Chapter Twenty Eight An Opera in Three Acts But with Five Parts
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| this particular ex – husband then had The DEhuman Right to force onto me his own design for … “a program of mental therapy” –––– had I indeed assented to any such deal in order to try and win back even a bit of “permitted” or “legal” time in my Truemaier Boys’ lives!
I love to imagine –– although it is impossibly difficult in past history or with any such future within my lifetime to come up with there ever existing such a place on the Planet –– where the tables of “family” court – ordering dicta might be turned, … might be flipped and reversed. That is, where the women designed and decided upon such agendae and programs of mental therapy in which their ex – husbands, in order to have in their lives such breathing beings as the full – term products of their haploid spermatozoal cells, had to participate. And complete! Not to mention … where these women would even be thought of as “allowed the choice,” or not, to wield this insane power suchlike over the men! There came a point only late in our relationship where I began to actually think that I might be able, even for just a little bit, to trust Dr. Singh –– so I told him of my plan for the lithium. I told Dr. Singh but made no promises to him. I simply stated that I wished to keep speaking with the individual and family counselor, Mr. Keith Log, for as long as I wanted and for as long as Mr. Log was able to keep me on as a part – time, hit – and – miss kind of client of his since the money was always an issue with me and since my visits to Therapist Log were to no extent whatsoever at all covered by my medical insurance through the University. At least after 2½ years and one car accident without it, I now had health insurance! Yeah, a used, navy Chevy Celebrity Eurosport wagon which AmTaham had found for me just before Ol’ Black came into my life … shattered! I had been forced off an Ames city roadway onto the shoulder embankment by a man changing lanes –– changing lanes before he looked over his right shoulder to see if it were safe to do so. It hadn’t been. He did not signal and was, in point of fact by turning into the lane in which I traveled a couple of car lengths behind him, headed straight into my driver’s side doorway. Inside that split, split second in which a person has to strategize on escape maneuvers before crashing, I remembered that I had insurance on my so belovéd, new – to – me! station wagon –– but none upon my person. It is state law in Iowa for vehicle owners to possess at least liability insurance in order to be able to drive their cars legally but not for the owners, nor for any other people for that matter, to carry health insurance on themselves, upon their own bodies! Driving that wagon alone, I jumped the curb to elude his impact upon my personage and swung the wagon around in an arc of about 45 degrees so that its passenger door and frame’s support column slammed into the lamppost before it, with me still at the wheel totally and entirely untouched, came to an immediate stop, of course. I remember seeing the young driver’s mouth still wide open as he entirely failed to steer out of my lane and back into his own original one. He was just gawping and gawking at the misfortune he had just caused me while not at all navigating his own vehicle back out of my thoroughfare so that I possibly could have moved back from the easement onto the street and avoided, up there, the various signposts and light poles. The frame’s column came to rest only a couple of inches from my right shoulder caving inward as it did with both passenger – side doors following it. Had anyone else been riding alongside and belted in those passenger seats either in front or in the back, then I would not have even been able to initiate this course of action because those people would have certainly died. And if I had not been able to, then … I surely would have. I received a shocking, a stunning telephone call from Zane informing me on the early evening of Thursday, 09 July 1992, that he was speaking to me from … my mother’s kitchen, from Mehitable’s! She apparently had wanted to see him during the summer and, of course, fearing Herry, had paid for Zane’s flight herself. Zane did not know that I hadn’t at all been told of his coming, his innocently believing that Herry had “made all the plans” when, in fact, Mehitable had only spoken once to Herry before Zane’s arrival at the Eastern Iowa Airport. Zane was to stay until another Thursday one month later, the 06th of August, and to daily work at his and my cousins’, Wyman’s and Amanda’s, hybrid seed corn business just outside of the Burg there. No money accompanied Zane –– but a letter did. A letter to Mehitable from Herry detailed how she, my mother, was to prohibit all contact between Zane and his own mama. Zane whispered that he had not given it to her and that he wasn’t going to. He never did. In addition to the three, whirlwind weekend ones to the Burg where, when there, I slept in the back of my newest wagon, the 1986 Ol’ Black Eurosport, the last visit I had with Zane before Trial Three commenced I took off work to drive the five – hour round trip it is from Ames to the Cedar Rapids Airport and back that last Thursday my darling eldest graced Iowa. * * * * Grace, Frieda, László, Linda, Adam and Abraham all personally geared up with me for the last week of August 1992, when Trial Three, the Part Four of The Opera, was about to get underway. Fifteen people were either lined up or subpoenaed to appear –– including Ms. Twyla Smith, the Boys’ barber, who had lost her shop and been forced because of its fire into retirement. Mr. Varry Wussamai I knew was going to be a hostile witness, but what I so did not know ahead of trial or of my subpoenaing him was that he personally was quite acquainted with and very familiar to and friendly with Judge Harley Butcher! While Mr. Varry Wussamai lived in Ames, he hadn’t always. Apparently he had actually grown up and gone to school, even worked at sign – making for a time, in the same hometown as daJudge himself had! Absolutely astounding to me was the fact that through the process of pretrial Interrogatories and Production of Documents, I found myself informing all of my friends the day before Trial Three that Herry had … just that day … finally gotten back to me, through Shyster Scheisser of course, his answers and that my friends should be expecting not one witness to testify. For the side of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, the Boys’ dad. Discovery had revealed in these replies back to me that Pettifogger Shindy Scheisser intended to call NOT ONE WITNESS to the stand – NOT EVEN HERRY, the Boys’ father himself, –––– who wielded complete control and power over them and over me! I stated in a specific document submitted in petition form that mine were “children in need of assistance” from ‘the Court’. Not only had I been denied a guardian ad litem for the three Truemaier Boys when I had so petitioned for one for them –– in early March 1992, even before AmTaham was dead –– by way of my giving ‘the Court’ the names of four different lawyers from which it could have chosen one! for the Boys, all of the attorneys male and all for whom I would have myself paid, but I also had had during all of this pretrial shit … my SpaChezResort Sixth Floor Hotel medical records stolen by Terrorist Tormentor Herry! I use the verb “to steal” because for a year –––– for a mother – fucking year before the date of the trial’s August 1992 beginning –––– I had, every single last day of the month, reminded myself –– and then further remembered –– to telephone the Medical Records Department and warn them all there about a certain attorney whom they could expect to darken their door seeking exactly that: my medical records! Even if The Fucking Shyster possessed in his hot little fist or in the hands of his hottie paralegal assistants what looked to these records’ keepers to be an officially sanctioned subpoena, all stamped proper – like and sealed, even then, the workers did not, I assured them, have to hand my private documents over … just then. I told these people repeatedly, I told them over and over and over and over … every single month … for a mother – fucking year, that I had a legislated right to submit to ‘the Court’ a piece of pleading known as a “Petition to Quash Subpoena” … first! –– and that the records’ personnel did not have to, right away then, give over to this lawyer or to his lackeys one goddamn sentence of my confidential papers! So. Then. Every month’s single last day through a dozen of them, the director of the medical records room pledged back to me –– she did –– that she would get on the horn just as soon as this grievous breach to my privacy and confidentiality loomed, contact me at one of half a dozen or so telephone numbers with which I’d supplied her and let me know –– so that I would have the 24 hours I was, by law, entitled to –– to file such a petition to quash it. She didn’t. Scheisser’s sweeties appeared, and over to them went every last mother – fucking page of my private medical chronicles. The paralegals were in and out in less than an hour and had strong – armed out with them … all –– absolutely all –– of my 2½ weeks’ worth of Hotel Sixth Floor spa data! The written information garnered during the savagery of those extra days and days and days of hospitalization with which Herry – Daddee had browbeaten me … through his folie à deuxs with ‘the Court’, with daJudge and with Sheriff Stout. And for which holocaustic and gutting thuggery of mother – fuck … I was still paying out at the rate of $15.00 a month in order to try to –– someday –– retire this medical debt! I told the medical records director I was stunned. She replied, “Well, for $15.00 I can make you a copy for yourself –– if you’d like one.” Of course! Of course, I had to have my own friggin’ copy! I had to know what about me “officially,” however inaccurate and outright mother – fuckingly wrong it was, Dirty Herry and Equally Deceiving Scheisser now –– “had privilege to” –– and its knowledge therein! And?! ! ! And to possess same, that is, to own for myself this “medical” fuck all about me! I had to, then, up and mother – fuckingly pay for every single, scripted, er … scribbled … line of it –– as well ! ! ! Where in any of this … is … The Right Thing?! Justice?! Justice for mother?! About three years ago an Indian woman, Ms. Tsianina Snowball, asked me when I recounted this belief of Professor Schmidt’s to her … the one about judges, before any freakin’ piece of evidence is even first heard or seen by them, having already made up their “minds”, … er I mean, having already readied themselves … “to enact The Laws of the Land” as to exactly “how” these men want the outcomes “to be” … aaah, to be tweaked and twisted, that is, “Did you notice the expression on the judge’s face when all of you walked into the courtroom that first day of trial? And then the first thing every morning of it after that?” What she meant was “the Look.” Had I seen each day’s initial “Look” shot from Judge Harley Butcher over to Herry and to Mr. Scheisser sitting there at their own table on daJudge’s left side? “The Look” that Native Americans know so, so well when they, too, … especially when the women and the many mothers among them who are single, appear before daMan in the courtrooms of the Great White –– Controlling –– Fathers? Not until she asked me this –––– years after Part Four had vanished into antiquity –––– had I realized that, indeed, I had seen this thing she termed simply “the Look.” I had soooo seen it! Every single day of the five days, first thing, too, as he strutted up to take his high – backed, black leather throne behind the glorious wood –– just like Ms. Snowball had indicated! Since I was no good at silent, sparring smoke signals and Ms. Tsianina Snowball certainly was, maybe I hadn’t beheld it before. Maybe, and most likely, I hadn’t noted it before because I was still soooo frickin’ stupid: I still had faith in the literally mother – fucking justice system and about which this naïveté of mine on such silliness Grace had soooo tried to warn me! On a white tablet of lined paper I wrote the heading “Big Issues” under which they were listed: “Herry’s acts of keeping me away from the Boys and out of their minds,” “Herry’s acts of economic sabotage and harassment,” “Herry’s and Fannie’s acts of lying and perjury and deception before and at time of Trial Two including withholding from custody evaluator Carrie Canard everything about The Eight Pages,” “Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor’s September 1990 decision was not supported by and was, indeed, contrary to the ‘evidence’ presented wherein the Boys’ best interests were not at all served and there has been a permanent material, unanticipated change from it since anyhow.” Some brief, some of them not so short. All of them true and not too hard to figure out! Owning exactly ‘that’ about which women of certain personage Actress Cybill Shepherd spoke, I strolled into a Storm County, Iowa courtroom controlled by one Judge Harley Butcher then on Wednesday, 26 August 1992, just as confident in my abilities and in my knowledge of them as I was in … possessing the power of the actual facts of … ‘my case’. So. I began. With my organization for the Big Issues, I began: i) witnesses, ii) exhibits and iii) necessary documents for the issues. The witnesses given here in no particular order but called to the stand in a very structured and precise one were Herry – Infatuated Carrie Canard, Therapist Keith Log, Grace, László, Linda, James who was one of Mirzah’s friends from Kate Mitchell Elementary –– with his own mama’s permission of course, Passive Aggressor Varry Wussamai, Other – Mother Frieda Chicken Guthrie, the Boys’ barber Ms. Twyla Smith, Mr. Dave Henderson who was the 69th Street mail carrier in Urbandale as well as Jesse’s football coach and a person who many times had himself personally witnessed Denying and Perjuring Fannie Issicran McLive smoking cigarettes around the 69th Street bungalow when the Boys had been forced to live there, my Forestry boss Dr. Joplin, a counselor with whom the Boys had visited and liked talking to Mr. Lance Rowe and besides myself, the most infamous of folies à deux, Nottingham’s Sheriff McLive and the Kingdom’s Lord and Master himself, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier. I wanted two of the witnesses to bring documents along with them to the Truemaier Boys’ and my third trial, The Opera’s Part Four, this process requiring then a special summons called a subpoena duces tecum which I had also done up and correctly served the two –– including in plenty of time. Fifteen of them total then –– the witnesses –– and none of them, not a one of them a man with whom I was rendezvousing and trysting as a profligate caballero of any flavor in my life. Because there were none! Still. Still two trials later and initiating number three, I soooo took to heart Mr. Jazzy Jinx’s admonition: NO men! Not even the hinting, drifting waft of one! None whatsoever! And there had not been! Most certain I was of the exhibits. They cannot lie. I had notarized affidavits from all three Truemaier Boys. I had Zane’s and Jesse’s personal journals. I had letters home to me from the Boys. Twelve pages of my own testimony from the September 1990 trial, a page of guidelines detailing my requests to ‘the Court’ in view of the changed circumstances. I had a notarized, three – page affidavit from the reporter, Ms. Abbey Gaffey, of the notoriously nefarious, front – page and headlining September 25, 1990 Ames Tribune article. Of course, I had that mother – fucking article itself plus all of the letters which the Tribune’s editor had received because of it. I had telephone bills, both of Herod Edinsmaier’s and of mine plus the billings for the 800 telephone number which I had secured for the Boys and through which conduit they could call me from anywhere, a transcript from an audiotaped telephone conversation with Mirzah, a detailing of the sudden rash of harassing phone calls which László and his partner, Jude, kept receiving at their country home, the threatening letter which Herry – Daddee sent to Therapist Keith Log, a copy of the ratings of West Virginia schools, Urbandale High School Principal Druid’s affidavit and Grace Portia’s affidavit. Of course as well, too, the Opprobrious Eight Pages: the evidence in a modification of custody – case which is that infamously necessary “material change of circumstances” and is, in the hoo – hahs’ legalese jargon, … The Smoking Gun’s Absolute Truth. The most significant of the crucially needed documents was a copy of ‘the Court’ ’s denial back to me after my request for the appointment of a guardian ad litem to represent Jesse Truemaier, Mirzah Truemaier and Zane Truemaier. Of nearly equal weight, I thought, were the copies of the Boys’ journals and their letters home to me, the Ames Tribune article and Ms. Gaffey’s affidavit chronicling the entire generation of that article, Principal Druid’s sworn statement about how he’d come by possessing said article “on me,” and Herry The Daddee’s written threat to Mr. Log. The Wicked – Smart Blonde in … ‘the Court’ ’s … room had my ducks all in a row and was more than confident and strong to go. The first thing … after his gaveling us all down in to “order” … for which I asked ‘the Court’, daMan, daJudge Harley Butcher, … was the production of a document to me from Mr. Shindy Scheisser … well, one truly from Herry. I yet needed to receive … an unaltered hard copy of The Smoking Gun … the Eight Pages! I already had several copies of it, of course, but I wanted to see if Herry or Herry and Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive or Herry and any other of his folies’ folks would try to change it in any way. I told Judge Butcher that this request had been part of my formal pretrial Production of Documents’ petition, something which I was fully and legally entitled to receiving … and to receiving before any actual first day of such proceedings! –– but which perversion – riddled and – chronicling record in Herry – Daddee’s own scripted jots had not yet been given over to me from the Employer Edinsmaier – Shyster Scheisser folie’s duo. To which statement of mine the extremely raucous, the very “Shindy” Scheisser accusatorily screeched as, beside him, the Mightily Mother – Fucking Herod Edinsmaier snidely and silently sat smirking, smirking, smirking and Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive took up her discriminatory and soooo, so male – identified, subservient position immediately behind Her Man in the right wing –– while … all of my witnesses for the morning had to seat themselves … sequestered … outside in the courthouse’s hallway, “We don’t know, Your Honor, to what Legion here alludes with this request of hers. There is no such thing. There is nothing to produce. Dr. Edinsmaier categorically denies anything like that ever existed. There never was such a set of pages so there are no copies of it to be given over to her or to anybody else, Your Honor!” Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s employed shamster, using no title and last name for Dr. True of course, had just deflected the ‘Real’ Doctor’s lying and deceit away from The Daddee and … onto, instead, … me! This, Jury, is your lovely American family law court system. “Truth? Justice? O, for cryin’ – out naïveté … hardly!” In my mind’s ear, I can –– now –– hear Grace Portia blisteringly detonate. It is that simple. It truly, truly is. To lie and to deceive, depending upon who you are and upon what your pedigree is, in an American court of family law, … that is literally all that it takes. Because he can. Because he is a male and he is a pillar. “Next item up for business. Let’s move on then,” and more of The Look fired from daJudge to Herry and to Mr. Scheisser at their table, from daMan who, in essence, has just spouted off these “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up … we don’t have all day” words! “We have to listen to the friggin’ Blondie – Cunt rant cuz The Law says we have to –– but when I see you’all on the first tee this afternoon for a short round of nine holes, why, we’ll just forget about the Stench of her Trench and enjoy each other’s company around the greens, won’t we, Shindy … Herry?!?!” That was the basic substance behind the Indian’s definition of The Look, “You, Legion True, you don’t have my, Tsianina’s, proverbial Snowball’s chance in Mother – Fucking Hell, Woman! You don’t! You do not! You are ooooone fucked mama.” That was the most angering event of Act Three Part Four: its very opening scene. I had to continue on without at all the “evidence” – exhibit of any of the telling … actually the screamingly smooooking … Opprobrious Eight Pages. The absolutely most ludicrous event, however, arrived on Thursday when that alcoholics anonymous “sponsor” of Herry’s, Mr. Varry Wussamai, arose to take the witness chair. He and daJudge did not, …. but consequentially might as well have, high – fived each other. What they did do was reminisce for over a minute’s worth about nostalgic old times back in Hoo – Hah town or from wherever the hell they’d known each other for years –– before Judge Butcher soooo, so regally pronounced from his power – post, “Even though I know him personally, this man can testify. And he is not a hostile witness.” “Heh heh heh … sniggers, titters and giggles,” all around. Except I … was not laughing. “He isn’t?!” I should have asked daJudge back incredulously –– if I hadn’t been DEhuman and if I hadn’t been … a blonde DEhuman! Mr. Varry Wussamai took the witness chair and proceeded to tell ‘the Court’ about his relationship with Dr. Edinsmaier as I had asked him to explain. Except that in very, very short order and over my vehement objections to his continuing to talk out of my line of questioning and with such a snide and sneering countenance, Judge Butcher allowed him to not only recite all of the 12 Steps of friggin’ aa but to then also back up after he was done with #12 to its Step #4 again and, there … to take my, Legion’s, inventory, with it! ! ! That is, my! inventory according to him –– in his! bloviating! opinion! under so – called oath! With daJudge’s blessing! This –– this mother – fucking testimonial “evidence” –– from a person who doesn’t even know me, who has never, ever spoken at length to me, not even one time, who has never more than grunted in my direction a mere acknowledgement of my presence, who is not a friend of any of my friends, who is indeed my ex – husband’s alleged “12 – step program” “sponsor” because he’s always told Herry what narcissistic, passive – aggressive Herry wanted to hear and only what Herry wanted to hear and is, in all of his daily comings and goings, rather himself a gargantuan failure! at whatever he touches overall! A dry – drunk failure. True it was, he didn’t drink alcohol. But he did not succeed at anything else either. At none of his four marriages! nor had he adopted or fathered even one, small child of whom he was at least aware, let alone, for whom he was an engaged, involved caretaker! And is, today, some sort of a street preacher going around spouting even more patriarchy and more androcentrism and, I am sure, more of his vicious judgments upon us debased DEhumans. Ridiculous! too, had been Mr. Shindy Scheisser’s cross – examination of László the day before –– and about which that night the two of us chuckled away. Except that it so illustrates male fixation, actually their “entitled” obsession –– even inside a “civil” courtroom! of their absolutely having to know about and of trying to control through derision, mockery and through finger – pointing a woman’s movements –– her comings and goings –– or her behavior around … other men! Men other than … the very questioning ones wanting to know and wanting the control of her! Men other than … themselves, of course! László, on direct examination, had answered my question put to him about Herry’s whoooolly unwarranted! search for Jesse of my Havencourt condominium by way of Chris, the Ames cop on the evening of Monday night, 28 October 1991, of, “Did Dr. Edinsmaier, in your opinion, seem at all upset or concerned?” with, … “No. There was no outward sign of him being particularly upset at all about the fact that he didn’t know where Jesse was. It was all very matter – of – fact and very routine and quiet.” On cross then, Mr. Scheisser right off the mother – fucking bat laid into László with, “Where are you employed? And what do you do there? Professor of what? How long have you been at Iowa State? Have you been married before, Sir? Do you have any children, Sir? Now, you have said you have been around the Respondent, Dr. True, many, many times. Would you tell ‘the Court’ about your relationship with Dr. True?” To which László responded, “We have probably communicated on the average of at least three times a week, sometimes maybe more times. Sometimes I have been out of town.” “You are a social friend of Dr. True; is that a fair statement?” “Primarily,” answered László. The clincher questioning came from the quite incredibly noisy Mr. Windy “Shindy” Scheisser not even, not even, half a page into the trial’s transcript [Transcripts of Part Four = Trial Three THERE SOOOOO … EXIST!] on László’s testimony, “And you have a romantic involvement with Dr. True?” “A romantic involvement” is the phraseology used by shysters! I hadn’t known that until that day, my first day, and … my very first … witness whom Lawyer Scheisser cross – examined! “Absolutely not.” The court reporter, a man who worked for only one judge, Judge Harley Butcher, and literally followed him around an 11 – countywide district court circuit! to record |