Her Roommate Returns! - FTDS

"Now, listen. Don't say anything. I've got Charlotte coming into the office to start putting things together, and I'll be at my desk in ten minutes. We'll look at the videos, and I might get a judge to spring you over the weekend if we can get the Wescott P.D. to look at what we've got.

"Just sit tight, and worst case scenario, you spend the night or maybe two nights there. But not if I can help it," he assured me.

"Well, I told the cops here in booking that I didn't do it."

Buzzy pondered that for a moment. "That's okay. You are innocent, but do not tell them anything else. If the detectives come see you, ask them for counsel. No questions without me. Whatever happens, I'll see you this afternoon. Okay?"

"Okay, Buzzy. And thanks, I know it's Saturday morning, and..."

"Stop it, kiddo. It's what you pay me for, and I'm on weekend rates. So, relax. As much as you can relax in there. It will be all right. Trust me on that."

"Okay, Buzzy."

"One other thing, David."

"What?"

"Don't be getting any jailhouse tats, okay?" I could hear the smile in his voice.

I guffawed loudly. The release of tension was incredible. And the look on the officers' faces was priceless.

If you've never been in a city jail before, especially on the weekend, make it a lifelong goal to never see the inside of the Grey Bar Hotel. It's depression and misery on steroids, especially if you didn't do anything to deserve being in there. I'd have been more at home on Neptune than in the day room of Pod-3, Wescott City Jail. The phrase, "The inmates are running the asylum," took on new meaning.

At 2:18, a jailer stepped into the room and yelled, "Pace, David T. Front and center."

He cuffed me in front and walked me outside the pod towards a smaller room, one of several near the juncture where all 4 jail pods met. The sign read, 'Interrogation E', and using a master key, he let us inside. There, two detectives and Buzzy awaited. He seated me next to my attorney and stood back beside the door.

One detective was chubby, fiftyish, prematurely grey, and sweating. The other was tall and looked like he stepped out of a fashion magazine, right down to the tasseled loafers.

The older man said, "I'm detective sergeant John Sykes, and this is Del Rosemond of the DA's office. Mr. Feingold-Sanchez has shown us your video evidence." He looked at Rosemond, smiled and snorted. "Trust me, in nearly thirty years of police work, I've never seen anything like this. You have these two dead-to-rights. I mean... it's... Tell him, Del."

Rosemond leaned forward, his fingers primly interlaced in front of him. Damned if the man didn't have manicured nails with clear gloss on them. "Mr. Pace, we have both the conspiracy and the assault on video. This includes the planning, the rationale, or more correctly the motive, the set-up and the assault!"

I must've looked surprised. He continued, "The family room camera looks into part of the kitchen. All we can think is they stepped over into that area so as to be away from the windows! Then, we have them discussing what to tell the police. It seems that Deering swears he was coming back to the home as you were departing. We've even got the 911 call and after she hung up, they discussed what they were going to do with forty-percent of your assets.'

Detective Sykes added, "This is your home, your cameras. The DA himself said this is admissible, but it will never come to trial."

Rosemond continued, "No lawyer in his right mind would take this to trial, not with this much evidence stacked against his client.

"Mrs. Pace and Mr. Deering are still at the ER, and they'll be arrested as soon as she's discharged, probably around four o'clock."

I interrupted, "Well, am I...?"

Rosemond shook his head. "We contacted Judge Steger at his home, and he is signing a writ of Habeas Corpus. It should be delivered here any minute, and you can sit in here with Mr. Feingold-Sanchez. Once the writ is served, you'll be released on your own recognizance, and the arraignment on Monday will be a formal dismissal. It's a paperwork formality."

The writ was delivered about fifteen minutes later, and I walked out a free man less than a half-hour later. With my pistol.

After Buzzy dropped me at my truck, I knew there was no point in opening my shop. Instead, I called Jennifer and update her. She was appalled at the turn of events, and in her own preciously inimitable way, she asked me: "Knowing your home is a cross between a crime scene and a brothel, where are you going to stay tonight?" Then, she added quickly, "If you're going to return home, let me know, and I'll help you clean up."

Reality came home quickly, and it made me weak kneed. I was exhausted and emotionally wrecked. Life had been confined to the moment for the last 24-hours, with no thought of the future, and it caught up to me at once.

"I'll get a hotel room. Hampton Inn and Suites is just off highway back towards..."

"Dave, no. Stay here tonight. Marcy is off with her parents, and you can take her room. Tomorrow, we can take care of your house. I open the shop in the morning at six and will be done at one."

Instead, I called Buzzy, and he had one of those home remediation companies clean up. The kitchen and downstairs bathroom were bloody. They cleaned up the bathrooms and bedrooms, which included replacing the mattresses and bedding.

At my direction, they boxed up Angie's things, and I had to be there to supervise. That's an easy statement to write, but the emotions that go with removing a person's belongings from your life are gut-wrenching. Those objects are part of them, a tangible reminder of their existence in your life. Once removed, even their absence is a painful reminder, a tangible legacy of treachery and betrayal. Like taking a Band-Aid off a wound, it's better to do it in one fast rip. Quick and done.

On Buzzy's advice, I paid the storage for two years. He was thinking about my liability as well as ensuring that we could keep her away from my house if the order of protection he filed was ever lifted. After the fact, certain comments made by the presiding divorce judge indicated my actions likely earned me some good will.

I stayed at Jennifer's both Saturday night and Sunday night. Marcy returned Sunday, and I slept on the sofa. After the insanity of the previous Tuesday through Saturday, just relaxing and taking it easy with Jennifer was the perfect respite. Moreover, for the first time in months, maybe years, life felt peaceful, drama-free.

A wife who subsisted on living in the crackling, visceral moment fed a simmering, tense undercurrent. I'd unwittingly learned to accept and live with this, and it had become part of the 'white noise' of our life together. Only when it was gone, did I notice the peace and serenity in its place.

Jennifer. The only way to explain her is that she'd certainly dropped from the heavens. Did we have a future? Who knew at that point in time? Certainly, we could sort of tread water and get better acquainted until my life with Angie was sorted out. And this larger-than-life, golden-haired goddess was perfectly fine with that.

As if reading my mind, she squeezed my hand and said, "Day at a time, Dave. Just a day at a time! I'm not going anywhere."

------------------------------

On leaving the hospital, Angie was arrested and charged with conspiracy to defraud, tampering with/filing a false police report, tampering with evidence, lying to a police officer in an official investigation and falsifying an official record. The latter was when she signed the complaint. These were both felony and misdemeanor offenses.

Clark Deering was charged with conspiracy to defraud and tampering with/filing a false police report, tampering with evidence, and lying to a police office in an official investigation. Again, both felony and misdemeanor charges.

Frantically, my wife tried to protect her lover from the assault and battery charge. Since Clark beat Angie at her request, she wanted him spared. The only opinion that counted, the District Attorney's, mattered: yes, he was reluctant, but Clark still went through with it.

I see that as plain old Karma. He came into my home, fucked my wife, fell into her web and followed her lead all the way to his doom. Sucks to be you, Clark Deering!

As Rosemond predicted, they pled out, and the DA was only too happy to oblige. It saved the State time and money, and I thankfully didn't have to testify. Nobody in their right mind would welcome dragging that dirty laundry though open court.

Angie pled guilty to the conspiracy to defraud, tampering with an official document and lying to police. She ended serving 15-months in the county jail and 24-months of supervised probation. She was out in a year on good behavior. Not only was she a model prisoner, but she worked in the on-site GED program helping others.

Clark also pled down to conspiracy to defraud, tampering with an official document and lying to police. He pled no contest to the assault and battery. He ended up doing 30-months of a 2--5-year sentence at TDJC with the balance of his sentence on supervised probation. Clark was also a changed man, and at his parole hearing, he resolved never to see Angie again, unless she was in his read-view mirror.

The Divorce

Just because your spouse is under indictment or incarcerated, doesn't mean they have no rights in the divorce. Fiction gets that wrong. Until you're divorced, marital assets are still community property, and even with the terms of the prenuptial staring her in the face, Angie still hired both a decent divorce attorney and a criminal defense attorney with her half of "our" joint funds. Legally, you're married until the judge declares you aren't.

Once she made bail, Angie moved into a garage apartment belonging to the owner of The Painted Lady, where she continued working. This was mainly due to the order of protection which kept her and Clark at least 500' from me or our residence.

Early on, my accountant presented the court with a list of our marital assets, the size of which even surprised me. The court would determine which assets were community property. Angie's lawyer, through the discovery process, searched our assets and presented their list. Included on both lists was my extensive stamp collection, much of it acquired before marriage, along with the inventory in my store. We knew it was undervalued as reported, because much of it had not been appraised since the items were purchased. The court appointed an expert to separate those philatelic items not subject to community property laws and determine a fair value of said items which were.

The report was a classic good news/bad news scenario. The good news was that the community property portion came to right at a million dollars, a lot more than I anticipated. But the total value of the collection including the non-applicable items, was twice that amount! Locked in my safe, many of the collectibles had quietly appreciated like crazy! The bad news, is Angie got 10% of the applicable assets.

Like everything in our legal system, we ended up in a compromise on the value of the philatelic assets, which neither side liked. The cost of fighting it wasn't worth the difference it would make.

The home was mine, but Angie was awarded 10% of the appreciation value, which came to about $25K in just under three years. Thank the damn Californians moving to central Texas for that!

When everything was tallied, totaled, valuated, depreciated, appreciated and extrapolated, the two sides placed different values on our applicable community property. The two sides' claims differed by $91K. Of course, both were backed up with piles of paperwork. The judge split the difference, but not right down the middle. Surprisingly, the value set by the court on the assets that were considered community property subject to court-ordered disposition, at $2,315,285! My accountant sighed in relief. Buzzy bit his lip and looked down fighting the urge to smile. Angie's side ground their teeth. Her lead counsel snapped a pencil, which got a withering look from the judge. He declared a 20-minute recess to allow passions to cool.

My attorney pulled me into a quiet branch hallway opposite the court rooms. "David, be happy. We figured the real, no-shit worth of the applicable community property was closer to two-point-six, maybe seven. I think this old judge cut you a break based on the adultery filing and because you've been decent to Angie," Buzzy said lowly. Then, in typical attorney-speak, he added, "But don't quote me on that."

So, when court reconvened, Buzzy smilingly agreed, and under the terms of the prenuptial agreement, my cheating-ass wife walked away with slightly under $231,600. Of course, part of her legal fees, interim living expenses and hiring of the philatelic expert diminished her share some. And once the divorce was final, her ongoing legal fees were all on her. But for a marriage of less than three years, she banked about eight grand a month. Had their frame-up worked, it would have been 40%, and instead of Clark having the ag-assault record and doing jail time, it would've been me.

Before divorce was final, Angie reported to the county jail to begin serving her sentence. So, at the final divorce hearing, I expected her to show up in orange. Instead, my wife wore a gray pantsuit and red blouse she'd bought just before last Christmas for my cousin Ruby's annual party. It was a little loose on her, and I could see dark circles under Angie's pretty brown eyes. Her make-up was neat but very basic.

Part of me was glad that her decisions seemed to be roughly and steadily kicking her ass, but I was also sad that we had come to this end. Angie's lawyer whispered something to Buzzy, and my lawyer huddled close to me for privacy.

"Angie wants to talk to you before we get started." I started to pull away, but he held onto my arm. "Says she wants to get something out in the open."

"She's not talking me out of..."

"No, David. That's not it." Buzzy's eyes softened as he lowered his attorney mask. "Sounds like Angie's conscience is hurting her."

I looked up at the policewoman who was her escort from the jail. "With her present?" I asked loud enough for both Angie and her lawyer to hear. My wife nodded to her counsel.

The policewoman led us into a small anteroom next to the judge's chambers, and she watched us through the door's small viewing panel.

Angie sat across the small table from me. The tension and the hard eyes I'd come to see as part of her, were gone. For a fleeting moment, I recognized the woman I'd met, gotten to know, and fell in love with in the beginning of our relationship. Sadly, there was little to no feeling left in me, except for pity. Even the anger was gone. I felt only sadness for what she'd done to both of our lives.

"Dave," she licked her lips nervously, "I've regretted what I did a thousand times. There is absolutely no excuse for my actions. I can't blame it on the alcohol or a momentary lapse in judgment. It wasn't. What I did was cold and calculated. I felt I was owed something, and I still can't tell you why.

"I've been seeing a counselor, and she even comes to jail for sessions. If you haven't already figured it out, my life has always been one without boundaries or limits. I'm now having to learn those, and in jail, it's definitely the school of hard knocks." She looked away and composed herself. Angie shook her head sadly, looked up and continued, "I'm sorry, Dave. I am so, so sorry." Her eyes glistened with tears. "You didn't deserve any of the shit I did.

"As part of discovery, my lawyer got all the surveillance video." She chuckled derisively. "When I got over being angry with you for putting those cameras in the house, I thought about my actions, my words and my fucked-up thinking. Shit, what WAS I thinking? Was I even thinking?

"Watching myself do and say all those horrible things, I was couldn't lie, misremember or view something in a different context. It wasn't possible to explain it away or justify.

"So, yeah, it's all on me. Every bit of it. I own it, and while I'll never be able to make it up to you, I will change and be better. I'll pay it forward, atone somehow. I owe the universe, big time." 'Her silly New Age thinking at work, but whatever brings her peace,' I thought.

Angie retrieved a tissue from her pocket, dried her eyes and wiped her nose. "So, Dave, I won't draw this out any longer. Sometimes, there's only three things a person can honestly say: I'm sorry, I love you, please forgive me. All that's right from the bottom of my heart."

When I inhaled to speak, Angie raised her hand and said, "No, Dave. I know we're finished as a couple, finished as anything, really. But as the perfect gentlemen and nice-guy you are, I know you will try to save some of my dignity. You always did know what to say. You held me up and never let me fall. I saw that as weakness, but it was real strength, and I was too messed up know it.

"So, I don't deserve your goodness, now. I stomped on it and threw it away. Even if you do forgive me, I'm still struggling to forgive myself. Now, please let me say good-bye and walk away, Dave."

I rose, and she stepped around the table and gave me a quick hug. As Angie stepped away, she added, "Take care, and find somebody who's worthy of you. I fucked up, and now I'll spend the rest of my life trying to put that behind." She nodded at the policewoman, who opened the door, and Angie walked away without looking back.

I was stunned speechless, and my emotions were bouncing off my insides like golf ball-sized hail on a metal roof. The crazy woman actually killed the anger high I was working up. She turned me from Manson to Gandhi.

The final divorce hearing was anti-climactic, as she'd destroyed my burn-the-bitch moment. You can't kick somebody who's already doing a better job at that than you could.

In the end, we just walked away from each other, as if the last few years never happened. Maybe that's how divorce is supposed to work. I recalled the Duke of Wellington, who said, "Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won." No shit, Duke.

Getting Better and Looking Ahead

After a few days feeling like I'd been emptied of all emotion, I had an epiphany. I realized that the only real human freedom is choosing how we respond to others' provocations. I chose to shake off Angie's dust, consciously look ahead at a bright future and count my many abundant blessings. The biggest blessing, by far, is my growing relationship with Jennifer. It was time to move on with life, having gained a measure of hard-won wisdom where there was none before.

Actually, Jennifer constantly reminded me that my marriage to Angie was entered into by a young, immature man, who was chasing the shadowy illusion of my long-dead mother. In that context, I was not much better for Angie than she was for me.

Now, with Jennifer, a future beckons filled with maturity, stability and abiding love. It's love that's steady, nurtured and slowly built up. Most importantly, it's a partnership with life-long fulfillment as its goal, rather than two individuals living separate lives under one roof. Having been burned badly, we both come at our relationship with a serious, "always-put-you-first" attitude. It doesn't hurt that my blonde goddess also practically cornered the market on sexy, loyal and loveable.

Epilogue

To her credit, Angie took her 10% divorce settlement and used it to get both a bachelor's and master's degree in accounting. She rebuilt herself, much of it from the ground up. Once out of prison and living on her own, she took her CPA exam and passed. But having a felony record, that was only half the battle.

The investigator I hired to check on her said that she'd jumped through some mighty tough hoops to restore most of her civil rights and qualify as a bondable CPA. Apparently, she found a company with a proven track record of providing second-chance opportunities for former criminals, and they're helping her overwrite her checkered past with a better future.