A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (43 page)

“When I started divorce proceedings, I became the victim of the community property divorce laws of California. It mattered
not
that my husband had tried to murder me for financial gain. It mattered
not
that I lost twenty-five thousand dollars when he surreptitiously added to the home equity loan...”

I was on a roll now. With each word, with each sentence, my voice grew stronger. The committee members watched me, and I stared back into their eyes, one by one, as I emphasized my words. I used positive action to remedy my pain.

“The law said he was entitled to fifty percent of everything obtained during the marriage. The law said he was entitled to half my pension plan. The law said I would have to pay him alimony. A victim of spousal abuse is often a silent victim. It takes great courage for a victim to overcome her fear and testify in a criminal trial. Let us not continue to traumatize the victim in the divorce court. In the name of victims of spousal abuse, I respectfully ask for your
aye
vote. Thank you for your kind attention.”

I sat back in my chair. It was done. My voice had been raised to right a wrong, but would it make a difference? Dick thanked me and introduced our next witness, Delores Winje. She leaned closer to her microphone, cleared her throat, and began to read. Within moments, her pain boiled to the surface. Her words began to falter, ramble, and drag.

Isenberg glanced at his watch more than once. When Delores finished, Dick thanked her. Isenberg intervened. “How many more witnesses do you have?”

“Two.”

“We’re running late. The committee would like the rest of the proponents to give only their names, what organization they represent, and their stand on the bill.”

My heart sank. Harriet and Kevin had come all the way from the Bay Area, and now they would not be able to testify. Damn that first bill. They had no right to usurp time like they did. Harriet and Kevin moved forward to the podium, did as they were instructed, and returned to stand behind me.

“Are there any opponents?”

I turned and looked over my shoulder. The gallery had maintained a modicum of decorum since I testified. My eyes scanned the crowd. Gratefully, no one seemed to be moving forward. Anne smiled from the gallery and gave me a thumbs-up.

“This is the second and final call for opponents,” the chairman said.

I barely breathed as once more I glanced over my shoulder. What about the Judges Association? Would someone race in at the last moment and sabotage the bill? I never did get a final answer from Marty. No one moved, not even to go out the door.

“Then let’s vote,” Isenberg said.

I swallowed hard and took a sip of water. My throat and lips were parched. I watched intently the actions and reactions of the committee members as they were polled. Some were already collecting their papers and filling their briefcases. Some tapped their pens. Some said
aye.
Some abstained. Not a single one said
nay.
I felt victorious.

“AB Sixteen passes out of committee with eleven
ayes,
” Isenberg declared. He banged his gavel and called for the lunch recess.

Sweet success! I had made it past the first hurdle in this final race, with the endorsement of family, friends, my witnesses, and strangers. I paused and thanked God for their concern and support. The witnesses started down the ramp with Dick, and as I passed the assemblyman seated at the end, he leaned down.

“Congratulations on your courage.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Anne rushed up to me and gave me a bear hug. “I knew we had it in the bag when Isenberg acknowledged you at the beginning,” she grinned. “He rarely does that, and only when he supports what’s on the floor.”

“I wish I had known that.” I laughed. “It would have saved me a lot of worry.”

The Rainey contingent now forged its way through the standing-room-only crowd at the back of the chamber. One observer patted me on the shoulder. “Powerful testimony.” Outside the door another gentleman approached me. “Great job.”

We made our way up the short flight of stairs and stood in the solarium. I pulled out my camera and accosted a stranger as she walked by. “Would you mind? I’d like to document my victory today.”

The woman obligingly poised the camera. “Say
cheese
,” she said.

“No, no. On three, say
victory
.” I laughed.

The next morning, the article “Brutal Alimony Story” appeared in the
Oakland Tribune,
right next to a report on the O. J. Simpson trial. I had not sought publicity out of fear of John Perry’s litigious soul, but seeing my victory in print gratified my soul.

 

Two weeks later I sat in my office, trying to concentrate on my job, but I couldn’t. No way. AB16 was on the assembly floor today, and I was waiting for the phone to ring. Anne said she would call me as soon as there was a vote. I needn’t have been so apprehensive. The recent signs seemed to bode well for passage. Even the judges’ position had mellowed. The previous week Marty had called to tell me so. The double ring of an outside call interrupted my thoughts. I grabbed for the receiver. It was Anne.

“Are you sitting down?” she said.

“Yes, I’m at my desk.”

“Congratulations, girl, the assembly passed AB Sixteen on to the senate,” she giggled, “with a vote of seventy to zero. AB Sixteen came out as a bipartisan bill!”

“Oh, my God,” I squealed. “Seventy to zero! I can’t believe it. Not one negative vote, even with all the political bantering going on.” Happy tears formed. A major battle had been won in the war to change the law.

I hung up the phone and sat silently, staring at the computer screen but not seeing anything on it. Then, in gratitude, I bowed my head and prayed. My hand swiped at the solitary tear that trickled down my right cheek and I continued to sit in silence, unsure of my feelings. I thought I should probably run up and down the hall, screaming with joy, but I didn’t. Instead, I remained in the chair, voiceless.

I wanted to remember this moment and was puzzled that the excitement wasn’t there. I should be bounding around the room with the good news. Perhaps the struggle had been too long, or too exhausting. Perhaps I knew this was just one more notch toward the goal, not the goal itself.

My thoughts now turned to the senate.

The Senate

Coming off my victory in the assembly, I was not prepared for the sinkholes that appeared in my road to the Senate Judiciary Committee. I soon discovered that there would be no superhighway through the senate to the governor’s desk. Anne broke the news to me with a telephone call.

“Chairman Calderon is looking at AB Sixteen as a typical domestic issue, another women’s thing.” There was a definite pause, and Anne cleared her throat. “He’s against the bill.”

I gasped and clenched my fist. I knew enough from my recent experience with the Assembly that this was not a good thing. Without the chairman’s backing, a bill would languish and never make it out of committee. We needed to show that the bill would also help men, and as the bill’s sponsor, it was up to me to prove it. But how? I hung up the phone and prayed for guidance.

My prayers were answered two days later when Anne called.

“A male victim has appeared,” she said excitedly. “Steve Peterson. He saw the latest AB Sixteen story in the
Oakland Tribune.
”

Twenty years earlier, Steve Peterson’s wife hired two people to kill him. He survived the attack, and his wife and the hit couple were sentenced to prison. In another fine example of the skewed legal system, his ex-wife was incarcerated for only three years. When Steve retired, his ex-wife retained an attorney to go after her share of Steve’s retirement pension. She got twenty percent.

“He’ll make a great witness,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but we may have a problem,” Anne said. “He wants the law to help him, to be retroactive, which we can’t do. I told him I would have you call him.”

It took all of my negotiating skills to sway Steve into lobbying and testifying with me. I talked to him on the phone and met with him in person. Each time he spoke of the attack he broke into tears. When you’ve been a victim, the pain is never far from the surface, especially when you’ve just learned that you are going to have to pay the woman who tried to murder you $500 a month. Reluctantly, he agreed to my request. I had my male voice.

 

 

Four days later at work, I filled my coffee cup and slipped back into my desk chair just in time to catch the ringing phone. It was Anne, and she was alarmed. “We have a problem,” she blurted. “We heard from the Judges Association, through a letter from Marty Montano. The judges ... well, there’s no easy way to say it. They’ve come out against the bill.”

“What! Marty assured me the judges would remain neutral.”

“On the plus side for you, it’s too late to get their opinion into the senate analysis.”

“Thank God for small favors.” I sighed.

I hung up the phone and sat quietly at my desk to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Why, at the last minute, did these things always seem to happen? I took a swig of coffee and dialed Marty’s number.

“What went wrong?” I asked. “Anne says she got an unfavorable letter from you.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I was forced to send it. The judges were adamant about not changing their law.”

“
Their
law? I thought the law belonged to all of us, that it was to help the victim, not the criminal.”

“I put a positive statement in the letter, but they edited it out.”

“Bastards.”

“There is a silver lining,” Marty said. “I’m not going to add it to the schedule. So, if any judges show up, they won’t be from me.” He assured me he thought the bill would pass. “I haven’t heard from Calderon’s office, and if there were any doubts about the bill, I would have.”

“Thanks, Marty; I need all the encouragement I can get.”

 

On Monday morning, four days later, Steve and I stormed the capitol, stopping first to check in with Anne. “I learned from last time,” I said wryly as I handed her our schedule. “I’ve made appointments.” Our first stop was Chairman Calderon’s office, where I asked for Morgana Swanson, his legislative counsel. She wasn’t available, and we continued with our appointments.

“Is this one of your good signs?” Steve laughed.

“Of course, we’re just saving the best for last. Don’t forget that positive thinking is cumulative.”

Each legislative aide we met with listened intently to our stories and agreed that the law should be changed. No doubt Steve’s loss of composure and his tears helped. We handed them our letters and left. I recorded their responses and began to feel invincible. Our next stop was Senator Bill Lockyer’s office.

Lockyer was president pro tem of the state senate, and his digs were impressive, nothing like the smaller offices we had been in. After we announced our appointment, a short, stocky woman, impeccably dressed and militarily erect, emerged. She introduced herself, stiffly shook our hands, and never smiled.

“I’m worried about the reverse effects on a battered woman,” she said crisply. “If she’s convicted of attempted murder, she won’t get half of her husband’s retirement.”

I bit my lips and counted to three before I answered. I said attempted murder was wrong, and that the courts probably wouldn’t prosecute her anyway, because of battered wife syndrome.

“But,” she continued, “this would be an exception to the no-fault divorce law.” She scribbled a note on my letter that sat on her desk. We were dismissed.

When we walked into the hallway, Steve asked, “What went on in there?”

“Some people can’t think straight, and they misconstrue the facts.”

“I would have been at a loss for words.”

“That’s why we’re a team. We support each other. Come on, let’s go back and check in with Anne.”

We returned to Rainey’s office, helped ourselves to some coffee, and waited for Anne to get off the phone. She smiled and motioned for us to come in and sit down. When she hung up, she was excited.

“A newspaper reporter called about ten minutes ago. It looks like he’s updating his story for the
Tribune
and he’d like to interview Steve, if that’s okay.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said. “I just hope I don’t say something stupid.”

“Talk from your heart,” I said. “You’ll do just fine.”

Anne handed Steve the receiver as she dialed the reporter’s local phone number. Steve hesitated. Then he spoke slowly, stammering through the reporter’s questions, his discomfort raw and apparent. Steve handed me the phone. After I confirmed several facts for the reporter, he asked to be transferred to Dick. I handed the receiver to Anne.

“Sorry, he’s just leaving for the afternoon assembly session, and he’s running late.” Anne scribbled on a notepad, agreeing with whatever the reporter was saying. Then she hung up the phone. “Here,” she said, folding the notepaper. “You need to get this message to Dick on the assembly floor. If the reporter doesn’t get to talk to him, there won’t be a story.”

Steve and I delivered the message to the sergeant-at-arms and rushed back to Calderon’s office. This time Morgana was available, and she met us in the foyer. “Calderon has no problem with the bill,” she said. “It should make it out of committee just fine.”

My heart raced and I felt like giving her a big hug, but I kept my composure. I floated back to Anne’s office, with Steve at my side. “We’ve got it!” I exclaimed, giving Anne a high five. “Morgana says it’s a go.”

“I’m surprised,” Anne said. “I just got a copy of Morgana’s analysis and I’m not too pleased with it.”

“But she seemed so sure.”

“I’ll trust your judgment. You’ve been right so far.”

 

The next morning, Steve and his second wife, Poppy, rang my doorbell. “Come in. Come in.” I said. “You’re not going to believe what happened this morning.” I ushered them inside, introduced them to my mother, and took their coffee orders. Mom said she would pour and bring the cups into the living room.