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

by Janet J. White

  Neglecting to mention his willingness to sign the divorce papers, another warning bell sounded in my head. I called my longtime friends, Harry and Fran in Sarasota. After explaining Dick's latest ploy to Harry, I asked for his opinion.

  He was quiet for a moment. "Sounds like a lie to me. If I were you, Jen, I'd make a bee line back here to pick up that Plymouth, if the title's in your name."

  "Yes it is, and I think you're right. Sounds like good advice and I'm going to take it. Say hello to Fran. Thanks, Harry."

  "Good luck, Jen. And when you get here, let Fran and me know if you need help shuffling cars around."

  We said good-bye and I dialed our former neighbors. Jules picked up the phone. "Jules, this is Jen Lee. I'm calling about the station wagon. I'll be there this weekend to pick it up, if that's convenient for you and Velma."

  I could almost hear the man scratching his head in confusion. "Gee that's funny. I got a call this morning from Dick saying that he plans to be in Sarasota this weekend to pick up his car."

  Harry had been right on the button.

  "I'll be there tomorrow morning," I said. "Title’s in my name and I'll bring along it so you'll know the car is being turned over to the rightful owner."

  "Alright Jen. We'll be home. See you then."

  I called Linda, a member of our former ‘mouse pack', and asked for her help. Before noon the next day, I knocked on my former neighbors’ door. The Plymouth sat waiting in their driveway. With the car title in my hand, I showed it to Jules the minute he opened the door. "Thanks, I said. “ No time to talk now...I'll call you later."

  Again heeding a sense of urgency, I jumped into the Plymouth and pulled out of the driveway. Linda followed in my car for the twenty-minute drive from Sarasota to Bradenton. I had contacted another friend, the owner of an auto junkyard business. Willie came out of his small office shack covered in grease and oil. I offered my hand, but he declined with a smile. "You don't want to shake hands, I'm all dirty."

  "I couldn't care less, my friend," I said, clasping both of his hands in mine.

  Linda waited patiently in the Olds as I handed the car keys to Willie, the raw-boned Christian gentleman I had come to know when I had owned a Mexican pottery business. Willie grinned his wide smile. "If that Dick finds out where the car is, he'll need a tank to get close to it. I'll put it in the middle of the chain link fence with wrecked heaps around it. And I got me two good pit bulls that'll chomp off a knee or an elbow if they catch anybody messing around when I'm gone. And if that fool man comes around when I'm here, he’ll have to go through me."

  "Thanks for your help, Willie. I'll keep in touch. Right now, it's hard to say when I’ll be able to move it off your property. I hope it won't be too long."

  "Take as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere."

  I waved good-bye to another good friend and climbed into my Olds with Linda. After leaving her at her doorstep, I drove back to Bonita. As I walked into the condo, the couch invited me for a nap.

  The next day I called Jules and Velma to thank them again for storing the Plymouth, and to ask if they had heard from Dick.

  "Sure enough," Jules said. "He called yesterday, right after you left with the car. He wanted to re-confirm his intention of coming this weekend to pick up the car. I told him you had already picked it up and that the title’s in your name. He didn't say much after that."

  "Thanks, Jules. One of these days, when it's all over, I'd like to sit down with you and Velma and explain some things that I can't talk about now. Until then, thank you so much for everything you've done. So long for now."

  "Goodbye, Jen. Hope things turn out right for you."

  Dick couldn't, even with sketchy thinking, blame Jules and Velma for his gone astray plan to return to Sarasota and steal the Plymouth. Vengeance would not befall our former good neighbors.

  Now, his refusal to sign the divorce papers denoted his last round of ammunition: most of my household goods, all the cocaine, and the restored Plymouth--gone, gone.

  Dick's voice sounded clogged with little chunks of hatred when he called the following day. "You got the furniture. Now you got the car! Just wait, I'm coming back to finish you off! You're a dead woman! And you can take that to the bank!" Again, he hung up.

  Although his threats had to be taken seriously, I was no longer immobilized by fear. It felt wonderful to have begun the long journey in regaining control of my life.

  After his threatening phone call, I drove to the Bonita Beach storage unit. I lifted the overhead door, holding my breath to give the dust time to settle before stepping inside. My son had carefully placed the grey filing cabinet where I could see it. I pulled up a small stool to sit on, sipped on a diet Coke and settled down for the search. I prayed that what I had tucked away after 'Mama's letter to Dick still remained in the folder labeled 'Manufacturers Warranties'. Happy to find them undisturbed, I scrutinized every piece of paper in the cabinet. Hours later, I hoped that the folder tucked under my arm contained the material that would break the chains that bound me to Dick Lee.

  I called my attorney for an appointment. The next afternoon O'Grady waved me to a chair. "Thanks for seeing me so quickly, Mr. O’Grady."

  "Please call me Tom."

  "Okay, Tom. Here's the reason for my visit," I said, passing the folder to him. "I'd like to submit this to the court as part of the divorce pleadings."

  I sat in silence as he read: First, there was a copy of Dick's first divorce decree, showing that it took Mary Ann, his first wife, three years to serve the divorce papers on her purposely evasive husband. The second item was a handwritten letter from Dick to me, in which he called me numerous four-letter words for my intention of going back to work to help support us rather than deplete more of my savings. The third document was a letter from a Chicago attorney, hired by 'Mama' in September of 1980, written to Dick. It pertained to an outstanding warrant for his arrest for assaulting his second wife, Betty.

  The attorney finished reviewing the documents, closed the folder and looked up. "In order to submit these now, I'd have to re-file the divorce, which I think is a waste of time and money. If you don't mind the added expense, however, we can try. Frankly, I don't think it will help."

  "Let's do it anyway," I said. "It's worth a few more bucks to me to get these items into the judge's hands."

  Tom shook his head. "I have to say it's highly unlikely a judge will grant you a divorce if service on the other party cannot be made, regardless of what is submitted for his consideration. A judge will continue attempting to serve Dick. You could wait months or even years, as his first wife had to do. So, don't expect any miracles. Still, if that's what you want, I'll re-file."

  "I understand, Tom. Do it anyway. It may not help, but it couldn't hurt. Incidentally, when and if a decision is made, what's the procedure? Do we appear before a judge?"

  "No." Tom said, looking thoughtful. "In cases like this, all the evidence is turned over to a special examiner. When a decision is made, the document is drawn up, signed by a judge, and then the findings mailed to me. That's when I let you know. You may need to appear in Court after the fact, so the clerk can record service to you. Whatever the Court's decision, it'll take time. I'll let you know the minute I do."

  "Thanks, Tom. At least we've covered all the bases. Now, it's out of our hands and into the hands of a Higher Power. Someone who can do anything."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Freedom At Last

  "The fly that doesn't want to be swatted is most secure when it lights on the fly swatter."

  -- G.C. Lintenberg

  Leaving the attorney's office in Ft. Myers, I headed south on Interstate 75 for the forty-five-minute drive back to Bonita Beach. I thought about the letter, soon to be submitted with my second divorce pleadings, which included information on Dick's attack on his second wife. It divulged the real reason Dick left Chicago in his droopy-eyed little red truck and raced to Florida, repudiating his
story that his wife had slashed him with a kitchen knife, requiring dozens of stitches.

  Dick and I married in May of 1981, only eight months after the attorney's notification of the outstanding warrant for his arrest. After we had married, an intoxicated Dick, in a moment of weakness, had admitted to shattering Betty's jaw, claiming that he had hit her in self-defense. The alleged knife attack left no scar evidence of ever having happened. As usual in life, the truth eventually surfaced: Betty didn't attack Dick with a knife; he attacked her with his fists. On top of that, my diligent search through the file cabinet revealed no proof that Dick and Betty had ever divorced. Months before we married, when I had returned from a weekend visit with my brother, he told me that Betty had taken care of the divorce and that he had tucked the papers away in the filing cabinet.

  As I approached the Bonita Beach exit, a sense of being followed suddenly raised the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. Three weeks had passed since I gave my Bonita Beach post office box number to Clark's lifelong friend, Mr. Miller of Miller's Storage. It appeared that my plan to let the Mafia find me was finally falling into place.

  Glancing into the rear view mirror, I spotted the pale blue, late model Cadillac maintaining a position two cars behind me. To confirm that I was, indeed, being followed, I waited until the last moment to signal and veer down the ramp. While the car directly behind me continued on the interstate, I heard the screeching of brakes as the Cadillac careened down the sharp exit, pulling up directly behind me on Bonita Beach Road. Wearing wraparound sunglasses, the two dark-haired men in the front seat appeared to be in their mid-thirties. The taller of the two sat in the passenger seat with his arm draped over the backrest. Within easy reach of a shotgun, I wondered? I watched as the Cadillac slowed to a crawl and allowed a single car to pass them, which again positioned them two cars behind me.

  Now that the Mafia had me in their sights, I tried to control my escalating fear with a reminder that I had deliberately orchestrated this scenario. But it didn't help. As I clutched the steering wheel, my hands were shaking, and perspiration dripped down my face. I turned the air conditioner to full blast and attempted to reason with my fears. The Mafia was searching for Dick and assumed the two of us were still living together as man and wife. Once they discovered the truth, that I could not lead them to their target, perhaps they would leave me alone and direct their hunt elsewhere.

  I told myself that I had to remain calm and not give them any indication that I knew they were following me. Now that my auburn hair was bleached the color of straw, it would be simple enough to portray the role of a flaky dimwit, a 'dumb blonde'. I hoped that the two olive-skinned, Italian-looking men in dark glasses in the car behind me clung to that derisive, outdated misconception that a golden-haired woman was somehow less cerebral than a brunette or a redhead.

  My heart was pounding like a trip hammer during the ten-mile drive from the interstate to the Bonita Beach condo. Each time, the car directly behind me would turn off, the Caddy backed off, allowing another car to pass them. A few blocks from my temporary home, I slipped into the first act of my bimbo blonde routine. Signaling a right hand turn two blocks before stopping at a convenience store, I gave the Caddy plenty of time to slow down and park on the opposite side of the street. A short while later, I emerged from the store. Avoiding any glance in their direction, I set the grocery bag on the top of the car and rummaged through my handbag, as if searching for my car keys. Looking annoyed, I turned my purse upside-down on the trunk, picked out the keys and jammed everything back into the handbag. Finally, I got into the car, started the engine, then got out again to retrieve the grocery bag I had left sitting on the top. Back inside the car, I riffled through my handbag again before slowly driving on. I could almost feel them shaking their heads in disgust as they pulled away from the curb and continued their pursuit. I lingered at the gatehouse to exchange jokes with the female guard, while the Caddy parked on the opposite side of the road, within easy sight of the entrance.

  Loudly laughing as the gate lifted, I drove into the complex, parked the car, and casually strolled toward the ground-floor apartment. Holding my breath, I half-expected to feel bullets rip through my body. Once inside, I locked the door and drew the drapes. On rubbery legs, I put the groceries away, poured a glass of water, and sat down on the couch. With trembling hands, I sipped the glass of water. When the shakes subsided, I called the gatehouse and asked the guard to do me a favor. "My husband and I have separated and I'm in the process of getting a divorce. He may have hired a private detective to spy on me. Would you let me know if anyone asks about me, or wants to know what unit I'm in, or if a pale blue Cadillac comes around?"

  "Sure thing," she said. "I'll keep an eye out and let the other guards know what's going on."

  "Thanks. By the way, what kind of wine do you like?"

  "Oh, you don't have to do that."

  "I'd like to. Do you prefer red or white?"

  "Well, if you insist. I like red wine."

  "Will you be on duty tomorrow?" I asked.

  "Yes," she responded. "From three to midnight."

  "Good. Tomorrow you'll have a little something to take home after your shift."

  Next, I called the Bonita Police Department. A detective in the crime unit listened to my story, albeit with skepticism at first. But forty-five minutes later, he seemed to finally accept what I had been telling him. "Okay. The information will be posted, in case you need help when I'm out of the office. If you have a life threatening situation when I'm in, I'll come running."

  "Thank you, sir," I said. "That makes me feel better."

  Hanging up the phone, I couldn't think of anything else to do except remind myself not to give in to the temptation to call family members in case the Mafia had bugged the line.

  A week had passed since I last heard from Dick. I hoped he would disregard the ear blistering I had given him and call me one more time. Hopefully, with the Mafia listening.

  I turned in for the night, my bed companion the loaded .380 Police Bulldog Special, and finally drifted off just before dawn. The following morning, I forced myself to leave the sanctuary of the condo. About a block from the condo complex, I discovered the blue Cadillac waiting. I drove to the supermarket, then to the post office. When I stopped at a drug store, the Caddy parked one lane over from my car, facing the entrance. In the pharmacy, I could be clearly seen browsing through dozens of greeting cards and laboriously examining every shade of nail polish and lipstick on display. When I exited the store more than an hour later, the Caddy was nowhere in sight. Wondering what had happened, I headed for the liquor store for a good bottle of wine for the helpful gatekeeper. Glancing in the rear view mirror every ten seconds, or so, it soon became obvious that the blue Caddy had been switched out with a go-fast car, a silver Datsun Z. Like its predecessor, the Datsun now following me contained the same two men with dark complexions and dark sunglasses. Driving erratically back to the condo, the Datsun trailed two cars behind. I could only hope that my trackers believed my 'dopey blonde’ routine, confirmed by my browsing through stores for hours while leaving bags of groceries to bake in a blistering hot car.

  Arriving at the complex, the gatekeeper smiled as I handed her the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. "Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that," she said. "By the way, nobody's been asking about you. I'll give you a call if anything comes up."

  "Appreciate your help," I said with a smile. "Hope you enjoy the wine."

  The gate lifted. I drove to my unit and unloaded the car. While putting the groceries away, I hoped, for the first time, that a phone call from Dick would pierce the tranquility. Before making dinner, I took a dip in the pool to maintain standard behavior patterns. To my surprise, swimming in the pink glow of dusk forced the muscles of my body to relax. I knew that my gun lay within easy reach, in the beach bag sitting on a chair. The puny weapon probably wouldn't do much good if they planned to kidnap or kill me, but, given half a chance, I wo
uld do what I could to protect myself. Climbing out of the pool, I dried off and casually strolled back to the condo. I left the living room drapes open, as I would normally do until nightfall. My performance had to continue until the curtain fell after the last act.

  Again, I slept little on that second night, thinking I was hearing strange noises. Thank goodness, that's all they were--strange noises. On the third day of surveillance, exhausted from a lack of sleep, I left the condo mid-afternoon and tool a stroll up the beach, then settled by the pool for a while. Later, with the drapes wide open, I watched television. Before nightfall, I forced myself back into the car for the thirty-minute round trip drive to the post office. Out of nowhere, the silver Datsun appeared again behind me. With no traffic on the road, they held back a block or so. My adrenaline pumping at full tilt, fear soon replaced my exhaustion.

  Returning to the condo, I locked the patio and front doors, and closed the drapes with jerky hands. A glass of wine later, hunger hit. I had just finished tossing a salad and turned on the broiler for a steak when the telephone rang.

  "Hello." Dick.

  If I hadn’t disliked him so intently, I could have blown him a kiss. I turned off the oven and prayed that the Mafia had bugged the phone and 'had their ears on'.

  "How ya doing?" He sounded calm and friendly.

  "I'm fine, Dick. How are you? Been awhile since your last call."

  "Yeah. Took me some time to get over what you said. Let's forget about that. Look, Pussycat, I miss you a lot. I want you with me. How many times do I have to tell you that you're not safe? You have no protection at all."

  "And how many times do I have to tell you that the marriage is over! All I want from you is a divorce."

  This time his voice remained deadly calm. "Look! I've given you plenty of time to think this over and you're still jerking me around. Just wait, Sweetheart, I'm not finished with you yet. I'm coming back to either pick you up or leave you where I find you. And if I leave without you, you'll be dead! Take your choice, Pussycat."