to the emotional abuse you had heaped on me during our two years of marriage. I must be a slow learner. It took me a long time to realize that you actually believe human beings were put on this earth to be used by people like you."

  He bellowed. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about! I've always included you in everything I did to help both of us! Woman, you're crazy!"

  "You're right," I agreed. "I must have been a little bonkers to become involved with you to begin with, much less to marry you. I've never known a person as cruel, arrogant, twisted, and perverse as you. Bottom line is this: I don't know whether either of us will survive this hell you've thrown us into. But come back to you in order to survive? Never! I'd be better off strapped to the underbelly of an alligator!"