A Cheater's Trialbyimhapless©
This story contains a fictional, though fairly realistic, actual pretrial and trial scenario in a state family court in the United States. If legal drama isn't your thing you won't like it. Maybe you won't like it for other reasons too, but at least you're warned about that one!
As I watched my wife, Amy, of three years having her pussy reamed by an upper crust snob named, believe-it-or-not, Reginald, that she had dated before she married me I was glad that I had done two smart things in the past.
I needed to do something smart now, too. However, since I was devoid of a camera, my cell phone was being repaired, I had just seen Reginald bust his nut in her pussy, and Amy and I had to be at her daddy's house for dinner in less than an hour, I knew that by the time that I got a camera the photo op would be gone.
Since Reginald's car was blocking Amy's, however, I could cause them some pain and get a small amount of revenge and still be smart. With gloves on for all my related endeavors, I quickly unscrewed the valves on three of his tires, deflated them, and then restored the valves. I got a rubber mallet out of the garage and waited behind a bush.
Reginald came hurrying out of the house a few minutes later. As he swore and knelt by his right front tire, unseen I hit him on the head with the rubber mallet. I didn't hit him hard enough to kill him, but hard enough to put him out.
I removed the car keys from Reginald's pocket and threw them as far into the woods next to our house as I could -- since I was a center fielder in High School and two years in college the keys went far enough never to be found. I removed the credit cards, driver's license, and cash from his wallet -- you would thing that a rich snob would carry around more than $28 in cash, wouldn't you?
Then I wiped off the small amount of hair, tissue, and blood on the mallet with a cloth soaked in bleach, returned the mallet to the garage, and put the cloth in a plastic bag. The credit cards and license joined the rag in the bag.
With the plastic bag in hand I ran to my car, which was several hundred yards away so that Reginald could not have seen it, and drove toward dear old daddy-in-laws house at a high rate of speed.
One of the few operating pay phones left in America was at a 7-Eleven on my way. I parked at the next store over. I removed my suit jacket, put on a non-descript baseball cap and sweatshirt, and mirrored sunglasses, and then walked toward the phone. I gave a teenage girl strolling out of the store Reginald's twenty eight bucks to call 9-1-1 and anonymously report a person laying on the driveway at 15 Ridgway Terrace.
I threw the plastic bag with the rag, credit cards, and license in it, into the dumpster at the 7-Eleven. I then drove to daddy-dearest's house, arriving ten minutes early.
As you can already tell, I didn't really like daddy-dearest. He liked me -- sort of -- but only because I was the best producer at the big insurance firm that he owned. That is he liked the money that I made him.
Daddy-dearest -- his name is Chester Grimes -- was and is a rich pompous ass who has always thought that Amy was too good to marry a guy from a middle class family like Blake Bristol, yours truly. In reality if one based it upon morality rather than money I was too good for Amy and Chester.
Chester valued promptness so I called Amy on Chester's land line to find out why she wasn't there at the appointed time. She was harried and distraught when she answered the phone.
"Hi, Amy. Where are you? Your Dad is getting a little cross."
"Oh, well, uh, well, I'm sorry I'm late. Uh, well, uh there was a crime in front of our house and the police are here....Yes, officer, this is my husband Blake. No, you don't need to talk to him, do you?"
I heard some arguing in the background and obviously Amy had placed her hand over the mouthpiece. I heard the noise of the phone changing hands, then:
"This is detective Burns. Is this Blake Bristol?"
"Yes it is officer, what happened? Is my wife all right?"
"Yes, Mr. Bristol, physically she's fine. However a man named Reginald Swifton was attacked on your driveway and was taken away by ambulance and his car is just now being towed."
"What the hell was Reginald Swifton doing at my fucking house?" I screamed with indignation, loud enough to insure that the ever-proper Chester Grimes was sure to hear.
"Your wife has not really explained that to us. Perhaps you have some information about it?"
"What the fuck? He's an ex-boyfriend of hers. Maybe he just stopped by for a quickie; how the hell should I know? I hope that he got the shit kicked out of him, that asshole."
"No need to get vulgar, Mr. Bristol. Then you know nothing about why he might have been at your house, or who attacked him?"
"No, but when you find the guy tell him I'd like to buy him a beer. Can you take my wife to the hospital and get a vaginal swab to prove that Swifton's DNA is in her vagina?"
"Not unless she's willing to go," Burns answered.
"What if it was a rape and she's too afraid to tell you? Can't you make her go under those circumstances?" I feverishly asked.
"Unless she says she's been sexually assaulted, I'm sorry but I can't," Burns replied
"Will you at least take detailed photos of her to show whether there was an attack on her, such as bruising or bleeding?" I pleaded.
"Yes, we can do that," Burns replied.
"Thanks. Can you put the sl— I mean the potential crime victim, Amy, back on the phone, detective Burns?"
"Yes, although I'd like to talk to you some more tomorrow."
"By then I'll have my cell back; call me then to set up an appointment and I'll come to see you," I told him, and then gave him my cell phone number.
"Hello, Blake, honey..." Amy started to say.
"Cut the crap, Amy. I want you to go to the hospital immediately -- have detective Burns drive you -- to get a vaginal swab to see if Reginald raped you."
"No, no, where did you get that idea, Blake?"
"Well then go to prove to me that you didn't have sex with him."
"How can you accuse me of cheating at a time like this?" Amy started to cry.
"A time like what? So the bastard got assaulted. I don't give a shit about him and you shouldn't either." I yelled, and then paused for dramatic effect before I continued. "Let's put it this way, sweetheart, you either get a vaginal swab while the police witness it, before you clean yourself up, or I'm filing for divorce."
"Fuck you!" she screamed, but before she could get anything else out I hung up on her.
Chester was ashen and pissed. "What was that?" he bellowed.
"Well, Chet," I replied -- he hated being called Chet -- "your daughter has cheated on me with that asshole Reginald Swifton, so I'll be divorcing her slut ass."
When Chester got over his shock, he stammered "You can't talk to me, or about my daughter, like that; I should fire you!" The phone rang -- I knew that it was Amy so I just lifted it up and then slammed it back down.
"Will you put that in writing?" I excitedly asked, taking a pen and pad off of the kitchen counter and handing it to him. "Even though it will rip my heart out not to make money for a pompous ass like you anymore, I'll somehow survive being terminated!"
Chester stammered some more, including mumbling about what a classless ingrate I was, and how he would be glad to get rid of me, as he wrote "Blake Bristol is fired as of today..," putting in the date and signing his name.
"Thanks, shithead," I said, and then walked out the door cradling my "pink slip" with the ringing phone providing background music.
OK, I know that you're a little confused by my actions, and think that I might be a nut case; but maybe a little more information will help clear things up.
The two smart things I referred to in the first paragraph were the conditions of the pre-nuptial agreement I had with Amy and the employment contract with Chester's company, signed at the same time as the prenup. I humbled both Amy and Chester into agreeing to adding one provision to each of those contracts.
I made the prenup reciprocal; that is if either of us physically harmed the other or had sex with anyone else during the marriage then the penalties of the prenup would take effect. In my case I'd get $500,000 from her trust fund before we split our other assets 50-50. In her case she'd get 85% of the assets. If there were children -- fortunately we had none when I saw Reginald porking her -- the wronged party would get custody.
I had never even touched Amy in anger, and had never cheated on her despite ample opportunity to.
As far as the employment contract was concerned, if I was fired, or demoted so that my earnings or responsibilities were reduced by ten percent or more, then the non-compete provisions of my employment contract were voided.
I was not in the strongest position to divorce Amy for infidelity and get my due under the prenup because I had no photos or recordings that constituted definitive proof. I had suspected her for a year, though, and had gathered a significant amount of admissible evidence. That is, I did have circumstantial proof of her cheating well before the Reginald incident. My middle-class-background friend and attorney, Ron Botts, told me that the circumstantial evidence gave me a good shot if we got the right judge, and that we likely could gather some more useful information during discovery.
Ron also counseled me on what to do, and not to do, with a divorce action imminent. I was advised to avoid closing accounts, switching money or securities, cancelling credit cards, etc., until we got an order from the Court accounting for and freezing assets. Acting precipitously would look bad to the judge and prejudice our case.
As soon as I left Chester with steam coming out of his ears I bought a burner cell phone and called Ron's office. "Why are you still there at 7:00 p.m. on a Friday night?" I asked.
"Servicing helpless shits like you," he laughed back. "What's up?"
I explained the situation to him, but only from the time that I got to Chester's house. Ron had straightforward advice.
"Don't go back home tonight. Go to a hotel, get receipts, and be seen on their security cameras. Tomorrow morning a video-camera toting P. I. will accompany you back to your home, and leave a recording device there. Meanwhile I will check up on this Reginald thing. I'll initiate the divorce proceedings Monday."
I did as instructed.
The next morning, Saturday, the P I and I went to my house, the scene of the Reginald fuck. The P I went in the side door, and I went in the front door. I made noise and yelled out "Amy, I'm here to get some things then leave."
Amy quickly came down the stairs. "Where the hell do you get off accusing me of cheating and making my Dad fire you, you ass!"
"Did you get the vaginal swab?" I sarcastically asked,
"Hell no..." she started screaming before I cut her off.
"Then we have nothing to talk about; I'll get my clothes and leave."
She was so concentrated on berating me that I'm sure that Amy didn't see the P I, but he got good photos and videos of her face and exposed skin, showing no cuts or bruises.
I closed and locked the bedroom door and ignored her pounding and yelling as I packed my clothes and valuables into two suitcases. I checked the sheets for spots, but she was smart enough to have changed them -- she probably burned them or soaked them in bleach.
Once packed, without a word I walked right past her and out the front door. The P I filmed her with a telephoto lens from the car as she screamed on the outside stoop as I left. He had placed a long battery-life voice activated recorder in the kitchen when Amy and I were upstairs.
"How'd the photos and video come out?" I asked as we drove away.
"Perfectly; it's easy to see that she had no marks on her."
The placing of the voice activated recorder turned out to be a touch of genius. Later that day we caught her conversation with one of her friends, Lila Castle. Amy got Lila to punch her in the face and arms, and put small cuts on her arms and neck. After Lila did what Amy asked they both went to a clinic to have the cuts and bruises "documented," and took photos. While Amy and Lila were at the clinic the P. I. and I went back to my house to remove any other stuff I needed and to pick up the recorder.
Ron had called it perfectly. We sued for adultery on Monday; by the end of the week Amy had counter-sued for physical abuse.
About the time that the divorce papers were being served on Amy on Monday, after I had cleaned out my office and retrieved my cellphone from the repair shop, I went to see detective Burns.
"Where were you when this Reginald Swifton thing went down, Mr. Bristol?" was his first question after an exchange of pleasantries.
"It sounds like you're treating me as a suspect," I said, with crossed arms.
"Well we do have evidence linking you to the scene," he continued.
"Well then you should arrest me, because I'm done talking to you and want my attorney," I said forcefully. Of course I knew that he had no evidence.
"Is that really the way you want to play it? You'll look guilty," Burns continued.
"I thought that when I asked for an attorney you couldn't ask me another question, and you just did. Either arrest me or I'm leaving," I said. I got up and started to walk out the door.
"We'll be in touch," Burns continued, without bluster.
"Only with my attorney," I said, handing him one of Ron's cards then exiting. I never heard from him again, nor did Ron.
I really wish that at the time that the suit and the counter-suit were filed that I had been aware of a conversation that Ron had with another P I, Dan Drake, who was also a friend of Ron's. My angst would have been significantly relieved, and I would have understood Ron's staunch confidence in our case. The conversation between Ron and Dan took place two days after the counter-suit was filed. Ron related it to me only after the trial.
"Dan, I don't want you to tell me any substance whatsoever of what you know, but I need answers to a question or two."
"Shoot, Ron, if I can help I will," Dan replied.
"Dan, does the name Amy Bristol mean anything to you?"
"Yes, it does."
"Do you have any clients you have worked for interested in Amy Bristol's activities?"
"Yes, I do, Ron."
"Can you give me their names?"
"I will check with them and get back to you, Ron."
Dan called Ron a few hours later. "Their names are Elizabeth Moore and Jamie Watkins, and..."
"Don't tell me anything more, Dan. Will either client want you to monitor a divorce trial where Amy Bristol is a party?"
"Ha, ha. OK, Ron. Yes, I'm sure that at least one of them will."
"I'll let you know the date, Dan; thanks," Ron signed off.
While that conversation was taking place, apparently I was interviewing with Chester's biggest competitor, who hired me on the spot with the same salary as I was paid by Chester's company and with a commission almost twice as large. Since I had no non-compete with Chester's company I contacted all of my old clients within a week, and within a month almost ninety percent had transferred their business to my new company. I could afford Ron's and the P I's bills.
Also, between the start of the divorce proceedings and the trial date more than eighty percent of the time I beat Chester's company for new business when we went head-to-head.
Ron had filed for a freeze of assets when he filed the divorce petition. It was granted. Neither Amy nor I was able to touch our money except for attorney fees and other litigation costs, the allowance provided by the Court, or as a result of a special request that the other party either agreed to, or the Court ordered. There was no cashing of CDs, cancelling of credit cards, shifting of money from joint accounts to solo ones, selling of stocks, cancelling insurance policies, or raiding of safe deposit boxes.
The judge assignment appeared bad, but Ron assured me that it would ultimately work to our advantage. Judge Matt Moore was presiding. He was the newest and youngest judge in Family Court; very vibrant, self-assured, and good looking, with a suspected prejudice against us.
I had only met Matt Moore once, at a Fourth of July party at his next door neighbor's house about a month before he was confirmed as a judge. I remember because Amy and I fought that night because she got drunk and disappeared on me. Moore spoke very highly of my father-in-law, Chester Grimes, in the brief conversation that Moore and I had that night.
I asked Ron "Why did we waive a jury trial when you suspect, because of his relationship with Chester Grimes, that Moore is prejudiced against us?"
Ron just smiled. "Who's the attorney, you or me? Don't get your panties in a bunch, I know what I'm doing,. I want to get you more than the prenup calls for," he very confidently replied.
Ron explained the pretrial procedure to me. During discovery we would have to disclose what we knew and would use as evidence. The only exception was that if something would be used only for impeachment --- that is challenging the credibility of a witness or party -- then we did not have to disclose the evidence or any witness who would be presenting it. Ron didn't tell me about his conversation with Dan Drake, nor did he really have any discoverable information based on that discussion, so it was not disclosed to Amy's attorney, Amanda MacAfee, during discovery.
When we received the interrogatory responses from Amy's attorney, sworn to by Amy under oath, unsurprisingly Lila Castle was identified as a witness to my alleged assault on Amy. The assault was alleged to have taken place on the Saturday after the Reginald incident when the discrete P I and I went to my house to collect my things. Ron immediately noticed Lila's deposition, before we had to respond to Amy's discovery requests.
Lila's videotaped deposition, which Amy and I both attended though we never spoke to each other, was on a Monday. After Ron pinned Lila down on the date of the alleged attack, he struck.
"So, Ms. Castle, you're absolutely positive that you witnessed the attack shortly before you accompanied Mrs. Bristol to the clinic for treatment on that Saturday, correct?"
"Yes, I'm positive," she said trying to look confident, but not pulling it off.
"You, yourself, did not inflict the wounds on Mrs. Bristol, correct?" Ron continued. Lila's and Amy's jaws dropped, and Amanda MacAfee looked perplexed.
"Of course not," Lila hesitantly replied.
"I'm going to play an audio tape for you that an independent witness will swear was recorded that Saturday after Mr. Bristol left his house. Tell me if you recognize the voices."
As Ron played the tape all of the faces on the other side of the table became ashen. When it was done, Ron asked "Do you recognize the voices? Aren't you and Mrs. Bristol talking about how to bruise her and then lie that Mr. Bristol did it?"
"You must have faked that," Lila sobbed.
"We'll have a voice expert compare your voice in your testimony today with that on the tape, and then send the matter to the D A for perjury prosecution. That's all the questions I have."
Not surprisingly, Amy's attorney had no cross.
Two days after Lila's deposition Amanda MacAfee moved to withdraw the counter-suit and asked the Court to issue an Order of Reconciliation to stay the case for two months while the parties sought the services of a certified reconciliation mediator.
Ron vigorously opposed the motion. During oral argument he said "You honor, they filed the counter-suit in bad faith and we want a chance to put that on the record during the trial since it affects Mrs. Bristol's credibility. Also, my client doesn't have the slightest interest in reconciliation, and while the case is stayed he's losing interest on the $500,000 he's going to collect from Mrs. Bristol."