A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (37 page)

 

 

In mid-April 1993, I sat in Carolyn’s office and bared my soul about the effect John’s crazymaking behavior had on me. Her good counsel had directed me to sanity before the trial and after the brief summer fling. Once more I looked for her guidance. At the end of the hour I left with a new resolve that John would not get the better of me.

Thirteen days later, Carolyn called me into her office for my next visit. She sensed at once that I was not the weak, emotionally distraught person who had dragged into her office two weeks before. I radiated energy, and it permeated the room.

“Walking tall today, I see,” she said as she sat down.

I settled into the now-familiar wing-back chair, laid my briefcase in my lap, and zipped it open. I was a woman in command. “I feel liberated,” I said as I shared with her how the emotional energy pent up inside me had burst into vigorous activity over the past weekend. “I’ve decided that John will not ruin my life, and that it’s time I get on with it. I’m now ready to go beyond myself.”

I showed her my handwritten letters: one contacting an advocate for victims’ rights and one to Hannelore Hahn, the founder of the International Women’s Writing Guild. I shared my computer-generated letters: one to Governor Pete Wilson; one to my assemblyman, Robert Campbell; and one to my state senator, Daniel Boatwright. Each had the same content. I stated my case and gave a brief background on the murder attempt and John’s criminal history. I ended with an appeal for help in stopping the legal extortion and requested that the law be changed. “They’re all in the mail,” I said.

I hugged my pile of papers. By acting on my passions, with patience, persistence, and a belief in my process, I had emerged a victor. It was my last visit to Carolyn’s office.

 

 

Three months passed. I was no closer to a settlement with John, but still moving forward with my life. When offered an opportunity to disprove John’s stories, I jumped at the chance. That’s how I ended up in Sacramento, at the Doris Tate Award Ceremony. Harriet Salarno, the founder of Justice for Murder Victims in San Francisco, and a recipient of one of the awards, had invited me. Bells clanged when I found out the governor would hand the awards out. Fate had intervened, and I planned to take advantage. I would find a way to speak to Governor Pete Wilson to confirm or deny two of John’s stories that involved Wilson when he was the mayor of San Diego.

That day, when the inspirational ceremony ended and most people straggled away to the reception, the governor lingered by the podium. It was now or never. I picked up my briefcase and walked to the front of the room. An aide intercepted my path. “May I help you, ma’am?”

I took a deep breath to calm myself, and explained my cause. The aide listened attentively, then escorted me to the governor, whose gracious smile put me at ease. After presenting a brief rundown about the admiral, the murder attempt, the trial, and the divorce abuse, I reached into my briefcase and brought out several photographs of John Perry. The governor retrieved his reading glasses from his breast pocket and studied the pictures intently.

“John always told a story about knowing you in San Diego when you were the mayor,” I explained. “It was something about him working undercover in a sting to catch car thieves. He said you helped bail him out of jail.”

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He also said he visited you in Washington, D.C., when you were senator, to get your help on a government contract.”

“Sorry. I wish I could help you,” the governor said, “but this man doesn’t look familiar.” I suddenly realized John had been in San Diego, all right, when he was in jail for car theft and cheated a lawyer out of his fee. He was not doing undercover work for the mayor.

I thanked Governor Wilson for his time and moved to the reception. Fate intervened once more. I met Delores Winje, one of the six award recipients, whose husband had shot her in the face. She had gone beyond herself to counsel prisoners convicted of spousal abuse, just like Doris Tate. I felt honored to be in the company of such a strong woman. When I told her how I was going to change the unfair divorce law, Delores grasped my hand with both of hers, and her dark eyes looked intently at me. “I’ll help you any way I can,” she said.

“Let’s hope it will be soon,” I responded, explaining that my quest to change the divorce law was at an impasse. Senator Boatwright told me the deadline for bills this year had passed, and to get in touch with him in December. He also suggested I get an attorney to help me write the bill. The governor’s office replied that the governor had no authority to give advice on private legal matters; I needed to go through the legislative process. To top it off, I still hadn’t heard from Assemblyman Campbell’s office, though it had been more than two months.

“Here’s my address and phone number,” Delores said. “Get in touch with me anytime.” I stashed the paper in my purse. It would be almost two years before I would contact her.

 

 

The next month, in August 1993, I attended my first International Women’s Writing Guild Summer Conference in Saratoga Springs, New York. It was a magical experience. I was forty-seven years old and going off to a college dorm for the first time. My mind opened to writing and new friendships, but most important, I learned I had a powerful voice.

The guild founder asked me to give a speech. As I prepared my notes, I came to the part about my efforts to change the law, and I couldn’t help but feel disgusted. Less than three weeks before, Senator Boatwright had backpedaled and said I should deal with my assemblyman, the same one who had ignored two more letters from me. I scribbled about passion, patience, and persistence and how I would need all three to follow through. That evening, when I promised my audience I would change the divorce law of California, four hundred women gave me a standing ovation. I learned I had a voice, and I didn’t need to feel nervous about using it.

 

Over the next seven months, John Perry routinely haunted my dreams. He chased, conned, manipulated, or tried to murder me. Cold sweats, headaches, and rapid heartbeats haunted my nights and made me afraid to return to sleep. It was pure hell. I held tightly to my recovery skills in order to stay focused and sane.

My chronic nighttime terrors reflected John’s daytime activities. We still had not concluded the property settlement. A year ago Judge Lawrence had told Alan Bradley that John should accept my fair offer, but John would not concede. He insisted I be removed from the annuity, even though I had agreed he could have it until he died; that he get the dogs; that he get property and assets I owned prior to meeting him; and that I release the corporate file boxes stored in Bradley’s office.

I wrote letters whenever I found someone I thought could help me, and listed John Francis Perry’s aliases: Calliet Delvin, Guy D. Delvin, Daniel F. Malley, Robert Lee Stuart, and Thomas John Mudge. John was certainly a colorful character.

My friend Marie Passini and I went to Miami and scoured the Hall of Records to see if we could find any previous marriages in Dade County. We didn’t. I contacted the Miami, Coral Gables, and Hialeah police departments to trace one of John’s stories that his second wife’s father, Carl Shirrow, had been a former police chief. He wasn’t.

Up to now, I had not relinquished the Two Star corporate file boxes, even though they were in the physical custody of John’s divorce attorney, Alan Bradley. I wanted the corporation dissolved and a letter from John absolving me of any part of the business. Unexpectedly, John agreed. I went to Bradley’s office to go through them one last time. It was March 1994.

“The boxes are in the conference room,” the legal assistant scowled when I walked into Bradley’s office. She was a middle-aged paralegal, and she didn’t like me. I can imagine what John must have told her about me.

I opened the first box and started to collect names and events, routine items. When I got to the middle of the fifth box I found a folder marked RESEARCH with pages copied from law books related to estates, death, and contracts. Premeditated murder came to mind. I made copies, stuffed them in my briefcase, and was on my way out when Bradley stopped me.

“You know, John feels terrible about what he did to you.”

“Really? He’s never apologized to me.”

“His remorse is genuine. He’s told me about the good times you had together and how much he loved you.”

“Then why doesn’t he settle?”

“I think he’s coming around. He doesn’t get angry now when we talk about you.”

I thought of John’s charming persona, how he could turn it off and on to seduce people into believing in him. “Be careful, Alan,” I said. “I don’t know what his game is, but he can’t be up to any good.” Outside, I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked away from one part of my life. The boxes were gone. If only John would disappear as well.

 

 

Three months later, in June 1994, I went into the work lunchroom to get my morning cup of coffee. The refrigerator door opened behind me, and I jumped. “Sorry,” Elizabeth said, “Bad night?”

“Yes. And that’s not the half of it,” I complained. “It feels like my life is falling apart.” The dam burst. “The last ten months have been a living hell. I can’t get John to settle. He wants more and more. He’s challenged the joint annuity and he drags his feet whenever it comes to answering my counterproposals. One time it took almost five months just to get an answer out of his attorney, and then it wasn’t an acceptance, but another attack proposal. My attorney has backed away. I’m left alone to work it all out.”

“You sure have your hands full,” Elizabeth commiserated.

“That’s not the worst. A couple of weeks ago, it came to me that John’s actions might be related to getting himself off parole. It scares me. I still don’t trust him.”

“What did you do?”

I paused and hugged my coffee cup. “The next morning I confirmed my fears. John was getting off parole and, as usual, I had not been notified. So I wrote and faxed letters to the judge, John’s attorney, and my attorney, and included a detailed step-by-step description of why I figured John was still out to murder me. The last time I felt threatened, I almost ended up dead. I learned my lesson. John isn’t going to have the same advantage over me ever again. Not as long as I have a breath in my body!”

“Good for you,” Elizabeth said. “Did it help?”

I leaned forward on the lunch table. “I thought so, but it just spurred John into action. He appeared in town four days ago, on Monday, as Admiral Perry no less, and claimed his stuff from storage. It’s been eighteen months since he was released from prison. Why show up now to retrieve his stuff?”

“It is strange. The strangest thing I’ve ever heard,” Elizabeth said.

I took a sip of my coffee, sat back in the chair, and grinned. “Yesterday I figured it must have something to do with my appointment with John’s attorney to settle the case. Sure enough, Bradley called me and cancelled our appointment.”

“Why?”

“John called him and said he was too upset to agree to any proposal. He said when he got his stuff back to Seattle he couldn’t find any of his valuables, like his Rolex watch. That son of a bitch accused me of stealing all the good items and leaving him the dregs. What a liar!”

“Whew.”

I continued my tale of woe, describing how I had fumed at Bradley and told him I made sure every box of John’s was packed and labeled by friends, just to insure against this type of accusation. I had detailed lists for each box. I was ready to battle him in court. My friends would testify. I challenged the idea that John even
had
enough time to go through two hundred boxes in less than two days. My insides boiled just thinking about John’s deceptive behavior.

“So what’s up now?” Elizabeth asked.

“I don’t know. I wish I knew what he was up to. I wish...I wish ... Oh, my God!”

I jumped up and started to pace. “I just figured it out,” I shrieked. “He’s setting the stage to try to kill me! Once I’m dead he can go into court and claim he’s due my estate because I didn’t give him all of his joint property, and there will be no one to contest it. My mother’s too old, and the rest of my family live out of state. He’ll have his lawyer testify that several months ago John expressed remorse for what happened, and that he really missed the good times with me.”

Elizabeth was speechless.

“I’ve got to go. I have letters to write and fax. I’ve got to stop John once and for all. Thanks for letting me vent. Without talking to you, I might not have figured it out.” I grabbed Elizabeth, gave her a big hug, and whispered in her ear, “You helped save my life.”

Back in my office, the phone line burned as I made calls to Judge Lawrence and Ross Grissom. Then I called Bradley. He tried to alleviate my fears and downplay John’s actions, but I would have none of it. By this point, I knew John far too well. When Bradley suggested a final conference hearing on Saturday, at his office, I readily accepted, though I was apprehensive. Would this mess finally be over?

 

 

Saturday morning I woke up with a splitting headache and a pain in my gut. I had experienced another nightmare: John was chasing me with a knife and threatening to kill me. I took it as a warning and called Alan Bradley as soon as it was eight o’clock. “I can’t meet you at your office,” I said shakily. “I’m afraid John will try to kill me today.”

“He’s not here. He’s in Seattle.”

“You’re on the third floor, right? My car will be in the parking lot for a couple of hours, unprotected. It would be easy for John to have someone tamper with it, maybe cut the brake line. Then I’ll die in a car accident, like I was supposed to four years ago.” Tears fell and I sobbed into the phone. “I’m not paranoid or delusional, and you’re not the one who’s suffered from John’s psychopathic behavior.”