A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (45 page)

In August 1995, I was on vacation with Rex, staying at a bed-and-breakfast in St. George, Utah. At the time we left on our vacation, I had not heard about the fate of AB16. Though the chance was slim, there was always a possibility that the governor would refuse to sign it. Anne said to go and have a good time; she would leave me a message on my work voice mail.

I crawled out of bed and made my way to the phone. Might as well get the daily phone call out of the way, I thought. I sat down in the chair next to the antique desk and punched in the sequence of numbers to reach my voice mail. I scribbled down several messages and hung up the phone.

“Well?” Rex said.

I floated over to him. Tears welled in my eyes as I choked out the words.

“I changed the law of California. The governor signed the bill late yesterday afternoon.”

 

 

On August 9, 1995, the
Oakland Tribune
ran a follow-up on my story titled “Woman’s Crusade Becomes State Law.” In late December, I received a call from a reporter for Antioch’s
Ledger-Dispatch.
She had heard about my story and wanted to do a feature, because AB16 would become law on January 1. I agreed. We established a good rapport, and she respected my concerns about something showing up in print that might prompt John Perry to sue me. He was still a specter in my life.

On the morning of December 30, I got up early and drove to the newsstands at the newspaper office, collected the sack of quarters on the seat next to me, and approached the metal racks. When I got close enough to see the top of the stack of papers, I burst into big, chest-heaving tears. My color photograph, the one where I sat at my table in Sacramento gathering signatures to support AB16, dominated the front page. I plunked in my quarters, grabbed my copies, and hurried to the car. I snatched up the top paper and avidly read the article. It took me a while to calm down enough to drive home.

 

 

On December 31, I hosted a party at my home in Antioch. It was not a New Year’s Eve party, but a birthday party, complete with cake and balloons. Just before midnight Rex poured the champagne and I lit the candles on the cake; guests donned their party hats and held their whistles. As the mirrored ball dropped in Times Square, the crowd in my dining room did not belt out “Auld Lang Syne.” We raised our glasses of champagne.

“A toast,” Rex said, “to the birth of a new law. Barbara’s law. A law to help others.”

We clinked our glasses together and drank to AB16, then sang “Happy Birthday” before I blew out the candles on the cake.

 

 

My success in the halls of the capitol was not mirrored in my dealings with John. Eight months after my bill was signed by the governor and nearly four years after the property settlement had ostensibly been agreed upon, it was still not finalized. In early April, Ross Grissom asked me to meet him in his office so he could review court procedures with me. I was about to battle John in the courtroom, over the airline mileage, representing myself. I glanced at the family law books on the wall shelf behind Ross. Goose bumps rippled up my arms.

“My law is in those books, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. In all my years of practice, I’ve had many clients who sit across from me and say the law should be changed, but you are the only one who has done it. I’m very proud to know you, Barbara Bentley.”

 

On April 11, 1996, I strode into Judge Lawrence’s courtroom, with my head held high and my trusty black briefcase by my side. I wore my metaphorical attorney’s hat, ready to stand up against John and collect my long-due airline miles. I had changed the law, and now I wanted to win against John in court.

A psychopath like John is motivated by greed. Like a wild animal, John Perry had bitten into my flesh and would not let go as he flung me back and forth. He was determined to drain me emotionally so he could profit financially. I refused to let him and was tenacious, especially when it came to collecting the airline mileage he owed me. Now we would settle it in court.

Bradley greeted me as I made my way to the front. He sat at the defendant’s table on the right. I settled in at the plaintiff’s table on the left and extracted my papers from my briefcase.

“All rise,” the bailiff bellowed. “Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Lawrence presiding.” The judge appeared in his black robes and made his way to the bench.

“Please be seated,” he instructed. He scanned a page in front of him and peered over his glasses at Bradley.

“I thought I told you to settle this months ago, Mr. Bradley,” he said testily. “What are we doing here today?”

“Your honor, Mr. Perry and Ms. Bentley can’t seem to agree on the airline mileage.”

Judge Lawrence scowled, looked at me, and said he would hear first from the plaintiff.

“Your honor, I know you are aware of the details of this case. I won’t bore you and the court with rehashing them except to say that the defendant, Mr. Perry, attempted to murder me by ether asphyxiation in 1991 and was convicted of attempted first-degree murder. We signed a property settlement agreement in August 1994. I have tried to settle all matters pertaining to this divorce in a timely manner, but have been stonewalled by Mr. Perry. Because he has chosen to ignore his legal obligations, I have come before you today to seek remedy. I have a copy for you of the letter detailing the history of the airline mileage, and one for Mr. Bradley.”

The bailiff came forward, took the copies, and handed one to Bradley and one to the judge. Lawrence scrutinized the document and made some notations on it.

“Thank you, Ms. Bentley. You’ve outlined the situation in great detail.”

The judge looked back at Bradley. “Well, what do you have to say to this?”

“My client contends that ...”

“Contends what? It was decided that he had to forfeit one-half of the miles.”

The judge looked at my calculations once more, made another notation on it, and raised his eyes. “I find for the plaintiff, Ms. Bentley. The respondent shall forthwith transfer to the petitioner either choice one or choice two as contained in the letter dated April third, nineteen ninety-six.”

Judge Lawrence added a caveat that made my victory even sweeter. “Should the transfer and payment not be concluded prior to May first, nineteen ninety-six, this judgment obligation shall commence to accrue interest at the legal rate of ten percent per annum, simple interest.”

Interest? I hadn’t thought about that. I’d won a double victory.

Judge Lawrence slammed his gavel. It was over. I gathered my papers, and Bradley came over to me. “Congratulations. I’ll try to get John to cooperate.”

Forgiveness frees the soul. Within months of the murder attempt, I had forgiven John for his treachery and criminal behavior, but I had also decided to stand up for my rights against him. I refused to be his willing victim again.

As I stood outside the courthouse and looked back at the stately columned building, I reviewed my journey of the last fifteen years. It had been one of adulation, victimization, discovery, recovery, and advocacy. I had donned the hats of a bill sponsor in the legislative process and a lawyer in the family law courts. I chose life unhampered by guilt and neediness, and embraced it. I had established a loving relationship with Rex based on trust and mutual respect and continued to nurture it. Out of the ashes of victimization by John and the divorce law of California, and of myself, I had become like a phoenix rising.

I took a deep breath, grinned, and turned to go home. With my additional tools, I knew I could face the future, no matter what came my way.

The Prince and the Pauper

Although convicted and sentenced to five years for attempted murder, John Perry was up for parole after only thirteen months. It then took him eight months to come up with an acceptable parole release plan in an area with a naval presence, and in November 1992, the Virginia parole board released him into the Washington state parole system. A parole officer in Seattle would monitor him. But on the street again, John easily slipped into his old habits and directed his energy to establish a new life in Seattle while continuing to make my life a living hell. I was not just his victim. I was his enemy.

After the murder attempt I kept a close watch on John’s activities. It was imperative to my safety. I hired a private detective and constantly consulted with John’s current and previous friends and associates, who provided accounts of their conversations with John, their meetings, and their observations of his actions. Although I have not been able to verify all the information I received, their input, plus my personal experience with John’s modus operandi, has led me to believe that the following closely represents John’s movements after his release from jail.

It didn’t take long for John to violate his parole stipulation that disallowed impersonations. He once more rebuilt his self-esteem and marketability by passing himself off as a retired navy rear admiral, retired navy captain, doctor of psychology, executive vice president of an investment company, Westinghouse executive, former undersecretary of commerce, and director of a hospital in Canada and an alternative-medicine facility in Seattle. John cast his net with the old stories he told me and embellished them with even more outlandish tales. He sprinkled his conversations with the names of well-known public figures he supposedly had met: Linus Pauling, Bill and Hillary Clinton, and Al Gore.

With his magnetic personality and intrepid style, John quickly caught his first female victim, a wealthy Florida heiress on an extended vacation in Seattle. He was priming her to be a major investor in his plant business. He swept her off her feet. Before long the romance hit a rough spot. She missed Florida and asked John to move there with her. He was unable to do so, as his parole plan tied him to the Seattle area. Try as he might, John could not persuade her to permanently relocate to Washington. The relationship ended.

John turned his attentions to Trudy Biltmore, a middle-aged friend of Hal Ledman, the man who helped John make parole. John turned on the charm. Within weeks Trudy and John were living together in Trudy’s rundown ranch house on twenty acres in Redmond. Trying to elicit sympathy, John lamented that he didn’t get what he should have out of our divorce. She invested $65,000 in John’s plant scheme.

Within two years, John’s relationship with Hal soured. John illegally used Hal’s credit card, charged $2,300, and stole two boxes of his checks. By the following year, in September 1996, John’s relationship with Trudy had deteriorated. It was a familiar story. There was little profit in the plant import company, and John’s financial contribution to the living arrangements was sparse.

Monetary arguments between John and Trudy became commonplace; she wanted a return on her investment and help in running the house. John found ways to put her off. He insisted that because they loved each other, they should take out life insurance on one another and name each other sole beneficiaries in new wills. She agreed.

One evening they had a big argument over finances. John became violent. Trudy left her home and stayed away all night. The next morning she returned to an empty house. John was off on a three-day business trip, and Trudy felt guilty. Perhaps she had been too harsh on John; he was in ill health, after all, and he was trying to make money. When John returned, they made up for a couple of days, but the honeymoon didn’t last.

A week later, Trudy and John got into another quarrel about money. This time John grabbed a loaded shotgun and stormed off to the master bedroom, saying he was going to kill himself because Trudy didn’t appreciate him. He slammed the door behind him.

The little voice inside Trudy told her to run, and she did. If she had turned the handle on that bedroom door, it is my contention that she would have been blown away with a shotgun blast and John would have claimed it to be an accidental shooting. Trudy checked into a nearby motel. The next morning she found John, slumped on the kitchen floor in his bathrobe, with a can of soda in his hand. He was dead. John died on Friday the thirteenth.

Monday morning Ross Grissom called me at work with the news. I hung up the phone and sobbed. I could now mourn the person who, for me, had died five years earlier, on that Friday morning in the Key Bridge Marriott in Arlington, Virginia. John, tormented by all his demons, was now at rest. I prayed for his soul. Then I sprang into action to protect my interests.

I needed a death certificate to complete the legal transactions precipitated by his demise. My call to the mortuary triggered a two-month delay in getting John’s body released from the county morgue. There was no family member to legally identify his body, and they needed identification to complete the temporary death certificate. I stepped up. I had to in order to complete legal papers.

In a bizarre set of circumstances I confirmed that the body was John Perry, by reviewing faxes of his corpse and providing details of his unique scar. When I learned that Trudy planned to have John cremated and buried in the national cemetery near Medford, Oregon, with full military honors, I moved quickly and squelched that effort. John was cremated. His ashes were released to Trudy, who put them on her mantel.

I sent Trudy a sympathy card with a handwritten note, extending my condolences for the pain she must now be feeling, pain that I knew firsthand. I offered to talk with her. As proof of John’s impersonation and my good intentions, I enclosed the front-page newspaper article that was published when my law took effect. In it, the reporter used the trial transcript to point out that John was not who he said he was. Trudy never responded. Denial had its grip on her, and she didn’t know how to escape its stranglehold. I understood that, too.

Three months later, the final autopsy reported that John died of an accidental drug overdose. I studied the detailed list of drugs found in him and was reminded of another time, another place, and a similar list. It was in Miami, in the summer of 1990, when John had had his supposed heart attack on our way to see the banker. I went to my file boxes and pulled out the list of the drugs I had found in John’s briefcase while he was in the hospital. Most of them were the same. The old man just couldn’t change. John wanted to trigger Trudy’s sympathy, to bring her back under his control, by using his chemical cocktail to produce a fake heart attack and defuse the financial discussions. How many times had he done this in his life?