Not So Much… (His & Hers Part II)
With little time to spare I made the last flight out of Atlanta and back to the Brunswick Airport. It wasn’t too terribly late when I got back to Cottage 64, but after briefly visiting with and thanking my friend who had watched the kids, I was eager to catch up with Em and AJ to find out about their days and to make sure there was no major drama in my absence. Later, after saying goodnight to my “babies,” I couldn’t wait to get in the shower, wash the agonizingly long day off my body, pour myself a glass of Pinot Grigio and climb in bed to watch the white-capped waves roll in against a dark broody sky painting the vast expanse of Atlantic Ocean in front of me while still trying to shake the stress that felt as weighty as an elephant sitting on my shoulders. There seemed no way to stop the spinning in my head as I recounted the anguish-filled and interminably long day that had started at 4:00 a.m., already felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality was just now coming to a close; thank the dear Lord.
After completing the process of finalizing and “signing” my new legal counsel, I couldn’t shake the thought that Gerald, the lead attorney of my new legal team never did finish up his phone call in time to rejoin the conference room, and as such I left the meeting feeling more conflicted than I had hoped. The previous week had been so consumed with trepidation of how I might secure funds to retain an attorney to comply with the deadline for responding to the service of a “Complaint for Divorce,” I had neither the time, energy, nor even the rudimentary knowledge necessary to contemplate every little legal nuance that, like a train barreling down the tracks, was headed straight for me. As such, focused more on the obtaining of funds and feeling secure about the attorney that would represent me, I hadn’t given much thought to the jurisdictional issue in the meantime. But with the subject raised again by Shell Edwin in the sterile conference room earlier that day and considering the terseness of his rebuke, I was nervous. An hour or so later, I finally fell asleep praying that I had made my position regarding the divorce’s jurisdiction unequivocally clear to both Shell and the firm’s junior associate prior to leaving their office and Atlanta. I suppose I felt some modicum of comfort believing that nothing too threatening (at least, legally) would occur over the weekend. That said, the next two days were a welcome reprieve from all the drama and strife of the past many weeks, and I confess to basically hiding out for the entirety of the weekend. I was desperate to feel even the slightest hint of peace, and the walls of Cottage 64, particularly the indoor porch with its huge swing, temporarily provided that comfort.
FROM THE COMFORT OF THAT STURDY AND SPACIOUS SWING, I WATCHED THE CHANGING SEASCAPE IMMEDIATELY TO THE EAST OF OUR OCEANFRONT SEA ISLAND HOME WHILE PONDERING HOW THE CRASHING EBB AND FLOW OF WAVES SEEMED TO SUDDENLY RESEMBLE THE KIDS AND MY NEW LIFE.
The brief semblance of calm which the weekend provided didn’t last. Al was devolving into more of an enigma with every day that passed, and the entire situation left me feeling as though I was tiptoeing through a minefield. Not that I had any personal knowledge of what a legitimate battlefield might feel like, but God knows by that stage in life I was something of an expert at walking on eggshells. Still, this new chapter felt far more treacherous than the usual Al battles, so I substituted Al in place of the “war” part of warfare, and thus coined my new station in life as… merely “Al/fare.”
Twice a day, five days a week, at the very least, there was a greater than 50/50 chance I might bump into Al while either dropping off or collecting our son from his “makeshift homeschool” located immediately adjoining Al’s suite of temporary offices located in one of the abandoned old Cloister beachside hotel buildings, being utilized as an on-site design studio. I dreaded those occasions; in part, because I wanted to shield our young Son from the mess that our lives had become, but also because there was no predicting the “version” of my husband that may or may not appear at any given moment. The expression “fight or flight” never represented anything more intimately or intensely than the events which that experience brought to my understanding of the world. It felt as though my entire nervous system was operating at breakneck speed, 24/7. Peace may have been non-existent, but the lack of it was more than likely, contributing to my rapidly shrinking frame. Going from a size ten to a two in less than seven weeks, might have been considered a perk of my current circumstance, but at the time, I’d have gladly traded the new size two rather than be mired in the dumpster-type fire that was burning my kid’s and my life down.
The next several weeks only delivered more of the same… a battery of excruciatingly tough lessons; relentless sucker punches that just kept on coming, and while admittedly I was never a great student, there’s a better than decent chance I should have caught on to the ominous conundrum that was my husband much sooner. Between Al’s refusal to acknowledge, much less address the veracity of Emily’s Labor Day disclosure, to his incessant mood swings, the too often volatile behavior, or the (extremely) occasional but “pathetic puddle of a man” who would softly, haltingly, avert his gaze and proclaim, “how sorry he was,” my life presented as a constant and frantic struggle to keep my head above water.
Nevertheless, except for the stress of being in a financial “no-man’s land” and the terrifying prospect of an unknown future, I guess you could say I had an easier go of it than the kids. At least, I could cocoon myself within the walls of Cottage 64 and screen the people I felt comfortable being around or not. The kids weren’t afforded that luxury. While our Son had the safe and protective presence of “Miss Donna” during his school day, he was otherwise treated like an outcast during team sport activities or other social situations with peers. Similarly, Emily had to endure judgment, gossip, bullying, and the haughty spiteful behavior from a set of “stepford-esque” Franklin Academy students who were obviously privy to every intimate detail of our very new life circumstance. It was more than a little apparent that the kids (or grandkids) of several local lawyers, specifically Al’s new legal team weren’t terribly respectful of the concept of attorney/client privilege.
HOW ANY JUDICIAL SYSTEM COULD SO MISCONSTRUE THE MALFEASANCE EVIDENCED IN THIS ONE SPECIFIC LAWSUIT (“LEAGLE” - 854 F.SUPP.2D 134 [2010]”) TO RULE IN FAVOR OF THE NAMED DEFENDANT TWO YEARS AFTER HE WAS MADE A JUDGE IN THE SAME COUNTY IS STILL MIND-BOGGLING? OH BUT NO… OF COURSE, THAT MAKES PERFECT SENSE. LOOK NO FURTHER THAN THE GEORGIA COUNTY WHERE THE LAWSUIT OCCURRED; IT’S BEEN SWIMMING IN SCANDAL FOR DECADES. THAT BOTH THE DEFENDANT AS WELL AS HIS LEGAL COUNSEL WERE BOTH AL’S DIVORCE ATTORNEYS, THEN SUBSEQUENTLY JUSTICES IN THE SAME COUNTY SEEMS A TAD SUSPECT, BUT, MAYBE THAT’S JUST MY TAKE? I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT JUDICIAL CANONS FROWN UPON SUCH BEHAVIOR, AND THEN I REMEMBER THAT ONE REBA SONG ABOUT THE LIGHTS GOING OUT IN GEORGIA, SO THERE MUST BE SOMETHING THERE, THERE?
My heart broke seeing that people could be so cruel, tormenting my kids for merely being caught in the middle of a contentious separation/divorce. To whomever may have previously said or would dare suggest that divorce can and should be civil, even friendly, and that kids aren’t necessarily impacted by the ugliness and deception divorce creates… that’s just CRAP. You’ve obviously never divorced an individual like Al Capone. Based on my experience, having been on the receiving end of Al’s malicious manipulations for close to two decades, he couldn’t care less about who was caught in the crosshairs of his ire, even his own children. If Al or his immediate needs, desires, and goals were at risk or in question, that’s all he saw.
Still, in between dealing with the day-to-day fear and frustration of my new life, I found a sliver of solace knowing that I had secured a highly recommended divorce attorney. That one simple piece of assurance provided a much-needed confidence boost, at least temporarily. Over the next days and weeks, not much changed. I continued prioritizing my job as a mom, doing my best to compartmentalize, while keeping up with the legal and peripheral damage being exacted by Al and his crew of crazy makers. Vacillating between anger and disbelief at how deftly the “good ol’ boy” network in that part of the world circled the wagons to protect their own and dictate what “justice” looks like, was an experience and schooling like none other. And because I was no longer considered one of the “cool kids” on Sea Island, I watched the goings-on from the lens of a fresh perspective, understanding the disparity with which “the have and the have nots” (aka, the in-spouses and the out-spouses) were treated in that tiny corner of the world.
The “greater good” required to protect the enormity of the old Island Company, as well as the “arse” that was the inept director of their kingdom (Bubba III) meant that Al’s position and connections both within and outside the company, as well as his position on the Board of Directors, trumped any goodwill our kids and I may have earned. Any ill will within the company hierarchy which may have lingered from the proverbial “toes” or feelings Al stepped on prior to the divorce filing, instantaneously disappeared. Al’s link to the “Master Plan” and a secure future for the community meant the kids and I were expendable. Who knows how far the tentacles of that “machine” reached or the covert dirty dealing that was being done? I didn’t. I also had no idea at the time the extent of damage which would strike the original Sea Island Company within a couple years; only time and karma would bear that out. It never occurred to me back then that there might have been any connection between the two demises, both our family’s and the Island’s. And while I’m still not 100% certain of the exact tie and chains linking the two, if I were a gambling kind of gal, I’d place a hefty bet that my supposition about the fraud and corruption is spot on, one way or another.
OKAY MISSY, TRY TO FORGET THE FACT THAT 414 SAINT ANNIES LANE WAS ALLOCATED TO THE UMBRELLA OF AL’S OWNERSHIP, EVEN IF NOT DISCLOSED TO ME. BUT ENOUGH WITH THE TIN FOIL CONSPIRACY THEORIES… MOVE FORWARD AND FOCUS!
As the days and weeks progressed, I found myself spending staggering amounts of time at the local St. Simon’s Business Center; sometimes it felt like I was there for as many daytime hours as I spent at home. Between copying, faxing, and exchanging documents back and forth as requested by my legal team, but minus the requisite machinery at home, Austin’s help as owner of the local “Fed Ex/UPS” executive service was a Godsend. Together with his wife, who also worked at the center, we became fairly well acquainted. They were so kind, even offering me a workspace and lockable file drawer designated as my own within the center. Soon, it became commonplace for them to text me when documents arrived via facsimile or Fed Ex, and I was beyond appreciative of the unexpected yet extraordinary consideration they extended. Plus, it was a relief to go someplace where Al wasn’t known. In that tiny part of the world, that was a novelty for sure. Austin and Denise may have been vaguely aware of Al’s connection with Sea Island and all the development being designed by my ex, but the pair appeared almost embarrassed when they confessed to me one day, well into our “Al-fare” legal battle, to never having seen Al or knowing exactly what he did. That type of anonymity amidst a sea of tumultuous events in a community that was the equivalent of a fishbowl felt overwhelmingly strange but wildly comforting in a way that I don’t believe is understandable unless you’ve been there.
A couple weeks later, my birthday rolled around. I was beyond shocked when my cell rang early that morning around 6:30 a.m. to hear Al’s voice saying, “Mizz, I wanted to be the first to wish you a Happy Birthday.” Happy isn’t the adjective I would have used for that occasion, or the next few years, but on another note, I had my kids, a.k.a., my salvation, who each designed and wrote loving, personal birthday cards, which far eclipsed any jewels Al might have, traditionally presented me. Plus, my two younger siblings had flown into town a day earlier to surprise me. One of the two took my cell phone as soon as we gathered a bit later in the morning before walking the beach, vowing that for at least one complete day, there would be no talk of lawyers, the divorce, or anything else unpleasant. Dinner and the day’s end were spent at Snyders. My go-to restaurant never disappointed, delivering both an evening and celebratory birthday meal that was delightfully distracting, and between my kids and sisters the day ended on a truly upbeat note, a gift for which I was hugely grateful.
THIS PICTURE OF THE FIVE OF US SITTING IN MY FAVORITE BOOTH AT SNYDER’S REMINDS ME THAT DESPITE WHATEVER MY STATE OF MIND WAS LIKE OTHERWISE, WE STILL PIECED TOGETHER A BIRTHDAY THAT, ALBEIT A TAD UNUSUAL, WAS NOTHING IF NOT MEMORABLE.
Fast forward a week… With my birthday in the rearview window and sisters back home in California, life once again reverted to the legal landscape which had become all too familiar over the past six to seven weeks. You’d think I’d have become accustomed to the “shock and awe” series of events which had been so prolific since our return to Georgia, following our Summer at home in California? Not so. Still nothing could have prepared me for the documents I found in the manila envelope awaiting me after carefully turning the dial with the numeric combination to open P.O. Box 30008 at Sea Island’s private Post Office building. Sitting in the front seat of the G-Wagon, after retrieving the mail on the afternoon of October 17th I tentatively opened the envelope addressed to me from my new Atlanta legal counsel. My jaw dropped, eyes welled with tears, and I could feel the heat creeping up my neck turning it a deep shade of blood red, as I read the documents before me. Despite the blinding anger and disbelief raging within, I read aloud to myself the words on the page held in my shaking hands, “ANSWER TO COMPLAINT FOR DIVORCE.” Under the numeral 2. towards the bottom of the page, the brief sentence read as follows: “Defendant admits the allegations contained in Paragraph 2 of Plaintiff’s Complaint for Divorce.” WTF? Like hell I agreed to or admitted such a thing. Suddenly, my brain flashed back to the one and only meeting in Atlanta I had with my new legal counsel on Friday, September 21st, and I felt so betrayed, I couldn’t see straight. That damn, sleazy, lawyer Shell (now, unfortunately, part of my new legal team) was obviously not much different or any better than Al’s slimy, acne/pockmarked face, total shyster of an attorney. Wow… sorry, not sorry. Every word I just wrote is 100% true, but usually I attempt to temper my raw emotion with a somewhat courteous slant. Not this time. What’s worse is that the “VERIFICATION” page affixed to the top of the rest of the “ANSWER” document bore my name and signature, which was allegedly notarized on October 15th by a person I have no recollection of ever meeting, much less sitting in front of while she notarized my signature? I suppose it should come as no surprise that the Notary Stamp bore the same name as the woman who, curiously enough, just so happened to be the Paralegal and Legal Assistant for my new counsel. Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure it’s a violation of the Notary Seal ethics to affix your stamp and signature to a misdated and falsified document? Yes, the indignation and disbelief I felt bears repeating… WTF? I was trembling with fear and felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had always heard about breathing into a paper bag if you feel like you’re having a panic attack, but I didn’t have a paper bag and was due to pick my kids up from school in about 15 minutes? Forget the niceties of polite society, this situation warranted some serious venting and just like that, while backing out of the parking space to head towards my kid’s school locations, I remembered when I worked at William Morris Agency for the man who taught me how to throw a perfect football spiral through the halls of the third floor of the illustrious talent agency on El Camino Drive in Beverly Hills. The agency was “top shelf” at the time, and while I can’t remember each of the players with offices on all the various floors, I remembered plenty about the lessons I learned. So too, I remember the uber-colorful term my boss, Wheeler, used frequently and which managed to stick with me over the years. Usually reserved for times when referencing only the most treacherous of people, there was/is no better description for Al nor the plentiful assortment of bottom-feeder(s) who set me up and suckered me into the entirely untenable position I found myself at the time other than… “RAT-FUCKERS.”
Crude, yes, but warranted and completely on point, HELL YES.
I COULDN’T HELP BUT THINK IF MY MOM WERE STILL ALIVE RIGHT NOW, SHE WOULD SAY… “I TRIED SO HARD TO RAISE LADIES!”
Because I usually like to set the scene or add a musical backdrop with a type of message that mirrors each post’s theme, choosing a song which authentically portrayed the deceptive even fraudulent events committed at my expense, as well as the simple-minded followers who exacted them was a no-brainer. And while my musical taste varies widely, usually leaning country, think Eric Church, with an exception for the incomparable Frank Sinatra, Andrea Bocelli, or Boz Scaggs and Nat King Cole (all for sentimental reasons) the only artist and song which held the power to encapsulate the betrayal and darkness of the time was courtesy of the legendary Johnny Cash. The raw emotion contained within the lyrics of “Gods Gonna Cut You Down” together with the song’s cadence and Cash’s masterful delivery spoke to me and seemed to symbolize my plight perfectly.
THAT THIS MESS OF LEGAL CRAP, CONSUMED A GOOD PORTION OF MY KID’S AND MY LIFE FOR A DECADE OR MORE IS A CAUTIONARY TALE, SO PLEASE BELIEVE ME WHEN I PLEAD WITH YOU… DO NOT EVER GIVE A LAWYER (OR ANYONE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER) THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT UNTIL THEY HAVE PROVED THEY’RE “WORTH THEIR SALT.”
YOU CAN THANK ME LATER.
That one sentence on the “ANSWER” page of legal documents combined with the totally false and fraudulent “VERIFICATION” page changed my life forever. It’s not like the a**hole who initiated the mess didn’t zealously orchestrate most of the melee, but without the deceptive, devious, and fraudulent deeds also exacted by my own freaking lawyers in addition to the Georgia legal system, my kid’s and my own life would likely look much differently today.
Not only did my divorce counsel, for whom I went into debt to retain, directly countermand my instructions and legal position with the language they used in those initial documents, “allegedly” filed on my behalf, but they also set into motion an expensive, unnecessary, and painful saga that took well over a year to unravel and contributed to the perpetuation of one of the most blatant series of lies ever told or fraud committed. Do you know the answer already or are you finding yourself wondering why my counsel might have committed such a heinous act violating the sacrosanct Attorney/Client privilege? Indulge me again, please? May I propose a direct parallel between AL’s motive for filing his COMPLAINT FOR DIVORCE in Glynn County, Georgia, rather than our home state of California, to the insidious act that MY new Georgia legal counsel had just exacted? Here it is… the oldest, potentially most cliché, incentive in the world reduced down to two words, money and control.
This subject is nowhere close to completely covered, and what I initially thought could be summed up in two posts has taken on an entirely new life. It may not be the next post I write, but this is far from finished.