His & Hers…

      CARS, COASTS, FRIENDS, & IN AL'S CASE, EVEN FACTS WERE ALL UP FOR GRABS!

Question?  When you hear the phrase “his and hers,” what comes to mind?  Do you think about towels, luggage, golf clubs, bathrobes, other such items, or something else entirely?  Per usual, I’m curious, and I’ll tell you why. My reaction to that expression is a deeply visceral one, in small part due to some (now trivial) remembrances from my upbringing, but also because for more than a decade, I expended hundreds of thousands of dollars, and countless hours engaged in legal warfare to receive what was already both duly and contractually owed me. At the time, I don’t believe I ever probed or understood the significance of just how deeply that simple phrase triggered me; I was too busy living through and surviving the process. It wasn’t until I started “DearEasyDiaries,” that the full impact of my subliminal perception and frustration surrounding those three little words… “his and hers,” truly hit me. Before we explore that though, indulge me please… again? I know there are times when I can be a teensy bit repetitive, but if you’ll bear with me, this isn’t that. If you’ve been a follower of DearEasyDiaries, some of this may sound familiar, but trust me, I’m going someplace new. If you’re not a follower, then please bear with me too; either way, I thank you all.  

REGARDLESS OF THE TIME ELAPSED, THE MOMENT WHICH THIS PHOTO REPRESENTS WILL STAY WITH ME FOREVER.

As soon as the strange man standing in the gravel driveway of Cottage 64 tossed the envelope through the driver’s side window of my car, he turned and ran off.  I opened the thin package and could feel my heart begin to race as I read the document within.  Glancing around to confirm that the man was definitely gone from sight, I opened the car door and practically ran to and through the side gate of Tabby Lane clutching the hideous Manila envelope stamped in red saying, “YOU’VE BEEN SERVED.” Locking the side entrance door of the house behind me, I walked directly through the other rooms before reaching the porch, sank into my usual spot on the swinging bench, and opened the envelope a second time to confirm that my mind wasn’t playing some sick trick on me. The papers revealed the information I read the first time was indeed real, and I just sat there staring down at the words before me.  It took me probably 10 minutes to fully digest the reality of what I was reading, but then I panicked.  All I could think of was the Lear Jet parked at nearby St. Simon’s McKinnon Airfield with the tail number N692PC.

 JUST A COUPLE WEEKS EARLIER, WE HAD FLOWN FROM CALIFORNIA FOR GEORGIA, WITH THE YUKON LEFT BEHIND, PARKED AT THE PRIVATE AIRFIELD NEAR THE SANTA BARBARA AIRPORT.

What if Al took the kids and flew home to California?  Our kids were all that filled my mind, and I had to get to them fast, making sure I was the person who delivered this news.  There was just no way they could, or should, hear it from any other source.  It had always been my job, almost exclusively, to protect and care for our two children from day one, and that innate protective drive was only heightened by the morning’s event.  However, I was also keenly aware of just how horribly shaken and unsteady I felt… sorely in need of emotional support.  If we had been home, I’d have had the security of knowing I could call upon any one of several family members but here in Georgia, I felt isolated and not sure who to call for backup?  Gut instinct kicked in, and I called Karin.  Our families had been spending more and more time together over the past several years. They had visited us in California the past three Summers, and we also spent a good deal of time together when on Sea Island.  Billy Ray, Karin’s husband, was no longer just Al’s protégé, but had successfully managed to insinuate himself up the company ladder, and was fast becoming Al’s equal in getting things done around Sea Island.  In some bizarre way, it was like a revisiting of Al’s and my kinship with Mac and Jewell, but this time Al and I were the older generation.  I dialed Karin’s number and waited anxiously until I heard her voicemail, at which point I left a trembling message, asking her to call me back.  I felt like I was going to explode if I didn’t talk to someone, so I picked up the phone again and dialed my Mom’s number in California.  It was still early there but being an early riser, she answered immediately and listened to me vent as I explained what had happened that morning. She immediately responded by offering to get on a plane that very day to provide emotional support and help with the kids, but not before she gently but firmly told me, “Al has just given you a gift, even if you don’t see that now.” We ended the conversation with me thanking her, before adding that for the time being, talking on the phone was support and comfort enough.  My focus, first and foremost, was to get to my kids.  No sooner had I hung up the landline from the call to Mom, when I saw Karin’s contact number appear on my cell and instantly picked up.  I managed to get the one crucial sentence out, before she said, “I’m on my way!”  Maybe ten to fifteen minutes later there she was standing at the side door leading to the kitchen.  I opened it and upon seeing the shape I was in, she enveloped me in a hug and said simply, “what can I do?”  I explained my concern about the kids, to which Karin in her easy Southern drawl, but “Steel Magnolia” style, said simply… “let’s go, I know exactly what to do.  I’ll drive; you call AJ’s teacher and Franklin Academy. We’ll go pick the kids up first, and then we’re going to go clean out all your bank accounts and make sure you have a reserve fund for whatever comes next.”  I was so incredibly relieved and bolstered by her strength that I relaxed for a moment, but then tensed up once more as soon as she followed up on her first statement and asked “which banks have your accounts?  Apparently, I was short on both filter and pride as I answered, saying “we don’t have ANY joint accounts.  Al has everything solely in his name.  My only resource is a monthly allowance that gets wired from Al’s bank at the direction of his secretary into my sole account at the local Island Credit Union.” Karin’s facial expression was a dead giveaway, and her disbelief was easy to read, but after hesitating briefly, she added “what about credit cards; we can go max out the cash limit on those?” “We don’t have any joint credit cards either,” I answered.  “Nothing has my name on it… no accounts, no credit cards, no properties, no trusts…nothing. ALL of our assets are in Al’s control.”  So much for the concept of “his and hers.” I knew Karin’s look of pained shock wasn’t intentional, but it was also not subtle and confirmed everything that I might have ever feared, consciously or subconsciously.  It was a terrifying fact but provided validation that my efforts and contributions over the past 18 years had no tangible value and would not provide for any financial security. That alarming reality was in stark contrast to the perceived “image” of the family and life we had built together, but was instead merely a façade for public consumption. Al’s often mercurial temper and tendency to denigrate, even attack, underlings within the Sea Island management hierarchy had been frequently overlooked in part due to the lovingly supportive picture painted by the kid’s and my constant presence by Al’s side as well as all the volunteer work, fundraising efforts, entertaining, and other goodwill the kids and I had garnered within the community.  True, Al’s value as “master planner” and vast facilities designer for all the Sea Island Company developments was not just undeniable but enormously lucrative, however the “currency” which our kids and I lent to the equation had always been an integral factor contributing to our tenure at Sea Island, or so I thought. Reality dictated that the painful truth symbolized by the financial arrangement Al insisted on maintaining throughout our marriage revealed the actual story of our 18-year relationship. The only solace to be found at that moment was the comfort I felt knowing I had two wonderful children, also a result of the same 18 years.  Those two precious humans were worth every moment of effort and care that I had expended for close to two decades.   

Those were the tangled mess of thoughts and emotions circling wildly in my mind as Karin backed her Suburban out of the Tabby Lane driveway before proceeding to make the left turn onto Sea Island Drive as we headed to pick up the kids. AJ’s pick-up was first as he was closest, but after driving over the short strip of Sea Island causeway, we made another left and drove down Frederica Road to Demere and on to Franklin Academy for Emily.  With my two children safely ensconced in the car and my care, the racing in my heart slowed a bit. The calm didn’t last long as both kids were demanding to know what was happening. I slowly and carefully started to explain the reality of what occurred earlier that morning. 

As only the ticking of time, a corrupt legal system, and a pathologically manipulative narcissist can engineer, the experiences which flooded the following year and beyond served as one stunningly frightening reminder after another of the disparity between the “his and hers” that exist in our world.  Whatever the circumstances may be, and whether the conflict is power driven, personally driven, politically driven, or any combination thereof, make no mistake… the “his and hers” concept which contributes to identifying and then labeling someone as an “outspouse” means you are vulnerable. With few to no individual financial resources within reach, both you, as well as any dependents, are at risk!

WITH CLOSE TO 47,000 SCREENSHOTS SAVED ON MY DEVICES, IT'S HARD TO KNOW THE SPECIFIC SOURCE OF THIS THOROUGH EXPLANATION, BUT THANK YOU TO WHOMEVER IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS HELPFUL LITTLE NUGGET OF INFORMATION.

 I’VE TALKED ABOUT THE TERM AND THE STATE OF BEING AN “OUTSPOUSE” MANY TIMES BEFORE, BUT THIS MORE DETAILED ILLUSTRATION OF WHAT THE TERM ENTAILS IS AS COMPLETE AS I’VE SEEN TO DATE, AND I THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE OKAY TO REITERATE THE CONCEPT, PARTICULARLY SINCE THE LAST TWO PORTIONS ARE SO SPOT-ON?   

Some of the whys for how an “outspouse” may come to find themselves in the position outlined above are interesting considerations. Under a normal set of circumstances and/or in a healthy relationship, being designated the outspouse might not be a big deal?  There are probably plenty of couples who operate this way and make it work. The same, however, could not be said of my coupling with Al. Our relationship and marriage only lasted as long as it did because, as my ex frequently used to say (and I quote) “you’re a non-pain in the ass,” (although I doubt he says that any longer) or as I would confess myself… I was naïve, gullible, considerably younger, trusting, hopeful, and an optimistic dreamer who accepted the terms presented me… and most importantly because of the two beautiful humans I bore.

Still, it would be disingenuous of me to pretend that prior to the divorce service, there weren’t issues in our marriage; there were plenty. More divisive occasions than I could ever have imagined or counted occurred. Situations that I overlooked, let go of, or didn’t take seriously enough, but which should have raised red flags, happened frequently. If you’ve followed DearEasyDiaries at all, you know a bit of what I’m talking about. For instance, knowing your husband has next to no physical attraction to you, unless I acquiesced to his numerous pleas for my hair to be cut as short as a man’s should have stirred some doubt about his sexual preferences? However, back then I didn’t put two and two together. And while I would prefer to think my reactions to such instances were attributed to any one of the several adjectives I cited above to describe my motivation… now, I just shake my head and curse myself for having been duped so badly. But duped, deceived, and defrauded I was. That’s not a proud statement, nor one of victimhood; it’s simply the truth. On the other hand, I wasn’t totally clueless. As such, and another truth be told, I spoke to a number of divorce attorneys over the years, but I was never brave enough to pull the trigger; that’s on me.  I spoke to some heavy hitters too; names like Wasser, Hennenhoffer, Anteau, among others, were all contacts kept in a small tablet hidden in my old black iron “Love Letter” lockbox stashed in my closet. Those names, numbers, and the lockbox didn’t do me much good when I really needed the help though. I had disregarded the recommendation of the last attorney I spoke to, just weeks before our lives exploded. When I say “our,” I’m referring to the kids and me. After Em’s revelation, leading to the discovery of Al’s deception and my subsequent request that he leave Cottage 64, Al (merely a few blocks away staying in the Black Banks River residence which was recently finished and furnished) alternated between behaving like a wounded bird or an impervious emperor, and the personality shifts/mood swings happened as quickly as one might flip a light switch. It was monumentally challenging at best to navigate those weeks and months during the preliminary legal onslaught, but there was no alternative. Al drew first blood, and I had no choice but to defend myself. There’s a lesson to be taken from my experience though, and I hope it may be helpful, if even for just one person. Here goes… If you have even the slightest whiff that something is amiss or worse in your relationship or marriage, something that makes the little hairs on the back of your neck stand up and tingle (not in a good way) don’t hesitate, just act. Joan Baez once said, “Action is the antidote to despair.” Copy that. Being on the receiving end of the “first cut” puts you on the defensive, period. And believe me, nobody knows better than lawyers, particularly the unscrupulous, good ole boy types in Georgia, how to quickly, and thoroughly demoralize someone, should you become a target in their crosshairs. Because Glynn County, Georgia has (or had) this little thing called “The Green Sheet” which is distributed weekly to all professionals and business owners/managers in the county, Al and his attorneys saw to it that his filing for divorce made the headline of the Green Sheet that week. That kind of public humiliation can be pretty darn debilitating. Every busy body in the County, especially the wife and kids of one of Al’s attorneys, a truly slimy creep, now also a judge in Glynn County, knew the salacious details of our lives, often before my kids and I did. However, playing dirty was/is one of Al’s special talents, as I would continue to experience for the next decade plus.

IT'S TOUGH TO TELL FROM THIS IMAGE, BUT THE DOCUMENTED "ASSIGNED VALUE OF $3900.00," WHICH AL ALLEGEDLY SOLD LOTS 6 & 10 KINGS POINT FOR TO THE SEA ISLAND COMPANY IS SUSPECT... AT BEST, BUT IT SURE HELPED "CLEAN UP" AL'S NEED TO DISCLOSE ANY AND ALL FINANCIAL TRANSACTIONS DURING AN AUTOMATIC STAY.  

I SUPPOSE THESE “INTRIGUING” REAL ESTATE TRANSFERS, THEIR TIMING, AS WELL AS THEIR “DOCTORED” VALUES” ELIMINATED THE NEED TO DISCLOSE ITEMS WHICH AL WOULD RATHER NOT HAVE HAD TO INCLUDE IN THE “HIS AND HERS” DISCUSSION? AND WHAT’S MORE, THE TRANSACTIONS SEEM TO INDICATE THAT NOT ONLY THE “SEA ISLAND COMPANY” BUT PERHAPS A BANK OFFICER OR TWO MIGHT HAVE BEEN COMPLICIT IN THE DECEPTION?

See what I mean? The property exchanges outlined above… dirty deeds!  AC/DC nailed that concept with their tune, “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap,” and believe me when I say it’s neither fun nor fair when those deeds are exacted at your expense. The key to surviving that type of lawfare/warfare is to never give up. I may have gotten beaten, and badly, from time to time, but I continued to fight and face whatever came my way.

To that end and by some bizarre stroke of luck or maybe divine intervention, it turns out I did have access to an asset which the bank said they would be willing to consider, allowing me to obtain a loan towards the payment of a lawyer’s retainer fee, at least in part. It was the Temporary Parking Permit that I showed earlier in this post which prompted my discovery. My Mom went to retrieve the Yukon after we left Santa Barbara that Sunday afternoon following the dog show, and it remained parked in her driveway. While racking my brain to come up with any asset I might parlay into collateral to obtain a loan, I remembered seeing the Registration slip in the glove box earlier in the Summer. I have no recollection how it came to pass, but the Yukon was the sole vehicle of the seven to eight “drivers” we possessed which bore my name on the registration, as an officer of Al’s company, “Valley Classic Autos” which also came as news to me. After calling Mom to confirm that my memory was accurate, I asked if she’d “Fed Ex” a copy of the registration to me?  The following day after Fed Ex delivered the package to Cottage 64, I quickly drove the short distance to the credit union at the end of Sea Island’s causeway and presented the document to the bank’s manager for consideration. That one factor enabled me to obtain a loan from the Sea Island Credit Union that would partially fund a retainer for the attorney whom I was scheduled to meet over dinner that evening. As it turns out, it wasn’t just several Sea Island management employees which Al had managed to alienate. The staff and manager of the credit union where my own individual account was located also felt tremendous disdain for my then husband and were more than eager to facilitate my request with appropriate collateral. I believe the kindly gentleman who managed the bank took pity on me knowing that in a matter of days, I had backslided from being the wife of a major player in the notorious Sea Island hierarchy to the position of a very publicly humiliated “outspouse.” The weeks and months which followed felt akin to what I imagine must be similar to a goldfish swimming furiously within the confines of a glass bowl, desperate to escape the staring and poking of people on the outside.

THE PANIC AND FRUSTRATION I FELT BATTLING NOT JUST THE MENDACITY OF THE MAN TO WHOM I’D BEEN MARRIED, BUT OBVIOUSLY NEVER REALLY KNEW, FOR CLOSE TO TWO DECADES IN ADDITION TO TAKING ON THE CORRUPT LEGAL & JUDICIAL SYSTEM IN GLYNN COUNTY, GEORGIA WAS NOT JUST OVERWHELMING, BUT DEMORALIZING.

I know my propensity for making musical references can be a bit much, but there are just so many songs which portray the wide variety of experiences I’ve endured to a “T.” Hence, song lyrics are an easy “go-to” when trying to paint the picture I hope my writing communicates. Anyways, that entire experience lends new gravity to the lyrics from Tracy Lawrence’s, “Find Out Who Your Friends Are.”  If you’ve ever heard or know the words to that song, you might remember a few of the lines which say… “Somebody’s gonna drop everything, Run out and crank up their car, Hit the gas and get there fast, Never stop to think “What’s in it for me?” I knew that I had a couple of those “gems” on my side, but it was disheartening to watch the way some people, who I’d previously thought well of, quietly, but pointedly, distanced themselves. They weren’t just creating distance from me, but the whole equation. It was like they had absolutely no backbone, nor soul, and didn’t dare risk their reputation, or “standing within the Island community” by showing loyalty to a person, and even kids, who had always been nothing but nice. Those were tough lessons; a type of schooling I didn’t care to receive but happened regardless. There were also a few who went out of their way to relay their support, like sharing the information with pertinent notes, disclosed within Glynn County’s Green Sheets, unfazed by the purported “power and authority” of my ex. To all those people who demonstrated the bottom line and gist of Tracy Lawrence’s tune, I’ll be forever grateful. To the others, the spineless; I suppose I should thank you too… you taught me that counterfeit people absolutely do exist in one’s circle at certain times and to be more wary in the future.

One thing I didn’t count on was how much larceny could be committed in plain sight and by very public yet unexpected sources. Many more similar discoveries would appear on the horizon. Later that day after obtaining formal loan authorization, I readied myself for the dinner meeting that I scheduled with one of the named partners in a well-known Atlanta law firm. Stein & Edwin was the firm referred to me when I called the last California attorney to whom I had spoken, in a complete panic after the most recent events unfolded. The Los Angeles based counsel was polite when I relayed the new development, but I could detect the subliminal “I told you so” in the words he didn’t say. A part of me understood his reserved manner. I had not availed myself of his very generous offer to initiate the dissolution process in California without receiving a retainer up front. As I would learn throughout the next few months, his gracious display was not a typical courtesy offered an outspouse. So too, the referral he proposed I follow up with next was appreciated, and this time, with no hesitation I acted quickly. Mr. Stein was an absolute gentleman when we spoke on the phone and his strong, decisive, but kindly manner put me at ease in spite of a situation that was anything but pleasant. Shortly before our phone conversation concluded, we scheduled a meeting for Friday in Atlanta, just three days off, but he also suggested that I meet with his partner, who happened to be in the St. Simons area for a court hearing the next day in Brunswick with another client the firm had from that same coastal community.  As such, I placed a call to the other partner Mr. Edwin, who agreed to meet with me that evening.

It was with extreme trepidation that I prepared for the dinner meeting in store that evening. Snyders, my favorite restaurant, had the table I requested reserved and because it was a quiet corner booth, I knew that any legal conversation exchanged would not be fodder for errant ears. Over the past many days, I had managed to get a preemptive read on the “his and hers” within the small coastal community who weren’t on Al’s list of henchmen. Snyder’s owner was one of them. Because every cell in my body was being activated by fear, I also arranged for a long-time friend/babysitter, who by then had a couple kids of her own, to bring pizza for the kids and hang out with them while I met with my prospective new counsel. The Lear had been in and out of McKinnon Airport recently, and I wasn’t about to leave my kids home alone with the possibility that Al was on the Island. I was painstakingly careful with my choice of wardrobe too and chose a black pencil skirt with a black Cashmere turtleneck. Nothing frivolous or too showy, but I did add my “Gogo” gold Starfish necklace with the Onyx beads and matching gold Starfish earrings for an empowering reminder that I was confident and could handle whatever might come my way. That was totally NOT what I felt on the inside, but this was an important dinner, and I had no idea what to expect, which meant I needed to feel as comfortable in my own skin as possible, and the little details are what do that for me.  The turtleneck would hide the red rash that always creeps up my neck when I’m nervous, the black clothing lent an air of dignity and seriousness, the black, high-heeled, Bruno Magli pumps (usually reserved for funerals) were comfortable and classy, while the jewelry added a much-needed reminder that I wasn’t some “sad-sack, charity case.”  We had agreed on the phone that I would pick Mr. Edwin up from his coastal hotel on St. Simon’s, so that we might meet prior to arriving at the restaurant which could potentially prove awkward. When he stepped up and into the G-Wagon, I was relieved to be driving so I had the steering wheel to clench with my sweaty and shaking hands, rather than fumbling around with the same telltale nervous shakiness I’d have had as a passenger. He was an obviously self-assured, even egotistical man, but his fondness for the sound of his own voice took a measure of pressure off me. At one point during dinner, Mr. Edwin, who upon initially getting into my car suggested I use his first name Shell, told me his other local client, due to appear in court the next morning, had been going through the dissolution process for three plus years thus far. I’m not sure when I’ve ever felt more relieved to have chosen the damn turtleneck, as I knew all the anxious panic within me was surely turning my neck every shade of crimson. There was no way I could sustain this incredibly tenuous situation for one year, much less three. WTF?

We parted that evening after Shell said he would arrange for his return to the hotel on his own; apparently he wanted to stay for a cocktail at the Snyder’s bar. I remember climbing back into the G-Wagon alone, drained and relieved the evening was over, but with tears running down my face. How was I going to get through whatever it was that awaited me, but more importantly how was I going to be strong for my kids when I felt more like a jellyfish than the Starfish hanging from my neck?

Three days later, in a similar type of “serious business get-up,” I found myself at a BBQ joint having lunch with Mr. Stein (or Gerald, as by then we were on a first name basis), Shell, and their associate attorney, George Grant. Atlanta temperatures in September at an outdoor food establishment were not terribly pleasant nor conducive to the costume I wore. Another turtleneck to hide my anxiety, but this time paired with slacks rather than a skirt, and begging for some serious A/C, not the exterior picnic table situated on a small slab of cement in the 89-degree climate where we sat making small talk.  Total nightmare, but at least I had the good sense to wear my hair back while getting ready earlier that morning, so I wouldn’t return to their offices looking like a total fright complete with stringy swamp hair from the humidity, just as I was expected to close our attorney/client relationship. Thankfully it was a fairly brief lunch, and roughly 45 minutes later we re-entered their legal suite which occupied an entire floor of office space, and I instantly felt both the cool and soothing presence of air-conditioning. As I was ushered into a well-appointed, but sterile conference room, I felt the intense pressure of the situation and was compelled to speak frankly. I was right in the middle of saying I intended to challenge the Georgia jurisdiction over our divorce because that wasn’t our “real” home nor the proper venue for any further action when Shell stood up and said quite forcefully, “Oh no, THIS (meaning Georgia) is exactly where your divorce will be handled. Your kids go to school here, your husband is employed here, and you were served here. Done.” Gerald had stepped out just moments earlier to take an important call (again, WTF) and thus far both he and the junior associate, George, were far preferable to Shell, so once more I felt completely unnerved. I tried to explain how our home was in California. Georgia was business, and while we had properties, a history, and some friends there, that was NOT our home. I went round and round with Shell about that point for a good five to ten minutes before he said, “fine, just sign these few documents, so we can file the appropriate court responses without having to fax back and forth. You already said you aren’t terribly technical and don’t email, so this will alleviate any chance of missing important court filings, as we will already have your signature.” I really wished right then that Gerald was back from his phone call because in that moment, he was my comfort level and seemed to have a better handle on Al’s and my unique circumstances, which were anything but simple, yet I also wanted to get the hell out of there and back to my kids, so I signed my name on five individual legal documents which referenced no specific item or action at all.

HUGE MISTAKE…  

ONCE AGAIN, MY GINORMOUS COLLECTION OF SCREENSHOTS PROVIDES FOR SOME QUITE ENTERTAINING, IF NOT TOTALLY BRILLIANT ANALOGIES… THIS ONE, HOWEVER, MAY BE JUST A LITTLE TOO APROPOS.

Stay tuned, more to follow in Pt. 2…