“Good Christian Hypocrites”
Hmmm… the title for this post; “Good Christian Hypocrites.” Do those three words really belong together? No, I don’t believe they do, but the term “oxymoron” sure seems fitting?
A couple months ago, I began a new journey, one that will shed greater light into the events which led me to create “DearEasyDiaries,” and holds the potential to change my life, while “writing” a series of wrongs that have consumed such an enormous part of it. It’s way past time too, because I’ve spent almost a decade procrastinating, hesitating to finish numerous documents saved on my laptop; stories that relay the experiences I spent years challenged to accept but determined to survive. Time’s up. I can no longer ignore the clarity that age and reflection lend to the value and future of one’s authenticity. While attempting to grasp the potential fallout which could occur from exposing incidents I watched unfold before me, yet felt powerless to change or stop, I erred on the side of ambivalence. Well, no, that’s not entirely accurate. While it’s true I felt small, insignificant, and essentially irrelevant in the chain of events that commanded my days, weeks, months, years, and even decades, I don’t guess my trepidation to act was prompted by a feeling of powerlessness. It’s more likely, I responded by reflecting the qualities I was raised to believe were my greatest, if not my only true assets… naivete, blind faith, and unwavering loyalty. For more time than I care to admit, that premise guided my path. But with what I know now, my choice to stay the course and not rock the boat, as cliché as that may sound, is only because I was tethered by fear. The future admissions I referenced could result in an uncertain journey, but if that path also exposes the truth, yielding a clean conscience and peaceful soul, I can live with that. I’m not sure I ever truly comprehended the depth of power that the truth carries, the lengths some will go to bury it, or the capacity it holds to truly liberate us. After all these years, mistakes, and lessons, there’s nothing I want more than freedom from the chains that bound me for so much of my life. Plus, if there’s even the slightest chance that my story might help another person understand that they too have the strength and fortitude to rigorously persevere, regardless of any obstacles blocking their path, it’s worth any pain or effort which this “re-trudging” may demand.
NO BETTER TIME TO PULL UP MY BIG GIRL PANTIES AND WRESTLE WITH THIS COURAGE THING ONCE AGAIN.
That last paragraph above is not where my work or words will end, because there’s so much more. But first, let’s catch up on the “why” of this unexpected interruption in pursuing the greater goal mentioned above. Several weeks ago, a friend of mine from Georgia (go figure; I still have a few from that time in my life) called me to relay information about someone I knew from those past years spent in the South. That person recently completed a new project… a book release, and the novel in question has already been published and apparently available for purchase. After my friend relayed the information about the man’s book achievement, we chatted a while longer before hanging up, and it was then that my mind really began to race. The thoughts which swirled through my head were conflicting ones, and it’s taken me a few weeks to decipher the mix of emotions I felt.
THE BOOK’S BYLINE READS, “TAKING SOME OF THE MYSTERY OUT OF THE MYSTERY,” AND UPON SEEING THAT COVER, I COULDN’T HELP BUT PONDER THE IRONY OF THE WORDS DEPICTED.
Art Black, the person my friend called me about, aka the newly published author, was a fixture of the Island Company as well as the head of their real estate department for as long as Al, the kids, and I used to call that once special slice of coastal Southern Georgia, our second home. What’s more, I originally thought of Art as one of the good guys from that earliest chapter in my family’s life on the then illustrious southern shoreline. I’ll never forget the first time Jules and Mack asked me to accompany them to Sunday Service at the local Baptist Church which they belonged to and regularly attended. They knew I was Catholic and took the kids to weekly Sunday Mass at St. Williams, but they were eager to introduce me to their community of friends, and because I was equally anxious to fit in and prove my value as Al’s spouse; there was no way I could refuse their well-intentioned request. We arrived early, before the service commenced and were greeted by an impeccably turned-out assortment of folks assembled in the church’s foyer until the usher escorted Jules and Mack to their usual pew, with me trailing closely behind. As I took in the scene surrounding me, it was impossible not to notice the ensemble band of musicians accompanying the meticulously robed choir singing on the stage before us. More specifically, my eyes locked onto a pleasant-faced man dressed in a well-coordinated, dark brown suit with starched white shirt and pinstripe tie banging enthusiastically on the drum set alongside the choir. I remember doing an abrupt double take, startled to connect the face of the drummer with the person I knew only as the lead real estate broker of the Island Company. The next several years would reveal far more about that man who apparently wore many “hats” and potentially served just as many masters.
Not only did Art develop a close working relationship with Al, but both he as well as his slender, polite yet somewhat reserved, wife frequented many of the same company functions which Al, the kids, and I were invited to attend. The many higher-ups, their children, and even some of the original family members of the Island Company used to be present at numerous company functions orchestrated to woo prospective executives with events commonly referred to by those of us implored to attend… as “Dog & Pony Shows.” Yes, the description may sound a tad crass, but it couldn’t any be closer to the truth. Both, #3’s house in Black Bank’s, as well as “Rainbow Island” were ideal stages from which to host seemingly casual, but carefully curated and probative gatherings employed to decipher the “keepers” from the superfluous. What better method to determine who “fit” into that elusive, often seemingly incestuous, dynasty then to parade the potential newbies among the already “approved and presentable” Island Company entourage?
The more and more that the Island Company “progressed” under the reign of the inept, 3rd generation heir left in charge, following decades of responsible stewardship by the cloistered creators of the original coastal resort, the more havoc was caused by the ego-driven, red-faced, cigar-smoking “#3.” He aggressively developed and relentlessly mortgaged the land, bastardized much of the goodwill and hospitality of his family’s legacy which generations of people worldwide treasured, and seemed unconcerned with anyone or anything beyond his own greed and self-adulation? It was heart wrenching to watch, and I can’t fathom what kind of pain and devastation his family felt, particularly the elder generation who had so carefully fostered, maintained, and guarded the legacy to which they had been entrusted. When the generational transfer of the Island Company’s care was passed from junior to the next in line, “#3’s” overly inflated opinion of himself and the “kingdom” he reigned, combined with his fledgling, lackluster leadership and reckless spending led the once solvent jewel of Southeast Georgia into bankruptcy, profound loss, change, and seemingly dire ruin to its previous generations of caretakers. Prior to “#3” taking over the reins, the Island Company had amassed a wide swath and magnitude of real estate that few people will ever understand, much less experience. Yet what’s more tragic is that prior to “#3’s” takeover, most if not all, the Island Company’s land and the improvements were debt free.
Hmm I digressing, or maybe not? Isn’t it only logical to draw a connection between the director of the Island Company’s real estate department to the renegade head honcho of the entire company itself? Makes sense to me, but then what do I know? Probably more than you think. As, it happens and thanks to my compulsion for documenting every iota of information I ever came, or continue to come, into contact with, I have a whole lot more knowledge than people have ever given me credit for, but for now, it’s time to get back on track.
First step… a bit more back story. Art (aka “church drummer and real estate guy”) together with his wife, Grae, visited us (Al, the kids and me) in California and on one such occasion Al earned a very substantial speeding ticket when Art wanted to take a ride in a particular Ferrari which Al kept in “HIS” painstakingly-designed and custom built, two-story garage/office located directly across the motor-court from our main home, the Santa Ynez hilltop estate, otherwise known as “Roblar.” Al couldn’t have cared less about the ticket; the fine meant nothing, but the chance to flex his ego and speed down the 154 with his close-to-drooling, even doting “wanna-be” passenger was far too exhilarating to resist. On another occasion back in Georgia, Art reached out to Al because one of Art and Grae’s daughters was attending school, or maybe on holiday, in San Diego and had contracted some nasty illness. Knowing all too well that we lived in California, and that I had been raised in San Diego, Art reached out and inquired whether we had connections with any important doctors in Southern California. Al did not, as he was from New York and had yet to experience the need for any serious or significant medical care in California. My family, meanwhile, was more than familiar with the San Diego medical profession, as was I. Having been born and raised in La Jolla before my Mom and Dad moved our family to Rancho Santa Fe, and also having been diagnosed with Tuberculosis as an infant by the Chief of Staff, as well as a leading Oncologist at Scripps Hospital (both of which were dear friends of my parents) I was uniquely qualified to refer Art and Grae’s daughter to the finest medical care San Diego had to offer at the time, of which they availed themselves for their daughter, who recovered nicely from whatever illness had sidelined her. It was my pleasure to help; I always tried to do anything within my power to support Al in his role as Architect and Master Planner for the Island Company, or anywhere else for that matter. That was my job, and while I’d like to think I was reasonably competent in my role, I know with unquestionable certainty that I gave my job as devoted Mother, and supportive wife, 100% of my attention and was deeply loyal. As life would eventually reveal, my loyalty to that same husband, as well as the Island Company and its directors, was sorely misplaced.
With that bit of reminiscing in mind, I never really felt the same kinship for Art and Grae that I held for so many others in that small little Southern enclave. While at first, Art’s affable nature was quite engaging, there appeared to be another “force” at work that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it didn’t sit well. An air of feigned humility enveloped Art, which at times appeared in stark contrast to the often-cold air of superiority and judgement I sensed coming from Grae. After their visit to our homes in California, both she and Art seemed to keep our family at arm’s length, at least socially. Maybe we took one too many winery tours during their visit; maybe something about me, like my size 10 frame and failure to attend any of Grae’s exercise classes which she pleaded me to join, proved offensive? Whatever it was, I never learned the cause, but “it” obviously didn’t jive with their critique of me, my husband, our family, and heaven knows whatever other alleged sins were deemed unfit for Art and Grae’s acceptance, or perhaps more importantly didn’t align with their “squeaky-clean” Christian image? It was confusing. Even the impromptu and, in my opinion overly generous gift which Al purchased for Art from the “Hart Gallery” in Carmel of a bronze statue depicting a man carrying a house on his back, was met with nothing from Art… there was no thank you, no acknowledgement, nothing. It was curious and a bit disheartening.
AL DIDN’T THINK TWICE UPON SEEING THE BRONZE FIGURINE IN THE WINDOW OF THE HART GALLERY ON OCEAN AVENUE BEFORE HE SAID, “COME ON MIZZ, THAT WOULD BE A PERFECT TOKEN TO TAKE BACK TO ART WHEN WE RETURN TO GEORGIA FOR THE SCHOOL YEAR.” AS THE PRECISELY DETAILED RECEIPT SHOWN ABOVE REVEALS, ART’S GIFT WASN’T THE EXTENT OF AL’S PURCHASES AT THE GALLERY OVER THE YEARS, BUT I CAN SAY THAT ONE SPECIFIC PURCHASE GAVE ME PAUSE?”
Regardless of what I know today, back then I never contemplated that there might be any deeper motive or alliance which could have existed between Al and Art. Rather, I dismissed Art, his wife’s icy demeanor, as well as my intuition telling me something was off, and instead chose to believe that both Al, as “Master Planner” and Architect of the resort company’s massive expansion and Art, as Director of Real Estate, worked hand in hand for the common good and goals of the Island Company. And because it was my job to support and always cover for Al, while maintaining my kid’s lives, as well as our family’s well-being, I never gave the significance of the gift nor the dismissive behavior of the recipient much further attention. While I found aspects of the superficial hierarchy and background dynamics at play within the Island Company bizarre, it never occurred to me back then that there may be another agenda at work.
It does now.
As happens most anytime I hear about the current goings-on of that seaside life I once knew so well and for years loved and enjoyed, I think too about the litany of contrasting details that evolved during my year-long dissolution from Al and the “imprisonment” imposed on our children, and by extension me, as referenced by the Court document portrayed below, which the negotiated terms of our Settlement Agreement triggered in Glynn County, Georgia. I can’t help but remember the hushed tones, disapproving glances, even a finger (or many) pointed with disdain in my direction, as well as the very clear boundaries and appearance of new alliances which were immediately forged and obviously “de rigueur” on that coastal stretch of coastal islands due south of Savannah. It’s painful to recall how small the assemblage of people was that I felt able to trust during the year of our dissolution process, versus the ones merely digging for dirt or a morsel of gossip to dish while hosting a “Bunko Babes” gathering, a round of golf, or Friday evenings spent at the Beach Club Bar and Big George’s. The handful of people who were openly supportive of me, despite Al’s notoriety, were my heroes. Those who were more surreptitious but confided their faith in me without Al’s knowledge, for fear of retribution, were appreciated too. But the throngs of small minded, petty people who gloated over the very public Glynn County “Green Sheet” announcement regarding the demise of my marriage, and others who overtly distanced themselves from the kids and me in favor of backing the talented yet nefarious genius responsible for 97% of the planning, design, and architectural development of every Island Company property from approximately 1996 through 2008 will forever be a reminder about betrayal and the power of survival… my children’s and my own.
I’M SURE IT SEEMS UNNECESSARY TO REVEAL SUCH MINUTIAE LIKE THE DOCUMENT ABOVE, BUT IF YOUR CHILDREN’S AND YOUR OWN LIFE WAS RULED BY SUCH VINDICTIVE, YET CAPRICIOUS BEHAVIOR ON THE PART OF AN EMBITTERED HUSBAND, YOU MIGHT FEEL DIFFERENTLY!
I’m beyond grateful to have survived that onerous ordeal as well as the formidable assortment of foes which accompanied the dark clouds surrounding me throughout the pendency of our separation, subsequent divorce, and its agonizingly long, nine-year aftermath. Still, while I try to cut myself a bit of slack for fiercely navigating the shark-infested waters which I treaded, dismayed by people of power who so handily and glibly broke the law while padding their bottom line, ascending the food chain, or worse, I missed a hell of a lot of the details that would have been so much more helpful had I only known how to play the game of corruption that was being masterfully exacted, not just around me but at my expense. Maybe that’s the reason for my not so recent compulsion to “write” the wrongs which I not only witnessed and experienced, but was woefully unprepared and ill-equipped to adequately address at the time? It’s that very thought which sprang to mind upon learning the news of Art’s book release, especially given the book’s premise. How does one so effortlessly and convincingly present themselves as a person of great and Godly faith, when their actions belie their words? That was the question permeating my thoughts while gazing at the cover of Art’s literary “masterpiece” as I looked it up online. I couldn’t help but think of the various actions which the Island Company, its officers, local Glynn lawyers, and even judges generated and filed during the pendency of Al’s and my divorce and beyond. Those moves were not just in conflict and defiance of human decency but eventually proved to be glaringly flagrant violations of the law. Had I known at the time my whiplash occurred, that I should have immediately probed and dissected the chain of evidence hidden in plain sight, what a myriad of corruption, fraud, and deception I would have discovered. Instead, as was so obviously intended by Al’s blitz attack and its treachery, I was figuratively speaking, underwater, consumed with worry about my children’s welfare as well as my ability, or lack thereof, to do much more than tread water, while fighting desperately to survive the mental, legal, and financial warfare being waged by Al.
I KNOW THIS SERIES OF IMAGES MAY BE CONFUSING OR REDUNDANT BUT CHECK OUT MY HANDWRITTEN NOTES WHICH POINT OUT THE DISPARITY BETWEEN THE PERTINENT AND SIGNIFICANT DETAILS INVOLVED. IS THIS SEEMINGLY PICAYUNE INFORMATION TEDIOUS AND CONFUSING, ABSOLUTELY; BUT PLEASE STAY WITH ME, IT’S CRUCIAL TO THE BOTTOM LINE OF THIS POST…
I was baptized and raised in the Catholic faith, and while I embrace, respect, and try to practice my faith, I come up short and stumble OFTEN. I’m human; so human in fact, that I wound up pregnant out of wedlock in my late twenties. Yes, I realize how archaic that sounds, so go ahead and label me a dinosaur; however, that detail, that “something,” was verboten in my family of origin. Nevertheless, I persevered, and because being a mother was the only title that I ever truly desired, I lived with my choice to bear that child and have never regretted my decision nor the precious daughter that resulted from it. Those nine months of waiting while wrestling with my faith and the cruel judgements of others, helped me to understand that judgement is a vicious master and not something I wanted to perpetuate in my life, and certainly not my child’s. With that in mind, I wholeheartedly approached the next many years, even a decade plus, desperately attempting to avoid judging anyone. It’s likely I failed at times, but not for a lack of try. Many years, and another child later, I was served divorce papers in what I can only describe as the most painful and debilitating manner I could have ever fathomed. The initial shock was paralyzing, but days later, after recouping whatever remnants were left of my sanity, followed by a thorough reexamination of the “service documents,” I was utterly outraged by the litany of lies laid forth in those 8 ½” x 11” white sheets serving up line after line of complete and utter “crap.” It was at that exact moment some part of my Catholic Irish upbringing spoke to me. It was not a slap in the face kind of experience, but a small, quivering whisper, somewhere deep inside, saying… “this is all nothing but a manufactured series of lies, without a shred of truth; you have to fight.” There were very few weapons I had… no funding, legally trapped in a community that was not my home nor place of comfort, with only a handful of people I could trust, and two minor children that were as devastated by the events as I was, and totally dependent on me for their emotional and physical wellbeing. A daunting scenario to be sure, but as I reread the divorce documents for the fifth or sixth time, I realized that TRUTH was on my side, and if that was the only tool in my arsenal, I could and would play that card to the bitter end. See, I believe, that the truth walks hand in hand with God, and the enabling or perpetuating of greed, fraud, and deception are NOT the tenets of a true Christian. Since then, I have also been reminded that being a devout “truth teller,” especially when a certain assemblage of people would prefer that the truth never sees the light of day can be quite intimidating, if not frightening, and even menacing.
What does any of that have to do with Art, the real estate guy, church drummer, his book, or this post? Good question and while it’s taking a bit longer than I hoped, I’m getting there. The crux of my outrage is in small part portrayed in the chain of suspect real estate transactions referenced in the screenshot images illustrated above. Taken directly from the infamous Glynn County “Green Sheet,” (although I purposely cut and pasted the pertinent info in order to protect other people, addresses, and transactions not applicable in this context) the “suspect numbers” and questionable transfers detailed along with my notes, illustrates the degree of COMPLICITY exacted by the Director of Real Estate (aka, Art) and by extension The Island Company, but it doesn’t end there. By some stroke of luck, an unexpected ally who understood the gravity of those real estate transactions, highlighted for me the part each “player” had in committing those fraudulent exchanges. The back and forth swapping and “deceptive assignments” of real estate values compromised our entire divorce proceeding, as well as the next nine years of my children’s and my life. What’s more, while I might be going out on a limb here, if such fraud occurred once, isn’t it likely that other suspect actions may have seeped into the culture and overreaching manner with which the Island Company (aka, Art) handled ALL their real estate and “business” dealings at the time?
Keep in mind, not too terribly long after the finalization of my divorce in 2008, both Al and the Island Company “allegedly” fell on hard times, each subsequently filing for bankruptcy protection. Al filed B/K to avoid paying me our Settlement Agreement (I have it in writing) and as a consequence my life was impacted dramatically. Meanwhile I can only imagine that the Island Company filed B/K to protect the principals and/or any officers of the company who were likely complicit in potentially scamming hundreds of unsuspecting company officers, club members, employees, investors, bankers, and others that were relying upon their place, as well as their promised piece of the “pie” in sweet ole Southeast Georgia? Sound far-fetched? Maybe, but I don’t think that’s the case. So, why is it that I would suggest such unscrupulous behavior by the renowned Resort and Real Estate Company that I once revered? Another good question, but here’s the rub… the Island Company left an enormous group of people “hanging” after their bankruptcy filing, yet based on the small bit of information I’ve garnered about the Island Company post-bankruptcy, both Art and #3 seem to have moved on relatively unscathed by any potentially fraudulent endeavors. Yet there appears to remain a sizeable group of individuals and/or institutions still badly scarred by the Island Company’s epic failure, bankruptcy, and plan of reorganization. Those damaged people and/or businesses will likely never recoup their losses, and the number of zeros attached to their loss is irrelevant; loss is loss. Simultaneously, those who didn’t suffer the same devastating “hit” imposed by gross financial negligence, an overwhelming likelihood of fraud, and catastrophic mismanagement of real estate and development issues, which had always been the resort and Island Company’s bread and butter, would certainly appear to be complicit in the epic coup that ended a dynasty?
It's curious isn’t it that Art, the Island Company’s former Director of Real Estate now has his own successful real estate company and appears to be thriving? Was Art spared the effects of that bankruptcy which left so many others bereft, searching for answers, and if so, WHY? And while I purposefully try NOT to know anything about the red-faced dummy who squandered his family’s company, fortune, and legacy, it wasn’t #3 who recently authored and published a book about the Bible. That very bold and arrogant act belongs to Art, and strikes me as not just being incredibly self-serving, but wildly tone deaf and hypocritical too.
THESE PAPERS DISCLOSE THE PROPOSED PRICING OF TWO MAJOR DEVELOPMENT PROJECTS WHICH THE ISLAND COMPANY WAS EITHER STILL DEVELOPING OR HAD COMPLETED AROUND THE PENDENCY OF MY DISSOLUTION FROM AL, AND WHO DO YOU SUPPOSE WAS THE AUTHOR OF THE MEMORANDUMS?
ONE GUESS?
That Al was either way too cocky, careless, or both, to leave these papers in the den/TV room of our Tabby Lane residence is not for me to ponder. What I do question is this… knowing that we (Mr. & Mrs. Capone) had invested in and purchased 5+ properties (at least the ones I knew of) from and through the Island Company, some of which were included in the Green Sheet graphics and others that weren’t, like the two vacant lots on St. Annie’s Lane in Frederica Township, mentioned in the Island Company’s pricing memorandum shown above, but failed to be disclosed as assets of our marital estate during the pendency of our divorce or Settlement negotiations, is legally identified as fraud, or more specifically “fraudulent concealment.” Regardless of the legal term, obviously it was Al who decided what to disclose and what to hide during our marital dispute, but Art in his capacity as Director of the Island Company’s real estate department certainly appears to have been complicit in committing all sorts of fraud, by “doctoring” numbers,” most likely at Al’s behest?
Art had opportunity, knowledge, and was most likely far smarter than his buffoon of a boss, but could this “biblically reverent” man, real estate wizard, and author have exacted such a deed? I would never have guessed such a thing decades ago, but after very belatedly, piecing together the information I neglected to dissect previously, Art appears very culpable. Such information might have been valuable, even critical towards my ability to weather the outrageous series of proceedings and events which Al subjected the kids and I to for the next nine years.
THE VERY POIGNANT & POWERFUL QUOTE ABOVE IS SOMETHING I RECENTLY SHARED ON “X” AS IT SO ACCURATELY REPRESENTS A MINDSET THAT FEW CARE TO ACCEPT TODAY. NOT ME…
Realistically, all of what I’ve disclosed here is nothing more than spilt milk at this juncture; you know with the whole statute of limitations thing, but it does beg the question, how does a person purport to be a Godly and faithful servant of Christ, even writing a novel extolling his relationship with the Bible, when he likely played such an obvious role in defrauding me and God only knows how many other people out of some seriously significant financial assets? How does Art sleep at night knowing my two children were subjected to years of loss and pain, in great part due to his aiding and abetting a financial crime to protect the “master plan” of the Island Company, while he writes a book about fidelity to the Bible for his own two daughter’s benefit?
That’s not a question I can begin to address in its entirety, nor could I fathom any rationalization which might possibly explain such hypocrisy. Then two days ago, I had one of my “aha moments” and remembered a relatively short-lived TV series that aired well over a decade ago, certainly after my divorce from Al, but unfortunately for me still in its agonizing aftermath. Originally titled “Good Christian Bitches,” the show was entertaining for the first few episodes, albeit a slightly painful slap in the face from where I sat. Now, in hindsight, I find it to be an awfully apt analogy to Art, the Island Company, as well as the insane amount of corruption and hypocrisy that I experienced in that once sublime little slice of coastal Glynn County. Then again, the show was just TV. What my children and I experienced at the hands and work of a “Good Christian Hypocrite” was decisively NOT a one-off comedy series.
Still, it’s tough to ignore the concept that “art” imitates life.