Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit

by Paul T. Goldman

  The next day, Audrey handed the check to me, now torn and without any envelope or other papers. Remarking on how quickly she had gotten it back, I sought to show how ridiculous her ruse was becoming. It was Sunday. Knowing the banks were closed so she couldn't deposit it, I wrote her another check, made out to FLHC as Audrey had instructed, and gave it to her. Then, I made my plan. Tomorrow I would visit her insurance agent, and ask him why he couldn't accept my first check.

  Monday morning, using the address Audrey provided, 23511 N. Main St., #23, and with the help of MapQuest, I began the thirty minute drive to the insurance agency, located in the city of Stuart. A straightforward route, I spent the time alone thinking about what might be waiting for me at the insurance agency. Clearly Audrey was motivated by money and my former lawyer’s reference to her as a “gold digger” was now echoing in my ear. But what I couldn’t figure out was what she needed the money for and what scheme she had worked up with the insurance agency. Was she working with someone on the inside to fraudulently cash client checks? Was it some kind of claim scam? I couldn’t begin to imagine what it might be, having no idea that the answer truly was unimaginable.

  As I passed Concord, the street before Main, I began to look around for the address, 23511. Much to my surprise, there was no office complex or any commercial looking buildings anywhere in sight. In fact, the area was fairly depressed and not exactly an attractive thoroughfare for a professional office. Eventually passing what would have been the address, I began the process of making a U-turn when my eyes caught sight of the address on a sign, a sign that also read “Stuart Trailer Park.” Laughing aloud at what had to be a joke, I slowly turned my car into the park, being careful not to run over any of the stray garbage cans, the broken folding chairs, or the random pieces of clothing littering the front entrance. I slowly eased my car through a row of trailers, and squinted to make out the worn, dangling numbers identifying each lot. By the time I got to the second row, I managed to find #23 and pulled up to the front door. Then I stopped laughing.

  Slowly stepping out of my car, not knowing what or who might be around, I was immediately overwhelmed by the reek of urine and garbage, as well as the sign in #23's window. There, taped onto the glass of a cracked window, was a “For Sale by Owner” sign with a phone number. Audrey’s cell phone number. Confused and disgusted, I quickly got back into my car and headed for the park manager’s office, which proved to be another nightmare for my senses.

  The office door creaked as I entered slowly, only to be confronted by the stench of stale cigarettes and the blaring of a television show. Sitting at a centrally located desk, there was a middle aged woman who was wearing a stained housecoat, curlers, and a scowl on her face that didn’t change, despite the constant puffing on her cigarette.

  “Hi, how are you?” I ventured, feeling certain this is where the daily talk shows came for material.

  “Yeah, waddya want?” she snapped, without taking her eyes off the TV, and stamped out her cigarette. How thoughtful.

  “I was wondering if you could tell me who lives in trailer #23?” I asked.

  Assuming she wouldn't release the information without some kind of excuse, I began to brainstorm a believable one. Luckily, one wasn't needed.

  “That’s Audrey Munson and her family.”

  “Oh,” I responded, surprised to find her so forthcoming. “Would you know how long they’ve lived there?” The woman sighed, clearly annoyed that she was wasting breath on me and not another cigarette.

  “About two years. She's got it for sale now, but there's no way she's going to get $20,000 for it. Not in this neighborhood. Why're you asking?”

  Thanks,” was all I offered and made a fast exit, needing to seek out fresh air. I heard the door slam behind me followed by a few choice profanities. No matter, I was out of that trailer park and on my way back home with one objective in mind: stopping payment on that $1,300 check. Thanks to online banking, it was easy. Confronting Audrey, who was due home at five, would be a little more involved.

  With each passing minute, I felt my own anger grow. By the time I heard the garage door open, I was irate but controlled. I was waiting for her in the kitchen when she entered with yet more bags of groceries. Sensing a change in me, Audrey gave a barely audible hello and went about the business of putting away more groceries.

  “Honey, the game is up,” I said sternly, emphasizing each syllable. “Tell me the truth this time. What is FLHC?” I crossed my arms over my chest, determined not to move until I got an answer. Like before, Audrey turned her back, opened the refrigerator door, and began to organize the food.

  “Florida Health.”

  “No. It’s not,” I replied. “The address you gave me to mail the check to isn't your insurance agency. It's a trailer park. It's your trailer park.”

  With that, I saw her shoulders stiffen and her movement slowed. I continued, “You don’t even have a Florida Health agent, do you?” Ready for confrontation, my eyes bored into the back of her head. She had to face me and face my questions.

  Without a word, Audrey turned away from the refrigerator, picked up her purse, walked out of the door, and drove away. I was once again left standing in the middle of the kitchen as a trail of ice cream began to leak from the counter.

  Our new beginning had lasted four weeks.

  Surprised by my own clarity, I wasted no time in contacting my former lawyer, Peter, to once again file for divorce. I also told him we needed to force Audrey to return my car since it was in my company’s name and not hers. There was no hesitation about anything this time. I was angry and adamant. Peter, not at all surprised to hear from me again, assured me that he’d file for a hearing to get my car back, while also recommending I get another lawyer to represent me in the divorce.

  “Since you’re now living in Jupiter Lakes,” he explained, “the case needs to be transferred to the northern Palm Beach court. It’s important you find another lawyer who works in that area because, trust me, you don’t want to be paying me for all that drive time.” I appreciated his candor and thanked him for his help, and I began my search for a new lawyer closer to home. I also changed the locks on the house, again.

  * * *

  As October came to a close, I was confronted by the loss of my business, my best friend, and now my wife. It seemed that I was left with nothing other than the most important thing, Johnny. Wanting to protect him from all the stress and uncertainty I was facing, I made every effort to maintain stability and positivity in the house. That was why I was standing in line at the local convenience store buying milk and a Darth Vader costume. Halloween was only a few days away and I was determined to keep his world immune to my troubles.

  Anxious to pick up Johnny from my parents’ so that I could teach him the proper way to handle a light saber, I hurried home to drop off the milk. When I turned onto our street, however, I was shocked to see my Sienna idling in the driveway. Also, seeing that no one was in it, I sped into the driveway and ran into the house prepared for anything. Moving so fast, I literally ran right into Audrey who was standing in the kitchen, collecting all sorts of items from the refrigerator and pantry.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, and quickly scanned the room to see what else she might be making off with.

  “Taking a few things I need,” she snarled, and threw a roll of toilet paper into the bag. Frozen in disbelief, I racked my brain in search of an appropriate response. Should I call the police? Her parents? Why weren’t her parents helping her and their grandchildren? Weren’t they supposed to be worth millions of dollars? And yet she was living in a trailer park? Before I had time to act, Audrey grabbed her bag and marched right out the door, petting Queenie as she left. I noticed that Queenie’s tail wagged in response. Traitor.

  After the Audrey tornado finished its path through my house, I wondered how she has gotten in, even though I had changed the locks. Then, it dawned on me. Audrey still had the garage door opener and, since I never locked the door
leading into the house from the garage, she must have walked right in. Now it was my turn to pat Queenie as I headed out the door to Home Depot to buy another garage door opener and change the entry code.

  * * *

  The thermometer provided no drastic signal of the change in seasons, and the holidays passed with little fanfare, and little to celebrate. Come November, I struggled to find more than a few things to be thankful for, and by December the memories of last year’s Hanukkah party cast a darkness on the festivities that not even the brightest menorah could diminish. By January, I was determined that this New Year would bring change for the good and the first thing I did was hire a new lawyer.

  Adam Nettles was much like my previous lawyer in that he was direct, knowledgeable, and very astute in sizing up Audrey. Disgusted by what he considered her con artistry, Adam believed we had a very strong case against anything she might try to throw at us and I was eager to believe him. Before I knew it, we were sitting in a West Palm Beach courthouse intent on recovering my car. Audrey, on the other hand, had other motives. She was seeking temporary support for the period of our separation. Fortunately, we would be heard first.

  “Your Honor, Ms. Munson already has a car, a 1997 Honda Accord. She has no need for Mr. Goldman’s car. Besides, it's not her car; it is registered to Mr. Goldman’s corporation,” Adam stated, without regard to Audrey who sat in her seat, expressionless. Judge Andrews nodded, turning his attention to Audrey.

  “Ms. Munson, do you own a car, a 1997 Honda Accord?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she said softly, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression that made me groan. “But it’s not safe.”

  “What do you mean it’s not safe?” the Judge asked as I leaned in, also curious to hear her answer.

  “It's old, the brakes aren’t working, and it has body damage.” This was news to me. I shook my head and began to knead my palms.

  “Ms. Munson, you are ordered to return the Sienna to Mr. Goldman no later than this Friday, January 5th, 2009 by 5 p.m.” Judge Andrews was unmoved and I was trying hard to conceal a smirk.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” remarked Adam. Now Audrey’s lawyer, Jack Smith, began his motion.

  “Your Honor, may we now address the temporary support issue?” Jack Smith was a short, rotund man who struck me like a person who always seemed to be annoyed, as if he had somewhere better to be. Plus, there was a melodramatic sigh about everything he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Smith, what are you looking for?”

  “Your Honor, we would like $6,000 a month in support.” My hands stopped, my jaw dropped, and I looked up at the judge in complete disbelief. Adam, sensing my shock, gently tapped his finger on the table, signaling me to relax and stay quiet. I sat back slowly, the pleasure provided by the judge’s decision just five minutes ago was gone and replaced with abject fear. That amount would destroy me, though I guessed that was the point. Smith went on to explain how he’d arrived at the number, an explanation punctuated with his palms up and a lot of dramatic exhales. I didn’t like him at all.

  Judge Andrews began his questioning. “Ms. Munson, what is your educational background?” he asked as he fingered through some papers, his eyeglasses resting precipitously on the tip of his nose.

  “I have two degrees, in micro-biology and engineering,” Audrey answered clearly.

  “Do you have any physical or mental impairments which preclude you from working?” the judge continued.

  “No, but I do have to take care of my three year old son.”

  “Is there any reason why he cannot be in day care?”

  “Well, no,” Audrey conceded.

  “Ms. Munson, what is your current income?”

  “I receive $1,600 a month in child support. That is my entire income, Your Honor.” I was horrified by Audrey's attempt to appear innocent and vulnerable. I was also scared the judge might not see through it.

  “Mr. Goldman,” Judge Andrews turned his head to me, “what is your current income.”

  “Your Honor, a few months ago I had a business setback and, due to the slowdown in construction, my business failed. I am currently living on borrowed money. I have no income.” I could feel my ears redden as the judge stared at me intently. “I’m looking for a job, but I haven’t found anything yet, Your Honor.” He stared at me for another moment, as if trying to read me. I held his stare, not sure what else to say.

  “Well, look harder, Mr. Goldman, and take anything you can get,” he directed, and then returned to his papers. “I hereby order temporary support in the amount of $750 a month, to be paid by Mr. Goldman to Ms. Munson. Court dismissed.”

  Hearing his decision, I was relieved that Audrey wouldn’t be getting the full $6,000, though I would still have to find a way to come up with the monthly $750. It felt like it was a small win, and Adam reassured me that it was. I turned to look over at Audrey. She was already gone.

  At exactly 4:55 p.m. that Friday Audrey pulled up in the Sienna, with her parents following closely behind in their car. Knowing that she would wait until the eleventh hour to comply with the judge’s order, I had spent the last hour or so finding things to do in the garage with its door open so that I would see when she arrived. Hearing the cars, I walked to the top of the driveway, facing her as she hopped out of the car, and locked the doors with the key still in the ignition and the car running. Audrey then glared at me, ran to her parents’ car, and, in one final show of contempt, poked her middle finger at me. A nice touch from a classy lady.

  Happy to foil Audrey’s plans, since I had a spare set of keys in the kitchen, I unlocked the door to find an empty cavern where a car interior had once been. There were no floor mats, no middle row of seats, no radio, and no DVD player. She had even taken the owner’s manual and registration from the glove compartment. Audrey had taken everything that wasn’t nailed down, and for a final touch, she had “keyed” the outside of the car, one long scratch on every door and body panel. I called Adam to inform him of her latest offense.

  “Incredible,” was Adam’s only response. “I’ll file a contempt of court motion tomorrow to force her to return those things and pay for the damages.” The idea of Audrey having to pay for anything was thrilling and I thanked Adam and hung up the phone.

  True to his word, Adam immediately filed a motion and I returned home the following week to find the three middle seats dumped in my driveway, in a folded up position. Expecting to find them torn or otherwise damaged, I slowly unfolded them to perform a cautious inspection. Surprisingly, they were intact and I reinstalled them in the car.

  We still had to go to court to get back the other stolen items, and the damages. So, on a chilly February morning, which saw the thermometer dip to 75 degrees, I met Adam outside the courthouse to show him the car before we went inside.

  “Unbelievable,” he whispered, and shook his head. A half hour later, we were once again in front of Judge Andrews. “Your Honor,” Adam began, “you ordered Ms. Munson to return Mr. Goldman’s car, and she did, but prior to that return she removed numerous items from the car and keyed the entire exterior.” Now it was Adam’s turn to sigh in exasperation. The judge turned to Audrey's lawyer, narrowing his eyes.

  “Mr. Smith, what do you have to say about this?”

  “Your Honor, this does not constitute contempt,” Audrey’s lawyer responded, without denying her actions. Audrey sat beside him, staring at the table.

  “Okay,” the judge said as he shook his head, “here is my ruling. The motion for Ms. Munson to pay for the damages is put on hold until the final hearing. We will deal with it then, along with any other marital assets in this case. However, Ms. Munson, let me tell you that I am not happy with your actions. The car was in your care, custody, and control. Your actions may have constituted contempt, and you will probably be ordered to pay for the damages.” He spoke to her like you would a misbehaving child, and she in return, sulked in her seat. When I left the courtroom, I was a bit sulky myself.

  “I don’
t understand, Adam, why didn’t Judge Andrews make her pay for the damages right away? What happened?” I felt like she had gotten away with something, and once again gotten the better of me.

  “Paul, this is actually a victory for us,” Adam reassured me. “Today’s goal was not to have the judge order her to pay for the damages, but to have him recognize that she is a destructive lunatic. Trust me,” he said, turning to me with a smile, “we definitely won something today.” I smiled back, wanting to believe him, while also still wanting to see Audrey punished.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Second Husband

  March 4, 2009

  With the passage of more time, the reality of my relationship with Audrey gained some clarity. Her disinterest in me, her narrow minded focus on my finances, and her indifference to any of my concerns confirmed what I must have always known: she never loved me. With these thoughts swirling around in my mind, one March evening I was jolted out of my reverie by the harsh ring of the phone.

  “Hello,” I answered, already annoyed at the telemarketer I expected to hear on the other end.

  “Is this Paul Goldman?” the man’s voice asked.

  “Yes, it is,” I said with a sigh, preparing for the inevitable sales pitch with my thumb already poised to disconnect the call.

  “My name is Bob Thompson and I’m Audrey Munson’s second husband,” he said clearly, as I clutched the phone, nearly dropping it on to the floor.

  “Oh, how are you?” I asked awkwardly, not knowing what to say or why he would be calling me. I had never spoken to him before.

  “Fine, thanks,” he said, before hesitating a moment. “Paul, there are a few things about Audrey you might want to know. A few things I think you need to know. Would it be possible for us to get together tomorrow morning for breakfast?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, but don’t you live in Connecticut?” I had to be careful since I now assumed anyone connected to Audrey should not be outwardly trusted.