We didn’t even make it out of the parking lot of the justice of the peace before Kevin lived up to his promise. As soon as I got into the car and looked up from buckling my seat belt, he smashed me in the left side of my face with his fist. My head flew back and hit the passenger-side window, and I blacked out for a brief moment. When I came to, I immediately covered my face as he continued to yell and scream. This is supposed to be a grown man, my protector, my husband, I thought. I had thought Kevin would change once we got married, and he did change. He became more brutal and jealous.
I had told my mom about my plans to marry Kevin, and she made it clear that she did not approve. However, as I said, my parents and I did not have a normal relationship, and I never looked for or sought my mom’s approval. I always felt I was the stronger one in our mother/daughter relationship. Her opinion of Kevin was correct, of course, but I didn’t listen; I was young and thought I knew better. After he hit me the first time, I called my mother and told her what had happened. She told me to get away from him. When I told her I couldn’t, she was upset to say the least, but I still thought I knew what I was doing. Women in their early twenties often do, even when they’re making big mistakes.
The fight continued back at our apartment as Kevin was high and drunk. I tried to keep to myself as I sat down on the couch nursing my bruised face, while Kevin paced the floor, his nostrils flared, grinding his teeth like an addict. He hadn’t slept in a couple of days, which was typical, and his normally bright blue eyes were mere specks within seas of bloodshot red.
That night, Kevin wanted to consummate his marriage to me. I obviously wasn’t in the mood. How could I have been? Angry, he told me that I was his wife now and I should show it.
For days, Kevin raged. Terrified for my life, I screamed, cried, begged him to stop the craziness. It’s impossible to put into words the feeling of helplessness that I experienced.
Someone eventually called the police for his disturbing the peace, and they eventually arrived and stopped Kevin. I ended up in a hospital bed.
While in the hospital, I was visited by two DEA agents based in Manhattan. They told me that Kevin worked with them, and now that I was his wife, I could be told the truth. I was informed that Kevin wasn’t an FBI agent at all. His so-called law enforcement position was as a CI with the FBI.
“What is a CI?” I asked.
The agents told me that CI stands for “confidential informant.” A confidential informant is usually a former criminal who assists law enforcement officials by trading inside information and identifying criminal contacts in order to stay out of prison. In street terms, they are basically fucking rats. Kevin had been working with the DEA for some time on a case, and they needed to get him out of jail to complete their investigation.
“Wait a second,” I said. “He just put me in the hospital and you’re asking my permission to get him out of jail? Or are you just announcing to me that you’re going to do it?”
“Since you’re his wife, we have to tell you,” one of the agents responded. “Yes, we’re getting him out. We have been working on a case for months and it’s finally coming to a head.”
“So let me get this straight,” I said, trying to comprehend. “Kevin can commit this crime against me because he knows you’re going to get him out of jail? I’m not wrong, am I?”
They looked at each other, then turned to me and apologized
I rolled over, pulled the sheet up over the side of my face, and began to cry. I figured that no matter what Kevin did, he had a get-out-of-jail-free card. He could get high, hit me, get arrested, and walk out of jail just a few hours later. I was in an impossible situation. I had no one to turn to. There was no one to protect me—not even the law. This was only the beginning of my marriage to the “cop without a badge.”
My probation officer’s last name was Fox . . . and let me tell you, it fit him. He’d slyly show up and check on me anytime he wanted to, without any warning. That’s what happens when you get arrested and are put in the probation system: the probation officers can show up at any and every hour of the day. But Fox showed up so much at my home not because of me. They were clearly more concerned with my current relationship with Kevin and less concerned with my arrest in Florida. One of the stipulations of probation is to not consort or be associated with any known felons, which I assume is one reason Kevin never told me about his past. The only legal way someone who is on probation can be around a felon is if they are married. Kevin knew this and used it to his advantage. This was why he was in such a rush to marry me. Kevin put me in the worst situation with my probation officers, and I lost credibility with them. Making matters even worse, Kevin would yell at the officers for showing up at our house. There is no way to know for sure, but I think that I would have finished my probation earlier if I hadn’t been involved with Kevin.
When I first met Kevin back in Florida, he constantly told me about how he could help make my arrest and punishment easier, but in the end I think our involvement made it much more difficult for me. I had already gotten probation due to my plea bargain, so what did he actually achieve for me? What was the great business that he encouraged me to get into? Stripping. When on probation, you aren’t allowed to serve alcohol or even be around that stuff, and there I was, working in an atmosphere that was totally conducive to abusing drugs and alcohol. The owners of the clubs and bars had to get special permission to allow me to work there since I was on probation. They went out on a limb for me, fully knowing that the authorities were going to watch over them even more closely—that was how much money I was making for them—and probation officers actually started coming to the strip clubs to check on me. I guess in their eyes I was a draw and worth the extra hassle.
Many of the other dancers at the clubs were doing drugs and alcohol, and I saw them make bad decision after bad decision as a result. I believe that my being on probation forced me to make better choices and stay on a less risky track. Following through with a drug rehab program was mandatory with my arrest. My Judgment and Probation Commitment Order, filed on November 19, 1986, outlined specific orders that I had to comply with during my five-year probation, including participating in a drug treatment program and getting tested for drugs during my first six months on probation.
I was under a strict court order not to do any drugs or consume any alcohol during my probation. I was tested and checked constantly, at specific times and even randomly at my home.
I had to do a mandatory urinalysis every three days because it takes seventy-two hours to get certain drugs out of your system. For instance, it takes two to three days to get cocaine out of your system. For a heavy user who is constantly doing the drug, it can take up to two to three weeks to be clear. Marijuana can take up to eight weeks to disappear from your system. When you are assigned to a rehab program, you can’t beat the system.
I peed in more cups and in more locations than you can imagine. I got so good at it that I could have peed into a salt-shaker and not miss a single drop. Officers would come into the bathroom with me since, at the time, people on parole were reportedly taping bags of other people’s urine to their legs. The stories were true: I had past offenders offer me money for my drug-free urine. (The technology back in the eighties was not what it is today; now they know whether the urine is yours or not.)
The authorities verified that I was doing what the law required and was free and clear of drugs and alcohol. A letter dated December 6, 1988, to Judge Eugene Spellman of the U.S. District Court in the Southern District of Florida from Deborah Como of the Counseling Service of EDNY, Inc., located in Brooklyn, New York, described my drug-free status:
I am writing you on behalf of Beverly Merril [sic] who has been a client at the above Substance Counseling Service since 10/2/87. Since this time she has been coming very regularly for weekly individual counseling sessions and group therapy. In conjunction with treatment, she has been given twice weekly urine monitoring. They have all come up negative i.e., no trace of
illicit drugs or alcohol.
The drug treatment program I was sentenced to attend met at nine o’clock every Wednesday night in Brooklyn. When I first walked into the room and saw the mishmash of unfortunate people there, I immediately thought, What am I doing here? This is not me! The members of this all-women’s group were from all walks of life—stockbrokers, housewives, bikers, lesbians—and we’d all sign in and sit around in a circle. The drill was to first let everyone know how you ended up in the rehab program. Then, when the introductions were finished, we were invited to talk freely about the problems and circumstances that had brought each of us there. When it came time for you to talk, you could either speak or say a simple “Pass.” At any pause or moment of silence in the participants’ input, anyone in the group could take the floor and announce that he or she had something to discuss; the participants never interrupted one another. Listening to the various stories, I was surprised at how bright and intelligent, yet deeply troubled, many of the people were.
Even though we all looked different and were from various social backgrounds, we had one problem in common—we were all addicted to something. I found out another thing I had in common with some of them: many of the people in treatment had been sexually abused during their childhoods, just as I had been. The stories didn’t end when the meetings finished. Many nights, I drove members of the group home to Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn, listening during the ride to additional stories of their woes. We became like members of a family, which added to the strength and newfound confidence that was developing in each of us.
I checked into the program thinking that I had no real addictions, that I was just there to fulfill my probation requirements. I didn’t have any expectations about what the program would do for me. After all, I wasn’t an alcoholic. I wasn’t using drugs. Did I? Well, yes, I did. I enjoyed partying during my youth. Who doesn’t? However, the experience I went through in Florida was enough to get me to quit even the most casual use of party favors. I recognized problems in the other group members when I saw them, and at first I convinced myself that I was the most normal member of the support group.
While many of the other people in the program had addictions that were clearly visible on the surface, mine were buried more deeply. After spending weeks and months at these sessions talking to the people in the group about my past abuse as well as my current relationship, the real problems within me began to rise to the surface. I realized that I did have addictions like everyone else. However, they were not of the drug/alcohol variety. Mine consisted of codependency and enabling, which can be just as—or even more—self-destructive as a substance-abuse problem.
It has always been in my nature to help others, probably because no one truly helped me during my childhood or in my young adult life. Even though I was living a chaotic personal life much of the time—especially during my years immediately after the trial—I still seemed to find the time to help others who appeared to be worse off than I was. When you care about people and they are down-and-out, especially if they are battling depression and an addiction to drugs or alcohol, you want to help them through it any way you can. However, Kevin taught me that helping people is not always the most positive thing you can do for them.
Many times I would try to calm Kevin’s anger and get him to a reasonable, normal state. What I should have done was lock him out of the house and out of my life. In fact, in all of my serious relationships I enabled them to continue their ways while I supported them emotionally, financially, etc., etc., etc. It gets exhausting and you lose yourself and your identity in the process, causing an onslaught of problems for yourself.
My theory now is if there are no consequences for bad behavior then the bad behavior continues and multiplies. It goes along with boundaries that I needed to set. If I had been more clear about mine with no fear, then I wouldn’t have allowed them to be crossed by every partner I had. I would have set my bar much higher, which is in essence exactly what I do now. Often, I would make excuses for Kevin’s outlandish and uncontrollable behavior to whoever would ask me, “Why are you with him?” I would also come to his rescue. I kept giving him another shot, another chance, at having a relationship with me—clear signs of being an enabler who was losing a grip on things and not willing to face the realities at hand. So make no excuses. Instead, set boundaries.
Even though I couldn’t see it then, I was in a classic co-dependent relationship. Codependency is continuing to interact and be with someone when you are in a clearly dysfunctional relationship with that person, and it has been documented that codependency and enabling go hand in hand. People who have these characteristics stay in bad relationships, and this can be traced to roots in bigger problems in their lives. Since I knew practically no one in New York City prior to my arrival, and Kevin had brought me there, I was codepending on him for survival. I wasn’t my own person or in control of my life, and I was losing my identity more and more every day.
Additionally, I had severe self-esteem issues stemming from my childhood that were the basis of my relationship problems with men. I didn’t realize that I deserved better. The women in my group therapy sessions became a center of strength for me. When they would ask me for my opinion and advice, it made me feel needed, significant, and important. I was a vital participant within that group, which to me symbolized family—in essence, the first family I ever had, albeit a family of misfits, but my family. They helped me realize that I deserved better than my current situation and much more from a partner in my life.
Once in the program, you could miss a certain number of the sessions, but I never missed one. I loved to hear about the participants’ experiences and enjoyed sharing mine with them. It was my only chance to talk to anyone openly and honestly about my life. As I got stronger with the help of my support group, Kevin began to notice a distinct change in me. I began to separate myself from him and relished the moments of personal freedom when he was out of the picture, working. He would sometimes leave for days, even weeks, to conduct his various assignments. I discovered later that while I thought Kevin was busy with his assignments, he was also spying on me, using surveillance equipment, because he was certain that I was cheating on him. So I guess I was an undercover case. While my feelings for Kevin had begun to deteriorate, no other guy was in my life. I wouldn’t subject another man to the craziness. I was simply getting stronger on my own, something he didn’t think I was capable of.
When Kevin started to believe that I’d gained my independence and the strength to leave the relationship, he freaked out, and in one drunken outburst threatened to plant drugs in my car, then call the authorities and have me sent back to prison in Florida. While I didn’t think he’d do that sober, when he was high or drunk, who knew? I was the only person I knew free of alcohol and drugs that was in a constant state of paranoia.
9
SEND ME AN ANGEL
Throughout the rehab and the domestic disturbances, I developed quite a following as an exotic dancer. Eventually, I created a four-by-six postcard detailing my steady schedule of appearances, which I would hand out to customers. On one side was a listing of the days, times, and various clubs that I would be appearing at in New York and New Jersey, and on the other side was a dramatic photograph of me from behind wearing only a thong and stilettos.
One evening I went in to work at Gallagher’s as I normally did, pleased to get out of the house and ready to dance. I worked as much as I could, since if I wasn’t dancing, I would have been forced to spend my nights with Kevin.
Kevin carried a badge on him, which he would flash around, pretending he was a cop or FBI or DEA agent, depending on what the situation called for. People didn’t understand how he could flash a badge one moment and then be snorting cocaine with them the next. There was no cop in Kevin. He was a fake cop. Fake FBI agent. Fake DEA agent. But he was a real rat.
The owners of the clubs I worked at disliked Kevin. He would walk into a place as if he owned it, and they all despised the
way he bullied me.
That evening, the lights shone brightly as I danced onstage. Then, through the sea of people, I spotted Kevin harassing the bouncer at the front door of the club. Thoughts of Kevin’s outbursts and threats descended on me in a flash, and I realized that when someone is obsessed, no restraining order or any other legally backed piece of paper in the world can shield you from him or her. Suddenly the bouncers, bartenders, and club owner began rushing toward the stage to protect me. In the meantime, Kevin went out to his Porsche in the parking lot, then returned to the club with a gun.
With nostrils flared and pupils dilated in what I imagine was a cocaine-induced fury, Kevin pushed his way into the club, armed and dangerous. The other dancers and I were immediately rushed downstairs to the dressing room to protect us from the man I called my husband. Somehow Kevin broke loose from one of the big, tattooed bouncers. Even in my shock I was amazed that these bouncers were risking their lives for me; I was at such a low point in my life that I wouldn’t even have risked my life for me.
Once the dancers and I were safe inside, Eddie, one of the managers, blocked the dressing room door. Kevin put a gun right up to Eddie’s head. Eddie knew Kevin and, more important, knew his reputation for going overboard when he was drunk and sky-high. Still, Eddie looked Kevin dead in the eye and didn’t back down.
From behind the closed door, my mind was racing as I listened to the bizarre scene unfolding outside. Inside, everyone was freaking out; not many of the dancers had seen guns like that before.
Before Kevin had time to accept Eddie’s challenge, the police finally arrived. The officers approached Kevin to calm him down. He assaulted one of the officers, and they arrested him and wouldn’t let him go. It was rather ironic to me that only when Kevin assaulted another man—a man who carried a gun and could defend himself—did they finally press charges against him. I thought about the times Kevin had hurt me and I’d ended up in the hospital, and how even though he’d hurt me—a defenseless woman—they always let him go. It was extremely unfair. While I was grateful that they were pressing charges, I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t able to do the same.
The Naked Truth: The Real Story Behind the Real Housewife of New Jersey--In Her Own Words Page 10