That’s what I’m going to do today,
I thought.
Say no to John. I will not crumble.
The holding cell door creaked and I glanced up. John shuffled out in handcuffs and shackles, wearing blue prison garb. An armed guard escorted him toward the courtroom. My breathing turned shallow and I turned away. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not yet.
I needed to refocus and think of all the things I had recently uncovered. The paintings John said he owned were not his. He’d “borrowed” them from another woman and never returned them. Then he talked the same woman into a $5,000 loan. That was the $5,000 he said came from his grandmother.
Think of the pain he caused you, when you felt like a criminal as the divorce judge issued a restraining order against the both of you. Think how you told John from the start that honesty was the most important thing to you. Think of the nightmares that haunt you, your loss of sleep. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy or support.
Alexandra appeared and said, “This is it,” and opened the courtroom door for me. Greg rushed up and joined us. The room looked like a church with blond pews, a middle aisle, and a wall of windows on one side. The “altar” was the judge’s bench. Would I be the sacrificial lamb today?
John and his public defender, Kent Whistler, sat at the table on the right, with one man in the first bench behind them. Alexandra guided me to the left, and I sat with Greg and the rest of the prosecution witnesses. Just like a wedding, I thought, with the groom’s family on one side, the bride’s family on the other. The parody was that it was not a gathering for a celebration of beginnings, but rather one for the tragedy of endings.
The judge called the proceeding to order, asked the witnesses to stand, and had us sworn in, after which we were asked to leave. This was not like the Perry Mason trials.
Greg explained, “This way witnesses don’t compromise their testimony based on what another witness has to say.” His deep, caring voice grounded me.
We mingled outside the door. I sat once more on the bench and silently prayed,
Dear God, please give me the strength to persevere.
The bailiff opened the door and called my name. I couldn’t move. I took a deep breath and willed my feet to take me to the witness stand. I sat down, and immediately John locked his steely blue eyes onto mine and glared. In times past I would have averted my eyes and crumbled. Not today. I stared back at the old, pathetic figure in dark blue.
I silently projected my thoughts to John.
You no longer have any power over me. You no longer have any power over me.
Did he understand I had changed? I repeated my mantra. John squirmed in his seat and looked away. I won. I won! It didn’t matter that no one else in the room was aware of my victory. I knew. I was ready to testify.
Alexandra asked questions about our marriage, our financial affairs, and how we got to room 173 at the Marriott. “I’d like you to take a look at these photographs, Mrs. Perry. Is this you after the attack?”
Kent Whistler rose from his seat. “I object, your honor. Only thirty-five-millimeter photographs are allowed as evidence.”
Alexandra questioned me further, and I explained that the photos had been taken with my thirty-five-millimeter camera.
“I object. The witness took her own photograph. She could have doctored her face to look beat up.”
The judge looked at Kent, shook his head, then turned to me and asked who took the photograph. I told him Homicide Detective Greg Smith. “Objection overruled,” the judge bellowed. “The witness has given testimony to all conditions being met and the pictures will be entered in evidence.”
I thanked God that He had intervened after the attack, and that the officer’s Polaroid had failed to work. Otherwise we wouldn’t have had photographs to enter as evidence.
Kent had his turn at me. He tried to distort the facts, to get me to change my story. He pounded away, but I did not weaken, even when John gave me another of his cold, hard stares.
I was released and allowed to remain in the courtroom to hear several police officers testify. The prosecution rested. Kent Whistler called only one witness, an expert to testify that John was addicted to ether. Alexandra blew his weak testimony out of the water. The defense rested.
The judge shuffled through the papers on his desk. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke. “Based on the evidence presented, I remand John Perry to criminal court to stand trial for attempted first-degree murder. His bail is to remain at twenty-five thousand dollars.”
He banged his gavel, and it was over. I watched John slump out of the courtroom. My victory felt bittersweet. I knew John was mentally ill, and I prayed he would get the help he needed. I still didn’t understand there is no changing a socio-psychopath.
Three weeks passed. I sat at my desk at work and waited for a phone call from Greg. We touched base often, sharing evidence that either of us had dug up. It was a strong working relationship built on mutual respect and trust. The previous night I had faxed him new information. I pounced on the phone when it rang.
“Guess what I discovered last night?” I told him excitedly. “I found the woman who impersonated me on the real estate loan.”
I explained that when I took the garbage out I saw my next-door neighbor and struck up a conversation. We chatted briefly when, out of the blue, she asked, “How did your loan application go?” She told me John had asked her to sign for me; he said I was on a business trip and it was most important that the papers get processed. She was hesitant, but he told her not to worry, he’d do all the talking. Later, when the loan officer wanted a third-party identification, John had her stand by the bank door and smile and wave when he pointed her out to the loan officer and bank manager. Then they went to the car and signed the papers. The loan officer said he would notarize it when he got back to his office.
“Good work,” Greg said. “She’ll make a great witness.”
“I don’t know. She’s pretty embarrassed about the whole thing. Said she didn’t take any money, she was just doing us a favor. She’s afraid she’ll be prosecuted.”
“I’ll talk to her. She has nothing to fear from this end.”
We reviewed the documents I faxed to him. There was the letter from the UC Davis vet denying he had prescribed ether. There was a letter from the travel agent confirming the dates John purchased tickets and his subsequent suspicious behavior. There was a letter from the Concord vet explaining how John had lied to get the bottle of ether from her.
“We need to have the Concord vet testify,” Greg said. “Now that you have two witnesses, I’ll fly out to California and take their statements.”
As I hung up the phone, I wondered once more about the notary process. I always thought it was meant to keep fraud from happening. I no longer had faith in that procedure.
Between work, therapy, investigations, and haggling with John about the divorce, the next month passed quickly. Dealing with John was the most difficult. He sat in his jail cell and scribbled a list of everything we owned, from the Mercedes down to and including dish towels and washrags, and wrote his estimated value of them.
John controlled the divorce proceedings. He was clever, and it amazed me how much power he could exert from his jail cell. His latest tactic was to return my correspondence unopened. I felt as helpless and emotionally drained as I had when we were together. He continued to set up roadblocks.
In desperation, I arranged for the sergeant at the jail to intervene. That got results. John finally agreed to talk with me. The phone rang. I accepted the collect charges. After a bit of small talk, I jumped into the matters at hand. I needed John’s consent to lower the prices of the Concord house and the 450SL. In typical fashion he led me along, acting as if he were all for it, then reneged. Even my rationalization about being able to pay his attorney with the funds backfired.
“I don’t care about lawyers,” he proclaimed.
Boy, was that a true statement! I had witnessed John toying with the attorneys I knew, so it didn’t surprise me when I discovered he had stiffed another one in San Diego in 1975. That’s when I learned John was previously arrested for car theft and credit card fraud around the same time. He had also severely beaten a woman, almost to death. My fear level increased at that news.
I finally understood that John was not a nice man. I also knew I had to be careful how I handled him. He was still a financial threat, and possibly a physical one. Next I proffered using the same divorce attorney, to save money, but he would have none of it.
I moved on to the next item on my list, the monthly annuity checks that had stopped coming. I had been using them to pay off the joint bills, and their disappearance created a strain.
“I heard the savings-and-loan has gone into receivership,” John said. “I thought this might affect the payments.”
“Hopefully you’re wrong. I’ll check it out.”
“Don’t bother. Leave it alone,” he said, his voice rising. “Just leave it alone!”
I dropped the subject. I had nothing more on my list, and my pleas had fallen on deaf ears. My stomach started to twist. My head started to pound. I hung up the phone and sobbed uncontrollably for the next five minutes. My hopes of coming to some sort of an agreement had crashed and burned. Foreclosure loomed. I would probably lose my Concord home.
The trial began in the middle of June 1991. It would be short, and held without the glaring eye and feeding frenzy of the media. I was spared that agony because the original police call had been logged as a domestic dispute, boring stuff.
During the previous four months I had lived in fear, not knowing whether John had an accomplice, not knowing whether there was a hidden insurance policy on my life, with John as beneficiary. I also lived with the determination to find evidence of John’s conspiracy and to work on my own psychological problems. I had been on one hell of a ride.
As I sat in the Arlington County Courthouse, room 601, with the other witnesses, waiting for the judge, I breathed calmly and appeared to be in control, but inside I was an emotional wreck. I was a key participant in an attempted-murder trial, not knowing whether I would be able to remain strong during the questioning. I had no idea how long the trial would take or whether John would be convicted. If he wasn’t, what would happen? I was so deep in thought, the bailiff’s voice startled me when he spoke.
“All rise.”
The gallery rose, then sat when directed by Judge Madison. He proceeded with court-speak, and not all of it made sense to me. Madison asked the defendant and his attorney to stand. “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” John responded, in a low monotone, his bald head bent forward, his shoulders stooped. He wore his own gray jacket and navy blue slacks.
Ten minutes later a panel of twenty-three jurors was sworn in, seated, and questioned en masse. Boring stuff, unless you’re the defendant and those people would be judging you. Eleven jurors were excused and the panel accepted.
The trial proceeded. Witnesses were sworn in and secluded in two adjoining rooms furnished with minimal, stark gray metal furniture. The decor matched my mood. At the preliminary hearing I had come by myself, but this time two others from Concord were there ... my neighbor and the vet who gave John the ether. I was grateful for their cooperation, but they provided no comfort. The first two witnesses were called. They did not return. The door opened once more.
“Barbara Perry,” the bailiff said. I stood and moved toward the door.
“You’ll do just fine,” Greg said as he flashed a warm, friendly smile. I nodded and forced myself to smile back.
Alexandra questioned me thoroughly to set out the pertinent facts. Kent Whistler made many objections, and they bickered back and forth. There were sidebars at the bench. More than once, I grabbed the pitcher of water and poured myself a glass to ease my parched throat. More than once, John glared at me, but I didn’t buckle under his attempt to control me. I glared back. By the time, two hours later, when Alexandra finished and the judge called for a lunch break, I was as limp as a wet dishrag.
After lunch, Kent took his turn at me. For another hour he manipulated facts to make me look like a gold digger. I deflected his jabs. He insinuated that I had overspent us into financial ruin. I deflected his insults. Then Alexandra asked for redirect, and Kent for recross. On and on it went. They hammered at the facts and picked at minute points. When they finally finished, I wasn’t released. The bailiff escorted me back to the witness room.
One by one the remaining witnesses departed. By the end of the day only Homicide Detective Greg Smith and I sat in the dingy room. The door opened and Alexandra walked in.
“All the witnesses have testified,” she said. “Court is adjourned. We’ll reconvene in the morning for closing arguments.” She came over and gave me a big hug. “You did great.”
The next day I sat in the gallery with Greg Smith and Ashley Vandemeer, a perky blonde who had testified on my behalf as the Navy expert. She confirmed that John was not a retired rear admiral. We chatted until the judge called for order. The jury filed in. Kent Whistler gave his closing arguments, and my body tensed. He portrayed John as an aging man whose younger wife had deceived him, and who, in despair, had become addicted to ether. What a crock! Had the man no morals?
Now it was Alexandra’s turn. A bundle of energy, she whirled around the room, pointing to a timeline displayed on a stand to make it clear that I was the victim, not the perpetrator. She built a strong case, point by point, and made sure the jury followed her reasoning. Then it was over. The judge instructed the jury, and at 10:10 in the morning they filed out. I was numb. It all seemed to have happened so fast, yet in my mind it had played out in slow motion.