Reflections & Paper Promises…

Once the jet landed and was securely parked in its designated space at the small private airfield in Goleta adjacent to Santa Barbara’s Regional Airport, the kids and I rose from our seats, gathering up the various bags we had carried onboard, while reaching for the leashes of whichever one of our four-legged family members was our personal responsibility (Jerrico, the German Shepherd as well as Grace and Charlotte, our two Pembroke Welsh Corgis) to transfer safely to my family’s car awaiting us on the far side of the parking lot adjacent to the airfield’s small lobby. As they disembarked the Lear, the kids never said a word, nor even once glanced back in Al’s direction, but each of them walked over and politely thanked our pilot, Greg, who had already opened the jet’s exterior cargo hold and was unloading a large and varied assortment of baggage onto the luggage cart which an airport employee had previously guided towards the plane. I might have opted to follow my children’s lead and totally ignored Al’s presence, but I needed to return to the jet’s main cabin after unloading my first cache of bags and Jerrico, so I could then transport Squirt, the turtle, and his travel aquarium from the Lear to the Suburban awaiting us. Civility and human empathy trumped any feelings of disgust I might have held for my newly titled “ex” that day, so as I went to lift Squirt’s “temporary home” from the ledge where it was securely stored, I turned Al’s way and said, “thank you for the ride.” He looked at me and with an unfamiliar fragility in his voice said, “what am I going to do; they hate me?” With little interest in extending a disingenuous goodbye, and even less desire to belabor the moment, I responded only by saying, “their world has been upended this past year; they’re hurt, confused, and worried about what may lie ahead. Give them some time to digest everything and get settled; I’m sure they’ll come around.” As the words left my mouth, I couldn’t help but feel the panic and helplessness which had filled the previous twelve months reverberate through my entire being, but I refused to give Al the satisfaction of seeing even a sliver of weakness. Throughout the totality of the 19 years spent together, I witnessed Al deftly use and master manipulation, elevating it to an art form even, but on that one specific day, I denied him anything beyond the courtesy of the brief response already spoken. After descending the jet’s stairway, I gave Greg, our pilot, a brief hug, thanked him for all his kindness over the last few years, wished him well and walked off to the crowd of family waiting outside the Suburban beyond.

IT TOOK EVERYTHING THE KIDS AND I HAD TO KEEP GOING STRONG AND HOLD OUR HEADS HIGH FOR THE ENTIRE YEAR WHICH FOLLOWED AL’S DIVORCE SERVICE, WHICH REMINDS ME OF A QUOTE I’VE SHARED BEFORE, BUT IS WORTHY OF REPEATING… “IF YOUR CHILD’S HAPPINESS COMES SECOND TO YOUR NEED TO HURT THEIR OTHER PARENT, YOU NEED PROFESSIONAL HELP.

There was no way to predict when we stepped off the Jet that day all that the future might hold, but I had just gambled everything in my-beyond miniscule arsenal to give my two children back a world where they might feel a measure of security and normalcy. At that moment, and for a majority of the 17 years which preceded it, those two faces were all I saw. Nonetheless, throughout the entire flight from McKinnon Airfield on St. Simon’s Island to California and our highly anticipated return home, my mind was consumed with questions and doubts about whether my coerced participation in the two days of mediation which had just happened and the equally hasty rush to “settle” the ginormous marital dissolution battle which dominated the previous year was the right one? It was more than a little bit mind-numbing to think that just 48 hours earlier, I signed a legally binding document which held the potential to effect immediate change and return some semblance of stability to my children’s life, as well as providing for our collective futures. However, the past 36 hours had also been a bit of a blur; initially spent celebrating, then panicking, followed by a pressured attempt to pack up the assortment of personal treasures that belonged to the three of us, regardless of whether they were individually itemized during the 16 plus hours of contentious settlement negotiations which had taken place in my now-newly divorced, husband’s Georgia lawyer’s two-floor suite of offices. I felt an unsettling sense of irony knowing that the very words spoken during our marriage ceremony some 17 years earlier were still running through my mind while contemplating the marital settlement agreement which I had just signed ending our union… “for better or for worse,” never imagining that once again, a worst-case scenario might prevail.

Aside from gratitude for our children, two happy results from the 19 years spent with Al, and the relationship fostered with Al’s oldest daughter, the only feelings I could summon for the man left sitting in the Lear on the tarmac behind me were a mix of pity combined with repugnance. I was focused on moving forward and restoring a sense of sanity to countermand the year of lies and lunacy which the kids and I had just endured.  

I PENNED THIS LETTER TO MYSELF, OR MY ALTER EGO, AFTER CLIMBING INTO BED LATER THE SAME EVENING OF THE SETTLEMENT FINALIZATION. AFTER A YEAR OF ADHERING TO MY SHRINK’S SUGGESTION THAT I JOURNAL ALL MY THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS AS A MEANS OF THERAPEUTIC RELEASE DURING THE YEAR OF AL’S FORCED, LEGAL IMPRISONMENT OF THE KIDS AND ME, IT FELT LIKE I WAS FINALLY ON THE PRECIPICE OF FREEDOM. 

Hindsight is a conflicting gift… it provides light which lends clarity, but it can also leave one feeling incredibly dimwitted if not taken as seriously as is warranted, and that’s precisely what I felt for far too long. After driving away from the notorious Brunswick, Georgia, law firm’s offices on Gloucestershire Street on September 5th around 5:45 p.m. following two days of hideously tedious mediation, but with a Marital Settlement Agreement in hand, I finally felt a sense of relief, a measure of empowerment, and a hopeful spirit. The document outlined the immediate purchase of a home of my choosing for the kids and I, as well as many other details ensuring a future that was ripe with possibility… if one were to take the agreement at face value? I wouldn’t know right away that “if” was the operative word.

Less than ten days later, that confounded document, the one containing all the particulars for my children’s lives and future, as well as my own, was essentially rendered worthless. Looking back, I’m hardly surprised, but at the time I was both devastated and incredulous. My mind was consumed with questions, but no satisfactory answers were anywhere in sight. The resulting burden, became further proof of my Machiavellian ex’s insidious efforts to thwart my hard-fought liberation from his clutches and control, assisted by three filthy dirty lawyers, a nefarious accountant, and an unfathomably corrupt Glynn County, Georgia “judicial system.”

Several weeks later, my kids were each ensconced in their new schools, but the three of us were still living in my Mom’s two bedroom, two bath home, and despite her gracious willingness to have us invade…  one adult daughter, two grandchildren (including a 17 year old, semi-rebellious high school Senior and an 11 year old confused, introverted boy, both angry, navigating new and thus far troublesome waters) as well as our three dogs, a turtle, and what seemed like a bazillion suitcases in addition to the emotional baggage we each carried, had to be an enormous inconvenience and challenge. You’d never know it though, judging from Mom’s grace throughout our very protracted stay; still, it wasn’t an easy situation. Nothing that I promised the kids would happen as a result of signing the Settlement Agreement had yet occurred, and I’m not sure if I felt worse about their obvious disappointment at the turn of events, or that I had once again been duped by the words (whether spoken or written) of a man whose penchant for lying and cheating in every forum imaginable would eventually cause me to view him as nothing more than the devil incarnate?

THIS PHOTO WAS TAKEN FROM THE BROCHURE BELONGING TO THE PROPERTY STIPULATED IN OUR MARITAL SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.

DREAMING OF ALL THE FUN THE KIDS AND I WERE GOING TO HAVE MAKING THAT HOUSE OUR NEW HOME WAS BEYOND EXHILARATING AND LENT ME STRENGTH, AS WELL AS A SENSE OF OPTIMISM ABOUT OUR FUTURE.  

Whether it didn’t occur to me at the time, or because I was too exhilarated by the freedom being dangled before me, I didn’t expect when I left those two days of mediation, that between 5:00 p.m. on a Friday evening and two plus days later at 9:00 a.m., the subject property designated for my children’s and my future would be under escrow with another purchaser. My bad. To make matters worse, was that due to Al’s compulsion for control, my ex had insisted in our settlement negotiations that “HIS” real estate guy handle all the details of any transaction regarding my future home purchase, so when the deal structured through mediation was off the table, guess what I got to do? Can you guess? Sure enough, the next few weeks of my life involved driving around all of Montecito and Santa Barbara looking for replacement properties with the balding, mildly entertaining, joke-telling, “ne’er-do-well,” ex horse trainer, questionable real estate agent, with a history of trading authentic Bronze horse sculptures with my ex for cash loans; $30,000 here, $40,000 there… and so on. Reflecting on that experience only served to confirm my assertion that Al assigned far more value to his stable of miscreant, often felonious, male “friends” who dabbled in questionable Art sales (you may want to refer back to my blog post entitled “Authenticity” from August 23, 2020  for more specifics) or elaborate tax scams, Exotic Car purchases, and fraudulent Real Estate deals, than he ever felt for his children or their mothers, a.k.a., me and Al’s first ex-wife. Still, a deal’s a deal, so I held up my end and toured properties with Geno, the “had-been” real estate agent for weeks seeking a suitable replacement property. After a potential substitute was located, Geno wrote up a deal and escrow was opened with a couple significant contingencies which needed to be satisfied prior to final approval. First, our respective team of attorneys were tasked with resolving the very large gap in purchase prices, as the house identified in our MSA was valued at significantly MORE than the potential new property being “vetted,” and I wasn’t willing to simply walk away from the discrepancy, especially when it was a considerable part of my children’s and my “nest egg” for the future. The second caveat was a provision requiring that a swimming pool could be built on the newly chosen site. However, any type of building or development in Santa Barbara and Montecito was incredibly tough; it had taken Al five years to get plans approved for the Freehaven house prior to the start of construction. As such, I was prepared for the issue to be tricky.  Plus, there were some septic issues which could potentially present an additional problem, but Geno had assured me, “Mizz, sewer hookups are already in the works; it’s a slam dunk… I’m on it.”  Already spinning from the apparent unravelling of my hastily negotiated Settlement, I wasn’t prepared to take Geno’s word at face value. Having personally watched Al and Geno exact some pretty sketchy real estate moves and deals in the past, I couldn’t leave this issue to chance, nor any possible risk of malice. Al would have likely relished the idea of executing a deal that held the power to screw me over, and that wouldn’t do. Thankfully, the timeline for contingencies happened to coincide with my birthday, and because my older Sister, Viv, who had been a successful real estate agent in Rancho Santa Fe for the past 30 years and still going strong, was going to be in town for a couple days to celebrate, I imposed upon her for some professional advice. Together we went in person to Montecito’s Water & Sanitary District offices with all the pertinent escrow paperwork and my proposed pool design in hand. Viv’s take-charge and efficient interaction was beyond effective. Forty-five minutes later we left the meeting armed with the knowledge that not only could a pool NOT be built immediately, but maybe never. The property, and the entire lane of homes adjacent to it were all on septic tanks, and while Geno boldly proclaimed that a sewer line and hookups had already been approved and would be an imminent improvement to the small stretch of homes next to the property in question, our visit to the official Montecito Water/Sanitary District proved his claim was nothing more than a blatant lie. With that information in hand, I called Geno, but to no avail. Shortly afterwards, I received a call from Joshua, Geno’s very young assistant, saying that Geno had requested he relay a message to me… “I was to immediately release all contingencies in writing to our escrow officer, or risk losing yet another home, which would then be solely my fault.” I wasn’t terribly shocked by the message, but understood I was entering murky waters. Nevertheless, after conferring with my lawyers and sharing the information Viv had obtained on my behalf, I heeded Sorrell’s advice, harnessed whatever inner strength I had left in me, and faxed my written cancellation of the deal due to unsatisfied contingencies to both my assigned escrow officer as well as Geno. Expecting that trouble might follow, but also wanting to enjoy a very significant birthday with both my kids and other family that same evening, I put the burdensome thoughts out of mind for a couple hours and enjoyed the dinner being hosted for me at the local hotspot “Lucky’s.” Three hours and bottle or two of Cristal later (courtesy of my beloved California attorney Sorrell) we returned to my Mom’s tiny home to enjoy my favorite homemade birthday dessert. The evening was a welcome reprieve from the other challenging aspects of our new circumstances, but the respite was short-lived. After enjoying dessert, and once my youngest sister, Lilith, had walked her kids the two doors down the street to their own home, I sat down with Viv and Mom, recounting the events of the past couple weeks. Ten to fifteen minutes later, Viv excused herself to call home, while Mom went to change and get comfortable. It was then I thought to check my own phone for any missed calls or messages.

LOOKING AT THIS TRANSCRIBED MESSAGE FROM THE POLICE REPORT I FILED AFTER LISTENING TO THE “MANDATE” ISSUED ME, IT OCCURS THAT I MAY HAVE MILDLY OVERREACTED BY CALLING THE AUTHORITIES, BUT CONSIDERING THE SERIES OF EVENTS WHICH HAD TRANSPIRED OVER THE PAST YEAR AND A HALF, I COULDN’T TAKE ANY CHANCES.

BULLYING AND INTIMIDATION HAD BECOME A NEW NORM IN MY DAY-TO-DAY EXISTENCE.

While I didn’t know how the situation would ultimately play out, I refused to go down without a fight, regardless of how miserably ill-equipped or unprepared I was to tackle the obstacles ahead or the foes rallying around Al, who still seemed intent on burying me in legal proceedings and fees, despite HIS demand to mediate and settle our dissolution. Mercifully, the mildly menacing message, combined with my statement about the events of the past year convinced the police as to the veracity of my concern and fear, which is why they took my phone and had Geno’s message forensically transcribed. Once I shared that information with my lawyers, they then informed Al’s legal team, and it was “mutually” agreed that from that point forward, I would be the one to decide my real estate representation. Small victory, yes, but at that point I didn’t take a single thing for granted, and any win, no matter how minor, was still a win. Five weeks after signing a legally binding Marital Settlement Agreement in Glynn County, Georgia, believing that my kids and I had a chance of moving forward without a narcissistic nightmare stepping on the scale of justice at every turn, I had been proven wrong with each day that passed and the realization could be crippling at times. However, it wasn’t enough to stop me from waking each morning determined to right the assortment of wrongs and the cruel miscarriage of justice being exacted, but then the issues I was attempting to “sort out” were not your ordinary, run of the mill variety. I was up against a crooked Glynn County, Georgia “machine” of dirty dealings, as well as a soul-less, maniacal ex-husband, who also just happened to be a native New Yorker, as well as a wheeler-dealer, embezzler type of being, well-versed on the workings of corruption and malice. My chances of success seemed to be slipping away, exactly as Al had likely planned and lied relentlessly to accomplish.

I MAY HAVE BEEN OUT OF MY LEAGUE DEALING WITH AL’S “WHACK-A-MOLE” BRAND OF LEGAL SUBTERFUGE, BUT THANKFULLY I WAS TENACIOUS ENOUGH TO KEEP FIGHTING. P.S. KUDOS TO WHOMEVER IT WAS THAT DESIGNED THE OH-SO APROPOS SHIRT DESIGN SHOWN ABOVE.

Considering my impossibly naïve and hopeful nature, combined with a curious propensity to document and retain every pertinent bit of information possible, especially regarding the legal quagmire threatening my kid’s and me, I simply refused to be deterred. With that detail in mind, it may be helpful to share a bit more about my personal history. How could I have possibly ended up in the position I found myself? In retrospect, the answer to that question may not have occurred as suddenly or mysteriously as I used to believe?

From day one, it seemed that my personal fate was to be underestimated. No one seemed to recognize that there was a latent facet of my being which embodied a quiet strength. Maybe it was the result of fiercely loyal roots connected to my Grandfather’s Irish bloodline, mixed with a wildly hard-headed constitution and ferociously protective side of my own making? I’m not entirely sure where my hidden fortitude came from, but that aspect of my persona went unnoticed for decades, and when “the genie” did emerge, there was no way to put it away, especially after becoming a mother. Nobody was going to mess with me when it came to my children’s lives or wellbeing. Ironically, it was a combination of both the vulnerability of my early childhood health issues and subsequent upbringing, together with the challenges of my marriage and the years spent with Al, which eventually taught me that I was nothing if not a survivor. That knowledge empowered me to persevere, come what may. When my two greatest blessings were hurt, in pain, or struggling, there was NOTHING OR NO-ONE that could have stopped me from acting on their behalf. It was all about ensuring their security, while also pursuing everything that was legally and rightfully due us. 

When I was about 5 or 6 years old, my family was gathered at my maternal Grandparent’s home in La Jolla one evening, enjoying Ma and Pa’s beautiful patio and large brick-edged pool, when I slipped on the wet surface just before diving into the dazzling moonlit body of water. The fall led to an emergency room stop for the stitching up of my cracked-open skull. It wasn’t anything serious, maybe 7-8 stitches, certainly nothing when compared to the previous diagnosis of Tuberculosis at six months of age, nor the many months of necessary radiation treatments which followed, and subsequent loss of all Thyroid function. Nonetheless, I returned home later that evening with my head wrapped in gauze which remained for the next few days. That small “slip” provided anecdotal fodder for members of my family far longer than the gauze which covered the wound. My father would laugh away the incident by saying, “at least she didn’t hit something vulnerable (aka, my head) and my two younger sisters mercilessly taunted me for years with gales of laughter, exclaiming “that’s when Missy’s brain fell out.”

There’s likely a hint of truth in those “lighthearted” but mildly cruel revelations, as I’ve obviously made a few questionable decisions in life, still none of that diminishes the fact that as the years passed, I developed an irrefutable strength and would have fought tooth and nail for my kids.  That’s exactly what I did for the 17 years before my divorce, as well as the 9+ years which followed the legal deception resulting in the crappy document otherwise known as my “Marital Settlement Agreement.”

What does any of that have to do with anything that may be happening now, well over a decade later? Simple, the past informs our future, and the truth always matters, period. So, should you find yourself, a friend, or loved one in a position to execute any type of legal document in Glynn County, Georgia, I beg you to follow the same type of advice you might hear before purchasing a used car… “buyer beware.” I’d gamble my last dime that there are likely many types of contractual documents “negotiated” in Glynn County, Georgia, that aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. Perhaps that’s just my experience but I don’t think so. From the years I spent, and incidents witnessed in that neck of the woods, corruption and unscrupulous lawyers abound. They dwell in the pockets of the powerful and often go on to become judges. Once that happens, there’s no correction to be had; the “fix” is already determined. “We” (you and/or I) can file complaints with the “GBI” (Georgia Bureau of Investigations) ad nauseum, but chances are wildly high, not only will the subject infractions never be addressed, but they probably won’t even be answered. Does that sound wildly unjust and miserably arrogant? It does to me, and while I hope that wasn’t the intent when the original doctrine which America borrowed from “English Common Law,” also became law in the USA, it sure seems like a convenient way for the corrupt to hedge their bets and protect their own. If that claim sounds far-fetched, trust me… it’s NOT. “Judicial Immunity” is a legal construct that exists in all 50 states of America and while, once again, I hope the intent wasn’t to embolden either lawyers or judges to blatantly thumb their nose at society and our legal system, it is due to up-close and personal exposure to the very same system, I can vouch for the words written here. It’s probably the reason I was so confounded a few years after my MSA was filed in Georgia and I was forced to once again seek legal representation in Glynn County following one of Al’s many challenges of our agreement, when I learned from my new attorney that our formal “MSA” was sealed by the court. The lawyer went on to relay (in writing) that “the Agreement was sealed by the court, apparently with everyone’s consent for this is very unusual.” Indeed? I was never asked about nor consented to seal the document, but what do minor details like that matter when one party to an Agreement in Glynn County has a lawyer or two, and a potential Judge in their pocket?

It's true, from time to time I tend to go down a few far-fetched sounding rabbit holes, but heaven forbid you ever find yourself in need of some “heavy-hitter lawyering,” all of this might potentially prove helpful, which is all that I set out to accomplish when “DearEasyDiaries,” was originally conceived. I have strayed from that mission recently but I’m finding my way back, and I’d be so grateful if you’d hang-in here with me?

Regardless of whatever I may have wanted, expected, and even had in writing, signed off on by a Glynn County, Georgia Judge, never seemed to factor much into my legal challenges. I suppose that’s how the dark side of narcissism, power, and corruption works?  Imagine my frustration a few weeks following Geno’s threatening message after questioning his alleged authority and abandoned an escrow tied to a problematic property, with my kids and I STILL living in Mom’s home, EIGHT WEEKS after the legally executed Georgia “Settlement?” Despite the provision taken from my seemingly worthless, however costly, MSA, detailing that the kids and I were entitled to a rental property of my choosing until 10 days after the successful closing of a home purchase, it was crushing to realize the whole document was likely nothing more than crap, a sick game exacted by my ex and his dastardly crew of corrupt lawyers. I was at wit’s end. Eight weeks of living in my Mom’s home was neither negotiated, agreed to, nor documented in our Settlement Agreement, and when I realized that any promising language from the “legal document” which I had signed in good faith likely held absolutely no value, imagine my despair? As such, I decided to play offense, instead of defense for a change, and sent an email to my attorneys expressing my frustration about the devolving circumstance, saying that I was going to remedy the situation by checking into the local Biltmore. It was a place our family knew well, had enjoyed often in the past, with cottages to accommodate the kids and myself, as well as our four-legged crew. I believed it was a reasonable solution or would at the very least generate some much-needed action from my opposition. Accordingly, my legal team forwarded a formal version of my proposal in an email to Al’s legal counsel in Georgia, but the response received by my side reeked of hostility and aligned far more closely to the machinations already in play. Al’s crater-faced, miserable, lecherous being of an attorney and his rather lengthy reply boiled down to a series of words contained in one sentence… “if Ms. Capone chooses to pursue this course of action, she will be doing so at her own peril.” Whoa, what the devil; now was I being threatened by Al’s lawyer too? The words of a washed-up real estate guy were one thing, but this new immediate threat made by Al’s Georgia legal counsel, soon to be member of the Glynn County judiciary, was much more than I bargained for.  I was profoundly discouraged, not to mention nauseous at this latest turn of events but remained appreciative of my California attorney’s terse rebuke of Al’s counsel and his threatening language.

A couple weeks later, the kids and I were relocated to a rental property. Coincidence? I think not. The house wasn’t of my choosing; rather it was a property being presented to me as a “viable option” discovered by Al’s assistant, not-so affectionately known as “Miss Piggy” by the kids and me. My choice of an interim rental property, as taken from our “legally binding MSA” didn’t matter one bit. Nevertheless, at least we finally had a place of our own. The move occurred a day before Halloween, and while nothing that had been documented or promised in my MSA had yet transpired, that may have been the best Halloween I’ve ever known. It may also be the reason I now despise the very same holiday. Several weeks later as the kids and I were settling into our temporary rental, I learned that the property was only available through the first week of January; ugh… back to square one?

THE “YO YO” TYPE OF EXISTENCE THE KIDS AND I HAD BEEN LIVING WAS BOTH CHALLENGING AND STRESSFUL, BUT WHAT OTHER OPTION WAS THERE? MY GEORGIA LEGAL COUNSEL HAD TOTALLY FUMBLED THE BALL AND SEEMED HELLBENT ON CAPITULATING TO AL’S GEORGIA ATTORNEY, THEN A NEWLY APPOINTED JUDGE. I SHOULD HAVE SEEN THAT COMING GIVEN THE GOOD OL’ BOY GLYNN COUNTY, GEORGIA MODUS OPERANDI.

Mercifully due to my perseverance as well as the constant encouragement of my California legal team, I’d located another home less than a mile away from the original property which I loved, and it was already “in play,” with both Al’s as well as his legal counsel’s approval. I felt hopeful once again. On November 19th the subject home on Moore Road in Montecito went into escrow. After my sister, Viv’s intervention with the Geno real estate mess and subsequent threat, she referred me to a well-known local Montecito agent from within her company’s vast network of offices, and it was agreed that my real estate representative would participate in the purchase on my behalf, but Al would retain negotiating rights. As such, my agent and I met with a property inspector on December 2nd and performed an exhaustive inspection, for which I was financially liable. I was thrilled and didn’t hesitate for a moment at the additional monies I was obliged to pay, even though once again the terms outlined in our MSA were not followed. Four days later, on December 6th, my Georgia legal team informed me that Al had notified them he was planning to renegotiate the terms of the Moore Rd. purchase. With great apprehension, I waited for what might come next. Nine days later (12/12) Al unilaterally cancelled the escrow, leaving the sellers, realtors, and me furious, but with apparently no recourse, as Al claimed he was financially in ruins due to a New York investment gone horribly wrong. When the revelation was made, the emotions coursing through my being were an equal combination of disgust and despair. In addition to being incredibly disappointed at the news, the timing was disastrous with Christmas just 12 days away and 19 days from having to vacate our current rental. Two words come to mind… “shit show!” Crass right? Yes, but it was also true and so very warranted at the moment.    

The kids and I had been planning a road trip and getaway to Lake Tahoe for the Christmas holidays with my Mom, as well as my two younger sisters and their families. It was the one bright spot on the horizon which we were all looking forward to. In the past, our home had always been the setting for major holidays. Yes, prior to the divorce we, the Capones, always had homes which could (and did) easily house and entertain any, or all, of the assorted members of my family, as well as Al’s eldest daughter Maren, and a wide assortment of other guests who frequently visited. As that was no longer an option, and because none of my family’s homes could accommodate our 12-person crew for overnight stays… my Mom, two sisters, their husbands, and I all decided to “chip in” for a “VRBO” in Tahoe. Al had declined to take advantage of the custodial arrangements contained in the MSA regarding his time with the kids thus far, also waiving provisions for the upcoming holidays, and while I felt badly about his apparent disregard for our kids, having them with me was the greatest Christmas gift I could have hoped for. I wasn’t exactly sure how the next few weeks would play out, with a hasty move due to occur directly after our six-day respite in Lake Tahoe, but there was no way I could take another positive event away from my kids; I’d find a way to make it work. 

The holiday getaway was a much-needed break complete with a knee-high type of “White Christmas,” snowboarding, ice-skating, and a huge group effort exerted towards making “Merry, Merry” for all in attendance, especially the six kids who absolutely reveled in the gathering. The trip wasn’t without a few glitches though. With great apprehension I answered the phone on the eve of Christmas Eve, but considering it was my Georgia legal counsel’s name (I’ll just refer to him as JM) staring up at me, there wasn’t much choice. My association with “JM” bore zero resemblance to the kind, caring, and respectful rapport that had been established with my trusted California counsel, Sorrell Trope, but because “JM” was the lawyer who had ‘represented’ me through the Georgia Mediation and subsequent MSA, he was still involved in the devolving series of events which had occupied the past four months. The news he shared wasn’t good, nor something you, me, or anyone else would want or expect to hear while spending Christmas with their kids and family after a year that seemed straight from hell, but as bizarre as this next statement may sound, bad news on Christmas Eve had become something of a tradition.

OUR ROBLAR HILLTOP PROPERTY HAD PLAYED HOST TO MOST EVERY HOLIDAY OR SIGNIFICANT FAMILY CELEBRATION FOR THE 15 YEARS WHICH PRECEDED THE DIVORCE. IT WAS ALSO THE PLACE I CALLED HOME FOR THE LONGEST DURATION OF MY LIFETIME AND WOULD NEVER SEE AGAIN AFTER AL’S FRAUDULENT FILING OF DIVORCE IN GEORGIA, DESPITE THE MSA’S PROVISION THAT I COULD PERSONALLY PACK UP MY COURT-AWARDED PERSONALTY AND BELONGINGS FROM THE PROPERTY MYSELF;

THAT NEVER HAPPENED  

For as long as I could remember, every year right around the same time… Christmas Eve, or very late on the day before, a Sheriff would manage to buzz his way in through the main gate a mile down the private road from our hilltop home, and enter the 100 acre enclave from the formal gated entrance on Roblar, before making his way up the road leading to the secured approach to our 22 acre estate atop the hill. Year after year this occurred, and somehow, it still always managed to catch me off guard. It was tough to comprehend and even more difficult for me to explain to our children as well as any others assembled for the holiday, why Al was once again “being served” on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t like the reason for the visit varied; the source of the “service” remained one of life’s few constants. As it happened, Al had committed to paying for his ex-wife’s lifetime health insurance in their divorce, which occurred sometime around the early to mid 80’s, but close to two decades later he still loved to pull the same devious crap, refusing to make the annual payment unless his “ex” forced the issue; hence the annual Christmas Eve Sheriff visit.  

The unexpected and unwelcome Christmas Eve phone call from “JM” in Tahoe that December following the divorce wasn’t about health insurance, but it was nonetheless unsettling. “JM” called to relay that Al had just filed a lawsuit in his home state of New York accusing two men of embezzlement and fraud. He continued droning on about this being the reason Al was allegedly unable to make the Moore Road property purchase, and that this new development would surely make the rest of my Settlement Agreement only that much harder to enforce. Buzzkill… 100%, but I had become accustomed to that too, especially from that one particularly unpleasant source. “JM” seemed unable to detect anything terribly substantive about the document, other than Al’s new legal filing was doubtless going to further handicap me and my pursuit of all that was promised in the “MSA.” He obviously had no interest in either examining or dissecting the nuances of the document he was describing. Instead, he seemed more focused on questioning and maligning my every move. It was that very dynamic which led to “JM” being continuously eclipsed and overshadowed by a true legal legend throughout the entire divorce proceeding.  That’s tough stuff for someone with a very over-inflated and sensitive ego to tackle, but while “JM” dealt with what I can only guess was self-loathing, I was trying to reconstruct my children’s and my very untenable lives after signing on to the Settlement Agreement which “JM” had overseen, negotiated, and encouraged me to accept. At the risk of being redundant and referencing hindsight again, it’s ironic, but not quite comical when considering the annual Christmas Eve Sheriff’s visit which I just detailed… that “JM” had failed to provide for my own health insurance needs in the MSA with Al. It’s no wonder I felt absolutely no respect for the man.

WHILE “JM” ATTEMPTED TO DELIVER THE BASIC NUTS & BOLTS OF AL’S LEGAL CLAIM OVER THE PHONE, HE HAD NO IDEA WHAT I SAW IN THOSE SAME PAPERS ONCE I WAS BACK FROM THE HOLIDAY REPRIEVE AND HELD THE DOCUMENT IN MY HANDS.

The first thing that caught my attention was the date in the top left-hand corner showing that the document was faxed from Al’s home office. Next, I saw the word “Affidavit” which prompted me to skip through the pages to see whether there was a Notary’s Seal at the back verifying the validity of the information. Then after going back to the first page, I fought to catch my breath while reading the words which practically leapt from the page at me, begging for attention, and were succinctly spelled out in Paragraph 2. on the first page.  The words stated… “I am by trade an architect who left New York many years ago to pursue my career in California, which is now my home. Although I have for many years resided full time in California, (EMPHASIS ADDED TO THOSE LAST 11 WORDS) I continued to retain my lifelong friend, Ed Fox, an accountant based in Rockville Center to manage my financial affairs.”

The document went on detailing Al’s allegation that he had essentially been swindled out of assets, in the neighborhood of $10 - $15 million, leaving him financially ‘lighter,’ than he was just a few months earlier. The story and ‘legalese’ continued, and while trying to wrap my mind around all that I was reading, the questions firing at rapid speed through my head were a mix of mystery peppered liberally with a whole bunch of Al’s crazymaking brand of crap. Still, I already knew after listening to my Georgia dipstick of an attorney trying to explain the mess over the phone a week earlier in Tahoe, that he’d never be able to wrangle his way around or through whatever game Al was playing this time. If, right about now, you’re thinking I have completely lost any sense of decorum or ladylike behavior, you are 100% right. But at the time, while I very well may have been thinking some of those thoughts, I hadn’t yet been hardened enough to say them aloud. That changed. Although, I do still try to temper my comments depending on the audience or the situation, because the situation I just described is what stirred my ire, I owe you, my audience and readers, an apology.

Now, let’s get back though to those 11 words from Paragraph 2 referenced above, and maybe you’ll understand my “gutter mouth” and poor attitude a bit better?  Quick recap: Al’s very OWN WORDS professed, “Although I have for many years resided full time in California” blah, blah, blah.  It’s right there in print on a formal legal document which Al created, had notarized, and filed in a court of law NOT even a full four months after the divorce. Prior to focusing on that single sentence though, it feels appropriate to point out (again) that I had just spent, or more accurately wasted, an entire year and upwards of $250,000 (which I didn’t have) for legal representation in two states battling Al, regarding the proper jurisdiction for our divorce proceedings.

The next item that got me a teensy bit ‘bajigigity’ (the usual spelling and pronunciation of course) was that Al’s new lawsuit and Affidavit was filed in Nassau County, New York. That type of gall takes either an extremely over inflated ego or a huge pair of “cojones?” If you know the meaning of that last word in quotes, again I’m sorry, but having a son-in-law of Hispanic heritage would seem to indicate I’ve probably overheard some “guy talk” around the fire pit from time to time. Plus, is it just me or does it seem ironic, not to mention moronic, that Al filed an (alleged) Embezzlement lawsuit in the same state and county, where this particular Plaintiff (aka, Al) was served with an Embezzlement lawsuit 15 years earlier by a Saudi Arabian Prince? All I’m going to add, is that it was surely Al’s ego which directed that move; it wasn’t “cojones.”

Next issue… where I wrote, “blah, blah, blah” above, try inserting the rest of the sentence the way Al phrased it in his legally filed Affidavit: “I continued to retain my lifelong friend, Ed Fox, an accountant, based in Rockville Center to manage my financial affairs.” Most of that sentence is the one part of Al’s document which is entirely true, which is something I’ve not been able to say about any other words that had left Al’s lips over the past 19+ years, and likely far longer. But I digress; let’s look at Al’s “lifelong friend, Ed Fox, an accountant based in Rockville Center,” who managed Al’s financial affairs. In previous posts (like “The List, The Accountant… & The Lobster from 12/6/23) I’ve simply referred to him as either “the accountant,” or “K. Ass,” but because I’m referring to Al’s own legal Affidavit right now, I certainly don’t want to misquote a pertinent fact. As such, I’ll respect the document in question and leave it at that. While I’m unclear about the “lifelong” part of Al’s statement, I remember working side by side with “Ed Fox” sorting and filing paperwork in Al’s offices during the pendency of the embezzlement lawsuit which Prince Bandar bin Fahd al Khalid served on Al three months following our marriage. I don’t remember ever meeting Ed Fox prior to that time; there was always another accountant-type hanging around named Cohen, but I don’t know where he went or what happened to him? Albeit another brief detour, that phenomenon became a very familiar scenario in Al’s world if you stuck around long enough; people were for the most part interchangeable. Tennis pros, car buddies, contractors, real estate agents, drivers, “Art connoisseurs,” house staff, sketchy wheeler-dealer types, business partners, and from what I know now… even the girlfriends were pretty much interchangeable, if not disposable. But as far as I’m aware, there were only the two of us wives; yet even that’s been called into question by a couple of Al’s kids from time to time. It makes you wonder about the man in question, doesn’t it? It certainly should have concerned me, but I had gotten too caught up in the feigned charm that Al was so exceptionally good at lavishing on his targets, that is until I became just one more pawn in Al’s game of life.

UNTIL HE WASN’T.

Back to Al’s lifelong friend and accountant, “Ed Fox;” I was painfully aware of his presence in Al’s world. The “Bruno Kirby” look alike would appear from time to time at Al’s behest to berate me and admonish my “wildly extravagant overspending.” So too, he had been present during our two days of mediation just four months earlier, leading to the suspect and utterly bogus Settlement Agreement, which I would curse for the next nine years of my kid’s and my life. And because he, “Ed Fox” had prepared and likely ‘doctored’ the numbers on every legal document throughout Al’s and my year-long divorce proceeding, as well as Al’s tax returns and God only knows what else, dating all the way back to Bandar and the Saudi Prince’s embezzlement suit. “Ed Fox” had to be intimately familiar with the new disaster and embezzlement mess which Al “suddenly” found himself aggressively litigating. To quote the Affidavit and Al’s own statement, “I began investing a substantial portion of my net worth with another Fox client, an attorney, and real estate developer named _____.”  I’m not going to mention the name here, but when I got to that part of the document upon my original reading, my mind was blown. The moment I saw the name of the alleged offender, I thought I must be going insane. The name was that of one of the same lawyers who originally represented Al in Prince Bandar’s embezzlement suit all those years ago… “WTF?” You can’t make this shit up. Oops, I did it again; sorry. But seriously, try to wrap your mind around the size of the ginormous mess that had been dumped on my proverbial plate. I mean how do things work in Al’s world, since he clearly doesn’t reside in the same world I do? There could be no doubt Al had previously met the “defendant/lawyer” from this new lawsuit, since the dude represented Al in an eerily too-familiar lawsuit 15 years earlier. That Al had gone on to investing “a substantial portion of net worth” with the same lawyer, now Defendant at the suggestion of “Ed Fox” was no big shocker. “K. Ass/the accountant” always seemed to insert himself into the middle of all Al’s suspect dealings.

What I didn’t know about my ex of 19 years, husband of 17 years, and father of two children could fill an encyclopedia, but after many years, I did know enough to be afraid. With that fear in mind, I got to thinking about the reaction from Al’s very New York, stereotypical Italian “union worker” buddies from his Long Island oceanfront club, and how they behaved when they heard about the way Al’s former Oyster Bay office manager had worked together with the Saudi Prince to facilitate the devastating lawsuit, which financially crippled Al for a time. I’d never personally heard such overtly threatening language like that before; you know the “kneecapping,” bodily harm type of injury one hears about and sees in movies? That’s what was happening at Al’s Crescent beachfront bar, and it was disconcerting to say the least.

After reflecting on that brief recollection, and considering the threats I had received from Al’s goons myself, how was I supposed to deal with the ever-present reality and migraines that Al’s crazy making and revolving door of legal action created? Nothing was likely to disappear or be “settled” anytime soon?  While tasked with carrying on the business of ‘real life’ and trying my damnedest to continue raising two kids, hoping to instill a semblance of security and normalcy when it had become very apparent that nothing about my life or history was anything close to sane, much less normal, sounded utterly daunting. Somehow, I had managed to create a very insular, safe type of home and life for our family, but that existence was/is not only long gone, but obviously very far from the dystopian type of life which Al was/is more than capable of imagining, surviving, or worse… accepting.

I couldn’t or wouldn’t do that any longer.

I’ve been circling this recurring theme for the past five years, but no matter how many specific instances I recall and share with you here on DearEasyDiaries, I’m left wondering about the end goal and the “why?” Where am I going? Originally, I hoped this outlet might provide a hint of inspiration for other “out-spouses” or anyone going through troubling times, but now I see an even greater purpose for the experiences I’ve endured and was recently offered an opportunity to do just that. I mentioned this briefly in my last post, but I think it’s finally time to accept that my work and true purpose demands expansion. It’s not my intent to leave you hanging with unanswered questions or unresolved storylines, but it’s time to dial down on the bigger picture if I ever hope to be truly effective.

Because I was banned permanently from Instagram and Facebook in 2021, at what I believe was the behest of a now-disgraced politician, after his very aggressive, environmental lawyer/brother-in-law threatened me on Instagram for calling out what I felt were oppressive policies of the same aforementioned politician, this forum and my presence as @deareasydiaries on “X” are my only ways to connect with a wide, varied, and receptive audience. I deeply respect and value connections with many types of people, and the opportunity to expand such discourse feels both tremendously compelling and genuinely authentic. That’s what I’m seeking now, so while future posts may be sporadic and somewhat unpredictable for a while, there’s sure to be more in the future for this “out-spouse,” and I’m eager to share it with you! Stay tuned…