Silent Cry (23 page)

CHAPTER 24

Divorce

If the numbers we see in domestic violence were applied to terrorism or gang violence, the entire country would be up in arms, and it would be the lead story on the news every night.

U.S. Congressman Mark Green

T
he 1997 season began, and Nate and I were in a season of calm. It was almost as
if
we
were living separately under the same roof. I never asked him about the details of
anything going on with his life outside our home, but things were not good. He was
getting into trouble more frequently — DUIs, car accidents, and he even faced a misdemeanor
for disorderly conduct after a loud argument with a fan who wanted his autograph.
I kept my distance from these things and did my best not to get involved.

I took advantage of the season of calm to approach Nate about the divorce. “I think
it's best if we go our separate ways,” I said. “I need to be free from the marriage.
We can each just go our own path. I'll take care of the boys. You can keep all the
money; just help me out with three months' rent while I get a job.”

“Dot, just wait a while. Just wait a little while. Everything is going to be better,”
was Nate's answer. I knew he didn't want me to leave. I knew he wouldn't give me
a divorce. I knew that in his own twisted way he loved me, but I wanted out. I didn't
want to live a double life anymore.

The Cowboys had a “White House” scandal at some point during all of this. There was
a house (they called it The White House) located near the team's Valley Ranch practice
facility where some of the players brought women for sex and had frequent parties.
When questioned about this by the
Star-Telegram
, Nate removed all doubt about his
involvement: “We got a little
place over here where we're running whores in and out,
trying to be responsible, and we're criticized for that too.” I was disgusted.

My humiliation seemed to have no end. I was constantly embarrassed by Nate's public
behavior, but I stood by him, no matter what. It seemed like every time I approached
him about leaving, he got into some crisis again and needed me.

We continued to have seasons of relative calm followed by seasons of violence in
which he would be verbally abusive, push me, and grab me by the throat. I never knew
exactly what to expect.

I drew closer and closer to God for my strength. It seemed like the worse things
got for me physically and emotionally, the more my spirit soared. I was filled with
the Holy Spirit, and he was indeed my Comforter. No matter how bad things were with
Nate, my soul was at peace with God. Nate had no control there. He couldn't spoil
it. He couldn't interrupt it. He couldn't harm it.

Nate knew I was close to God. When it came to this area of my life, Nate still had
me on a pedestal. There was almost a reverence from him about it — he never wanted
to mess with that. He counted on the fact that I prayed, and on rare occasions he
still asked me to pray for him, though he wasn't willing to pray on his own. In his
mind, God was reserved for “good” people who already had their act together.

Nate was involved in another affair. In the past, he was careful to protect me from
knowing about them, but he had grown careless. Not only was he coming home in the
wee hours of the morning; he was leaving evidence all around — condoms, notes, receipts.
I knew he was unfaithful and had probably been so for our entire life together. When
he wanted sex, I was frightened.
What if he gives me a disease?
I began collecting
the evidence, wanting to have proof of his indiscretions
so I would at last be able
to leave, even if he wasn't willing to consent to a divorce.

In the summer of 1998, just before Nate went to training camp, I found evidence of
yet another relationship. I became enraged. Nate came into the house, and I lost
all my fear of him. I screamed at him. I accused him. I was crying and shouting
and storming around the room. It took Nate completely off guard — he wasn't used
to this kind of behavior from me. He grabbed me by my arms to bring me under control.

“F_____ you!” I screamed.

It was like I had thrown ice water on him. He was so startled. I never used that
kind of language, and it shocked him.

“Dot,” he said, his face contorted, “what's wrong with you? That's not like you.
Calm down, now. Calm down.”

“That's right,” I said through clenched teeth, “I said it — f_____ you!”

Nate was mortified. He shook me. “Get hold of yourself, Dot! Settle down.” He let
me go, and I crumpled into a heap on the floor.

“Who am I?” I said, almost in a whisper. I was genuinely frightened at my own anger.
This wasn't me.

Could I hurt him?
I wondered. I shuddered.
Yes, I could.
In fact, I wanted to.

I shuddered again, trying to shake myself out of whatever it was that had taken hold
of me. I went to my room, got on my face, and prayed. I knew I could never give in
to that anger again. I rolled over, looking up to heaven, and prayed, “God, you've
got to do something spectacular to get me out of this situation. I don't ever want
to feel this way again. I never want to lose control like that again. Help me, Jesus.
Help me now.”

In 1999, Nate was cut from the Cowboys. It was a crushing blow to him. He worked
hard to get a contract with the Carolina Panthers and then announced we were moving
to North Carolina. My first thought was,
This is my way out.

“No, Nate,” I said. “I can't take the boys to North Carolina. Tré is involved in
sports and has good teachers. Taking him out of school is not good for him. Think
of Tré. We need to stay here.”

Miraculously, I convinced Nate that I should stay behind in Texas with the boys while
he moved to Carolina. My heart lifted. It felt as if God had stepped in and offered
me a way of escape. I was rescued! I could use this time to find a job and get established.
I knew this was the beginning of my breakthrough.

Tré attended school Monday through Friday and played football on Saturday, so we
only went to North Carolina on holidays. We couldn't watch Nate play all his games
— and I didn't want to. I was happy on my own with the boys.

Another American Express bill came to the house, and I saw charges for airline tickets
to and from Carolina — yet another woman. I didn't care. At least I was safe. I was
involved in Bible study and enjoying “normal” life. I felt lighthearted. If Nate
needed another woman in Carolina so I could stay at home, so be it.

At Christmas, Nate demanded I come to see him and bring the boys with me. I couldn't
think of any good reason why we couldn't go, so I packed them up and flew out to
meet him. When I arrived and began unpacking, I came across pieces of women's jewelry.
Right there in plain sight was proof Nate was seeing someone. I flew home the next
day. I was glad to be away from him. I was happy he was living in North Carolina.
He could stay there as long as he liked. In January, the season came to an end. I
was dreading it, knowing it meant Nate would
move back home with us. He had injured
his shoulder, which was going to require surgery to repair it. It had not been a
good season for Nate, and with the injury, his football career was in serious jeopardy.
I had physical evidence of a long-term affair, and I was ready to go to an attorney.
Nate asked me to stay with him during the surgery and his recovery. He promised that
if I stayed, and if I agreed to use his attorney and accept his terms, then he would
give me a divorce. I consented to everything. All I wanted was out.

“Fine,” I said. “I'll stay until you are recovered. I'll use your attorney, and I
don't care what the terms are as long as I get to leave.” I meant every word I said.

February came, and we scheduled an appointment with Nate's attorney. The attorney
told me we could split everything down the middle, and Nate would pay $2,000 a month
in child support. “Down the middle?” I asked, shocked, “Down the middle — what does
that look like?” I didn't need to be shocked; there wasn't anything left to split.
Nate was out of money. He had managed to spend everything he'd earned over the years.
All that remained was the house. We had paid cash for the house and owned it outright.
The plan was for me to stay in the house with the boys until it sold and then we
would split the proceeds — and that would be the end of that.

March was coming, and we had already booked and paid for a trip to Jamaica. Tré had
learned about Jamaica in school and dreamed about going for a long time. The Martins'
son Drew was flying in from Jacksonville to join us. I didn't know how to back out
of the trip without letting Tré down, and I wasn't ready to tell the Martins about
the divorce. They had been so good to Tré, treating him like one of their own, that
I just didn't think I could cancel. I told Nate I would go on the trip, but we would
not sleep together. I still wanted a divorce.

On the trip, Nate was very relaxed and attentive to the boys. It was actually the
best trip we ever took together. I felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from
my shoulders. I didn't want Nate out of the boys' lives completely. He was their
father. He had never been abusive to them, so this arrangement was like an experiment
for me.

When we returned from Jamaica, Nate disappeared. I had no idea where he went. I didn't
hear from him again until June. It was time for us to appear in court, and the attorney
told me that only one of us had to be present, so I didn't worry about trying to
find Nate. I didn't have to worry though; he called.

“Dot, are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I mean really sure? I'm out of
football now. I always promised you if you would wait until my career was over, I
would be the best husband ever. You don't need to do this. There won't be any more
football. It will be different now. Things are gonna be totally different now.”

“No,” I answered, feeling genuinely sad that things never worked out. “I'm sorry.
I'm going before the judge tomorrow.”

The next morning, I went to the courthouse. I had not cried in a very long time.
In fact, I couldn't even remember the last time I'd cried. I didn't have time to
cry and feel sorry for myself. But standing there before the judge, the tears flowed
unchecked. When the judge asked me to state my name, no words came out of my mouth.

“Mrs. Newton,” the judge said sternly, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice. “Mrs.
Newton, you do need to speak up,” he said, frowning. It sounded like Nate's voice,
stern and cross. I shook myself, snapped out of it, and went through the rest of
the proceeding without another tear.

I made arrangements to have dinner that night with Ingrid. I hadn't told anyone I
was getting a divorce. I left my kids with
a babysitter and pulled into Ingrid's
driveway to pick her up. She slid into the passenger seat, smiling, ready for an
outing.

“Ingrid,” I said, “we're not going anywhere, okay? I need to be by myself right now.”
I paused, and Ingrid studied me, sensing something was wrong. “I'm divorced,” I finally
said.

“What?” she said, and then she repeated, “You're
what
?”

She was shocked. I had confided many things to Ingrid, but I hadn't told her everything.
I suppose I wasn't sure if it was actually going to happen. Until I had actually
signed the papers and knew it was for real, I hadn't wanted to tell her.

“Divorced,” I said again, letting out a long, slow sigh. “I'm divorced, Ingrid. I
need to make some calls to my family. Do you mind if we skip dinner?”

I called my mom, my biological dad, my aunt and uncle in Virginia, Lynn and K-Mart,
T. Hayes, and several other people. In the days and weeks to come, I slowly began
telling people what my life had been like. Shock was the common response. No one
but Ingrid and T. Hayes knew anything about the abuse.