Family Trust Pt.3 -a.k.a. Revocable Trust

“IT’S NOT WHAT YOU LOOK AT THAT MATTERS, IT’S WHAT YOU SEE.” -HENRY DAVID THOREAU

I FIND THE SOFT EXPRESSION RADIATING FROM THE EYES OF THIS MAGNIFICENT ANIMAL, PAINTED BY THE TALENTED ARTIST, EMILIE LUND, SUCH A BEAUTIFUL EXAMPLE OF THE QUOTE ABOVE?

Years ago, I became involved in a relationship and still remember the “first time” like it was yesterday. The details are vividly and indelibly etched in my brain, even going so far as to stop me in my tracks every so often. It’s more than likely my history of not always “seeing” things as they really are contributed to events occurring far faster than they might have otherwise? Does that ever happen to you? For some reason, situations like that have peppered my years more times than I care to admit. But anyways there I was sipping my cup of coffee, staring out the family room’s expansive picture window to the pool and yard beyond, trying to figure out what to do next?    

HOW WEIRD IT WAS TO FIND MYSELF LIVING IN A HOUSE A MERE STONE’S THROW AWAY FROM THE LAKEFRONT HOME WHERE I SPENT A GOOD BIT OF MY CHILDHOOD? WAS IT A COSMIC SIGN OR MERELY HAPPENSTANCE?

Only 30 to 45 minutes earlier, as I was about to leave the house and head towards the real estate office where my license hung in the charming village of Rancho Santa Fe, I answered my cell phone to hear the hushed voice of my younger sister, Dorothy. “Miss, are you okay; is Al there,” she asked? Slow to detect the concerned tone in her voice, I answered the question saying “Yes, I’m fine but Al’s not here; he’s in Los Angeles. He had a dinner meeting last night with Bruce, Rick, and Marty. It was late but he called to let me know they had consumed a good bit of wine over dinner, and he didn’t want to risk the two-hour drive home, so he stayed at Marty’s place.” As I heard the explanation leave my lips, a lightbulb flickered slightly in the dark recesses of my mind. Dorothy’s apprehensive tone finally ignited the suspicion she must have hoped to prompt. “Why,” I asked? Dorothy explained, “well I’m pretty sure I just saw him in Santa Monica walking down Montana out of 17th Street Café… hand in hand with a blond. I was grabbing a cup of coffee and did a total double take when I saw him. They got up and left together, so I followed them. They walked a few blocks and I know he didn’t see me, but they entered a duplex on California together. I waited around for about 10-15 minutes, but he never left.” I was speechless for a moment, before Dorothy continued, “I’m sorry Miss; I debated whether I should tell you or not, but figured you deserve to know what kind of guy you’re involved with?”  Pretty sure it was genuine concern that Dorothy was trying to convey, but in hindsight I’m not so sure? Regardless, that last part doesn’t matter; I just wasn’t able to wrap my mind around the rest of it.  

Shoot… was my introduction misleading? Did you think I was referencing something else when I spoke about the “first time?” I don’t doubt it; that would be a logical place to go, but in this instance it would also be wrong. No, rather, five months after our first date, I found myself totally conflicted and “shacking up” (as Mom said) with a man who was apparently cheating on me… was this for real? Damn it; I really wished I’d been told about learning to trust my instincts sooner.

Despite a dubious first meeting, I mistakenly second guessed my initial feelings and little by little found myself sold on Al’s subtle yet persistent pitch. “He loved me, wanted nothing more than to marry again, get a second chance at creating a family and another opportunity to be a present and better parent.” At least that’s what he said when suggesting I move in with him at his recently purchased and remodeled contemporary home complete with brand new finishes, furnishings, and every conceivable amenity designed by him in concert with his ‘EDS’ New York office’s architectural partners. Not seeing the truth and wanting to believe he made the offer in earnest, I accepted.

Back in the moment, I wrestled with my emotions for close to an hour, picked up the phone twice to call him, but got no answer and didn’t leave messages. After cleaning up the mascara that bled from my eyelashes, leaving my face blotchy and bruised looking, I retouched my make-up and left the house. It was “caravan day” and there were many properties to see, particularly several for which I had potential clients. I badly needed a distraction from the thoughts which were racing through my mind, probably as rapidly as any one of Al’s many prized vehicles like the Gulf GT-40 or Rothman’s Porsche, both of which had famously won the coveted Formula 1 Le Mans race and which also seemed to bring him a sense of euphoria I had never felt before… definitely not for a car.  

Almost five hours later, I steered my car back up the private little drive that led to Al’s house at the pinnacle of Rancho Cielo amidst the three other homes which shared the road. Tension gripped my being; what was I about to find, and how was I to proceed? Minutes later, I entered the enormous double wooden-door entryway to discover Al, waiting just inside. He moved forward to hug me, but I lifted a hand to stop his approach and asked for a moment to put down my purse, cell phone (back then, a very large object) and use the restroom. When I returned from the master bedroom wing and discovered Al sitting in the very spot where I had answered Dorothy’s call earlier that same morning, I confess to losing it a bit and regrettably teared up a little. Damn… I hate when that happens. Al appeared a teensy bit defensive, albeit sheepish, but offered me a glass of wine, suggesting we sit down and talk about what was bothering me.

Not having spoken to Al since the call from Dorothy, there was no way he could have known what was wrong. Why was he tiptoeing around me like I was either a work of fine art or an investor on the verge of releasing millions? There could be only one reason. He suspected before I uttered a single word that he was, potentially, caught. A guilty conscience belies transparency and authenticity… another item I didn’t know at the time. Wow, it’s embarrassing how naïve “that girl” was. When we were both seated, I asked one question: “where were you last night?” I didn’t even mention the phone call that I received earlier in the day referencing 17th Street Café and a blond. I didn’t have to. The few tears in my eyes when I entered several minutes earlier were a “tell” and an instant give-away.  

IT’S A SAFE BET THAT THIS PHOTO, TAKEN IN THE VERY SAME SPOT AS THE ONE I REFERENCE, DID NOT OCCUR ON THE DATE IN QUESTION.

After taking a sip of wine from my glass I sat down on the capacious sage green sectional and was taken aback when Al began “pouring out his heart.” The mixed message/confession went something like this…  “Mizz, look, I need to tell you something. Last night, after having dinner with Bruce, Marty, and Rick, I got in the car to leave, and my phone rang. It was Jan. She was a complete wreck, drunk, slurring her words and upon hearing I was in L.A., she begged to see me. She confessed to having been drinking heavily and was threatening to hurt herself; I couldn’t just leave her that way.” I attempted to process his words, while recalling the stories his older daughter had shared with me about Al’s two most recent exes just a couple months earlier, when I visited him in New York for the first time. Reconciling the truth versus reality at that juncture was next to impossible, but a challenge at best. It was difficult enough to fathom that one ex-girlfriend killed herself in Al’s waterfront New York mansion, but that he had caught the other, most recent, ex in bed with another man in his Malibu beach house and was still willing to see her, under any circumstance, was enough to send my head spinning. Nevertheless, there he sat trying his damnedest to assure me that his intentions were pure, and it was me he loved now.

Holy sh**! How many years later is it, and I’m just now realizing that Al’s conciliatory behavior in that one moment could and should have told me everything I needed to know? Go figure. But, as mentioned in the opening, I was so busy looking at something which didn’t exist, I wasn’t able to SEE the reality of what was truly there. I wouldn’t for several more decades.

Three years later, after many complicated twists of fate, I found myself a mother to Al’s third daughter and also “wife #2.” What happened throughout the span of our first few years together went nothing like I ever imagined. Those three years held more challenges than I might have ever conceived possible and as frequently happens, the lyrics to a song matching the commitment I felt at the time (warranted or not) filled the space between my ears.

“I Hold On” by Dierks Bentley…

To the things I believe in
My faith, your love, our freedom
To the things I can count on
To keep me going strong
Yeah, I hold on 

THE GASLIGHTING AL EXACTED WAS EXHAUSTIVE. SOMETIMES I WONDER HOW I CONTINUED PUTTING UP WITH THE AMOUNT OF CRAP BEING SERVED? IT WAS ALL JUST SO BEYOND THE PALE? I SUPPOSE ONE MIGHT HAZARD A GUESS THAT MY UPBRINGING AND BACKGROUND HAD DESENSITIZED ME TO THAT PARTICULAR BRAND OF MANIPULATION.

                                                     AS SUCH… I HELD ON.

Drug dealers bashing down a front door, weeks-long absences with no explanation or forewarning, financial manipulation, stints in rehab, art fraud, constant undermining of my value, the ever-present threat of abandonment, Saudi princes, ex-con Car and Art dealers, a formidable and unpredictable temper, Swiss bank accounts, as well as an embezzlement lawsuit which left Al a total wreck, along with much, much, much more were my new normal. There were also a few moments of vulnerability mixed with serendipitous generosity, a “devil-may-care” approach to life and uncommon strength which made for a complicated equation and capricious lifestyle. All of that is what filled our first several years together as well as our daughter’s infancy and childhood. They were some of the best and worst times I’d ever experienced, and in no way actually match the sentiment Dierks Bentley sings about in the chorus of the song above, but it was vitally important to my sense of self that I hold on and trust the man with whom I had exchanged wedding vows. The promise I made on November 28th meant something, and the thought of failing, after all the crises we had overcome and having ignored the plethora of dire warnings about him, was just too daunting to consider. As such, I resigned myself to the commitment I made which accompanied the weighty pressure of our wickedly unpredictable relationship. Should that have been reason enough to continue? At the time… apparently so.

Maybe I never knew what legitimate trust felt like? Maybe I’d not seen enduring examples of a truly loving and trusting union? Maybe my previous familial experiences molded me into an ideal candidate for someone like Al to toy with? Maybe what he said was true, and “he loved me as much as it was possible for him to love anyone?” I suppose I could “maybe” myself for hours but none of it would change a damn thing?

So I held on and was subsequently “treated” to learning about a different type of trust, something called “revocable trust,” which if you critically dissect those two simple words linked together, ought to be a signal to run for your life. I didn’t. If you’re thinking right about now that I’m either a total idiot or just plain full of crap, bear with me… please?

 IT DIDN’T ELICIT THE SAME EMOTION OR THE PAIN OF BETRAYAL THAT THE QUITCLAIM DEED I WAS DEMANDED TO SIGN FOR THE ROCKBRIDGE ROAD TRANSACTION A YEAR EARLIER AND THREE YEARS AFTER OUR MARRIAGE, BUT IT STILL TOOK FAR TOO LONG BEFORE I LEARNED ALL THE IN’S & OUT’S OF THIS PARTICULAR LEGAL “VEHICLE.” WHAT WAS ORIGINALLY DESCRIBED TO ME MERELY AS A DOCUMENT ENABLING AL TO MAKE REAL ESTATE DECISIONS “ON THE FLY AND UNENCUMBERED” TOOK ON A LIFE ALL ITS OWN.

That single document provided for the secretive gathering of more property, both real and personal, than this once obsequious wife could have ever imagined.  When I did finally realize the depth of deception the Capone Revocable Trust had facilitated, it was WAAAY too late. The entirety of our six-year, post divorce drama and any legal tie we once shared had lapsed. There seemed little point in re-hashing the past. Al, in typical fashion, had manipulated the hell out of the legal and judicial process from the day we said “I do,” right up until the day of our final “I don’t.” As such I ran in circles, chasing my tail for the most part, oblivious to Al’s fraudulent maneuvers, and instead was consumed with plugging holes that refused to cease leaking.

So, by the time we were officially and legally finished, I was also utterly drained and more than a little ready to move on with life. That mindset provided me the rationalization required to extend what I thought was appropriate courtesy to Al when we had occasions to interact. Such instances included allowing him access to my family, and the memorial services which the deaths of Mom and my older Sister necessitated. Not only did Al attend the traditional Catholic Masses that we held, but in the case of Viv’s funeral which took place in Rancho Santa Fe where she and her family lived, a good distance from the original Santa Ynez home on Roblar, which by then was exclusively Al’s, but I included him in the family reception following the Nativity Church observance. Additionally, I invited him to the after-gathering that the kids and I hosted at The Inn, and even went so far as to pick up the tab for his overnight stay at the same Rancho Santa Fe hotel, which had been like an interim home during Viv’s brief but fatal bout with cancer. We were all very civilized and got along fine… or so I thought? Three years later after returning to California from Texas, I learned differently.

NO MATTER HOW MANY OTHERS FELL BY THE WAYSIDE OR ACTIVELY AIMED FOR THE TARGET ON MY BACK DURING AND FOLLOWING THE DIVORCE, I WAS INCREDIBLY GRATEFUL TO THINK THAT MAREN MIGHT BE BACK IN OUR LIVES.

P.S., BUT WHAT THE DEVIL WAS I THINKING WITH MY HEAVY-DUTY EYEBROW APPLICATION? YIKES.

The divide and choosing of sides which divorce often creates seems inevitable. It was all around me growing up and became even clearer when I was navigating my own dissolution. I expected, even accepted that part, but what’s weird is that I didn’t anticipate or see the threat which remained long after the divorce was over. Foolishly, I assumed that once Al got beyond his relentless, crazy obsessive, financial control issues, and the insane 8 year legal battle following our divorce decree was concluded, we might be able to conduct ourselves as civil adults, as my own parents had finally been able to accomplish. After all, we managed to get through A.J.’s High School Graduation ceremony, his College Orientation Day, as well as Mom and Viv’s funeral services in fine form… that’s something, right? Simplistically, and fortunately or not, my naïve optimism hoped those occasions which occurred with an abundance of civility, were proof positive that the rage of divorce followed by Al’s rash bankruptcy filing and subsequent drama was finally over. And maybe it was, but what if the thing I didn’t or couldn’t see had nothing to do with left-over divorce crap? What if the undercurrent of the past three decades was propelled by a factor that had less to do with divorce but rather everything to do with an obsession for control and the inability to discern or tell the truth? Is that notion just more psycho babble or is it possible that there’s more there, there? Oh… good Lord Missy, where is this going? I’m not a patient person, so I can totally appreciate if you’re wearying of my struggle to excise this demon. But I sense an epiphany on the horizon; please stay with me?

A month or two after returning to California from the Lone Star State, my daughter and I had the opportunity to spend an evening with Al’s eldest daughter, Em’s half-sister, and my Stepdaughter. Maren joined us for dinner and, as it had always been prior to the divorce, the conversation was both congenial and lively while we caught up on the details and goings-on of our individual lives. The discussion took a serious turn when Maren shared with us the recent betrayal she experienced at her father’s whim.

As was the precedent for several years past, Maren arrived mid-Christmas morning at the Roblar home we had all once shared and spent many a holiday, to prepare and create the celebratory meal Al had specified he’d so enjoy for the occasion. It wasn’t an unusual event. Maren and her husband were staples in Al’s life with Maren frequently playing hostess and cooking for any number of guests being entertained and whichever female was Al’s flavor of the day.  This particular occasion didn’t go so well. The most recent squeeze calling herself “Al’s plus-one” apparently didn’t take kindly to Maren arriving so many hours prior to Christmas dinner and being present all day in the kitchen caring for the preparation of the meal which was to be served later.  The “plus-one” fussed and complained for the entire day about the unnecessary intrusion and ended up accusing Maren of breaking the expansive kitchen island’s Wolf Range as well as shouting that Maren and her husband had ruined Christmas day in its entirety. She further dictated that Maren was no longer welcome without the “plus-one’s” specific approval and invitation. The event crushed Maren, who then responded to the blond interloper, “this has always been our family home since my Dad and Missy purchased this property 25 years ago; you don’t get to make that call.”  When Maren received no words of support or intervention from Al, her spirit and feelings were crushed; she and her husband left Roblar. It was certainly not the Christmas anyone had hoped to celebrate. A week later, at Al’s request, Maren agreed to meet with Al and the blond “plus-one” at the local, corner coffee shop to talk and hopefully smooth things over? The meeting did not go as planned, and peace was not the result. The “plus-one” began hurling insults and accusations at Maren and when again, Al didn’t speak up or intervene on Maren’s behalf, Maren rallied; she gathered her composure and began to speak. Directing her comments to both Al and the “plus-one,” she asked… “so, this is how it’s going to be, Dad? You’re going to allow her to call all the shots from now on? Maybe it's time to organize a bigger gathering and include Emily and A.J. too?” Isn’t it true you explained and introduced this one’s presence (referring to the blond “plus-one”) at Roblar to A.J. by claiming she was merely a “renter” and past acquaintance who happened to be a recovering alcoholic and addict?  You told him you were simply helping her out, right? That’s what A.J. said. Was he lying? And what about Viv’s Memorial Service which you attended? Didn’t you return from that experience telling me how awful Missy treated you and that you were excluded from the family reception after the Mass? Or is it true that Missy had you sit at the front of the church in the second row with family, just as she included us at Bid’s funeral? And weren’t you not only included at the family reception immediately after Mass, but also invited to join Missy, the kids and extended family for an after gathering at Missy’s temporary cottage at The Inn, where you then stayed overnight in a room on Missy’s tab? Is all of that not true? If not, shouldn’t we all get together and set the story straight? You really need to clear the air with all four of your kids at one time, in one location. We deserve to be on the same page, or at the very least understand why you seem so determined to keep us all divided? Is it because if we were, all, ever to get together now that we’re adults, you couldn’t continue to get away with the lies you’ve been able to perpetuate with us divided?” With that last round of questions out in the open, the “plus-one” stood up and glared at Maren saying, “none of that is true, and I don’t want you in our house again.” She then stormed out of the café, slamming the door behind her.

A few weeks later, as Maren finished retelling the events to Emily and me, her voice was shaking, and tears streamed down her face. She continued speaking but haltingly, as she said, “I can’t believe Dad seems to be choosing that gold-digging phony over his own kids? All he could say when Krista left the cafe was that he was tired and didn’t want to be alone. I never guessed he could be so weak, and now I also realize he’s been lying to all of us forever. I don’t think he even knows what the truth looks like?”

THIS CHAIN OF TEXT EXCHANGES BETWEEN AL AND ME IS BUT ONE OF MANY REMINDERS OF THE LITANY OF MISTRUTHS WHICH CONSUMED AL’S ENTIRE BEING. REGARDLESS OF THE “TALES” HE SPREADS LIKE WILDFIRE, THE REALITY IS DIFFERENT.

Speaking of the plentiful falsehoods perpetuated by Al throughout his life, I’m reminded of a verse I discovered while engaging in the Advent Book Club I wrote about in Pt. 1 of this “Family Trust Trilogy.” The verse proclaims…

       “Love does not rejoice at wrong doing, but rejoices with the truth.”

-1 Corinthians 13:6

I couldn’t agree more. Truth and the Trust are everything… always.

Maren’s retelling of the encounter with her father, especially the part about Al’s explanation to A.J. regarding the “plus-one” gave me a jolt and took me back decades. The language he used to describe his new “plus-one” to our Son sounded hauntingly familiar, and I recalled that day so many years earlier when Al attempted to deflect attention away from the first lie I caught him in, or rather the lie Dorothy caught him in and relayed to me. Al’s stories regarding his kindness to and sympathy for alleged recovering addicts was probably not so much coincidental as it was a useful “go-to, get out of jail free card” for any unsuspecting target, a.k.a. me, or possibly even the new “plus one.”  Do you remember that epiphany I told you was forthcoming? Well, even if I’ve alluded to it before, the visit with Maren a few years ago solidified and validated my understanding of the man I married. I never knew him; not the real person. I’m not even sure Al knows who he really is? In the years which have followed that fateful evening and exchange with Maren, I’ve been continuing the process of recovery through this invaluable platform (DearEasyDiaries) and trying to heal the wounds that living with and then divorcing a serial liar creates, as well as working to expose the irreparable harm and gaslighting that a narcissistic sociopath is capable of exacting. Granted, I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist, but I have gone through enough therapy, studied volumes of material on the subject, and experienced enough abuse to have gained a decent understanding of both narcissistic and sociopathic behaviors. Curiously enough, once I started DearEasyDiaries, my email became a landing place for people to share either their own stories or advise me of previously unknown information pertaining to Al and his trove of secrets. Each time such an instance occurs, I become even more determined to disclose all that I’ve discovered in an effort to reach out, bolster, support and empathize with others who have experienced similar deception and damages. 

I’D NEVER HAVE GUESSED THAT AL COULDN’T EVEN BE STRAIGHT ABOUT HIS FAMILY’S NAMES AND HISTORY, BUT YET HERE IT IS… SAME FAMILY AND THE SAME ADDRESS WHERE ONE OF AL’S SISTERS STILL RESIDES TODAY. IT’S ALL RIGHT THERE IN BLACK AND WHITE, FOR ANYONE TO SEE.

When Al and I were first together, and continuing until we divorced, he made it abundantly clear that he was not close to his family of origin. His father died when Al was eight; Al then canonized his mother as well as his only brother who also passed too early; Al seemed to have little to no use, or kind words for his sisters, both of whom are still alive today and who he claimed only stayed in touch because they wanted something from him. To that subject, I can’t comment because beg as I did early on, I was never permitted to meet them. Al believed and worked hard to promote the idea that both his father and brother died of heart-related issues early in their lives and as a result Al was very committed to his physical fitness and health. Monthly stays at the original Pritikin Clinics in California and Florida were “de rigueur” as was working out via tennis and oftentimes, private trainers. Niacin tablets were essential items in his medicine cabinet, and he was forever going from one diet plan to another, all in an effort to cheat the grim-reaper… and good for him. I bought into it all, attempting to accommodate him in every way possible. When the time eventually came to name our two children, whatever names I mentioned or might have cared to choose, were flatly rejected. And I wasn’t brave or confident enough to counter his objection. Our daughter, my first-born, Emily was named for Al’s mother. Our son, born second, and Al’s fourth child (but only boy) was named as a “junior,” with the addition of a middle name. I didn’t have an issue with that as I like it when boys are named for their father, but I was curious about the middle name part. I recall asking Al, why are we giving our son a middle name when you’ve always said you don’t have one? I don’t remember the answer I received, or if he deigned to give an explanation, but “Jr.” it was, with the addition of Pellegrino inserted between his given name and the Capone surname. As you can see in the graphic above, Al wasn’t exactly precise regarding the family names he chose for our children. Sure, our kid’s given names are similar to those of Al’s family of origin, but why not just accept and embrace his family names already in existence if it was so critical to him that our two were named for his own relatives rather than my family’s or alternative options? I never asked that obvious question back at the time because this information, like so much other material, was just revealed to me in late 2020 following the birth of this blog?

Somewhere in this messy, messy story and the maze of my past 30+ years as well as my children’s entire lives, there has to be an explanation for the never-ending questions and falsehoods which Al brings to the table, but what is it? Where is the truth, and will I ever get the answers that might provide closure? Probably not.

This next snippet of a stanza from The Staple Singer’s song, “Respect Yourself” is what I think about when I consider the past and my lack of knowledge as well as a backbone. God willing, that chapter of my story is closed for good.

 Respect yourself, respect yourself, respect yourself, respect yourself
If you don't respect yourself
Ain't nobody gonna give a good cahoot, na na na na
Respect yourself, respect yourself, respect yourself, respect yourself

If you're walking 'round think'n that the world owes you something 'cause you're here
You goin' out the world backwards like you did when you first come here.

I DIDN’T ORIGINALLY SEE WHAT WAS IN FRONT OF ME, NOR DID I POSSESS ENOUGH SELF RESPECT TO REALIZE I DESERVED FAR MORE THAN “REVOCABLE TRUST.”

 That’s no longer the case. I pray now that Al’s kids and anyone else who has ever known what it’s like to live with such a demon, understands and can REALLY SEE that they are strong, brave, valuable and deserve far more in life than lies, manipulation, and “revocable trust.”