Triple Betrayal . . . some governments became organized crime machines

Chapter Twenty . . . the dramatic conclusion to the Shenandoah Chronicles

© Richard L. Thornton, Architect and City Planner

I had anticipated a smooth transition from the marriage from hell into a fairytale-like marriage with a beautiful, wealthy, affectionate French lady. My only concern was being able to eat enough protein to keep up with her! Instead I was cast into the neurotic world of the adult singles scene. It could best be described as a labyrinth, filled with rats. The rats are so busy attacking and biting each other, they don’t notice light coming through an open door.

The last words that I ever heard the Anti-Wife speak to me were, “Well, you have gotten rid of me, but now you have to deal with your father.” Indeed, I learned far too late to protect several women from the Anti-father, who hated women as much as Diana hated me. Both sought to destroy any person or thing that they could not control. Both had multiple personalities.

I now have a complete copy of the several hundred pages of my ex-wife’s bankruptcy proceedings.  They cost me $139, but at least now I know everything I suspected was true.  It is far too late to charge the trustees, lawyers and her with multiple felonies for perjury and fraud . . . but at least I know the facts.

December 7, 1994: Diana refused to sign a real estate offer on the Toms Brook Farm, which will pay off all her and Richard’s debts, plus pay each $110,000. None of the expensive farm, dairy and cheese making equipment was involved in this real estate offer. At this point, Richard planned to move the operation to a section of Western Maryland, which had the same type of soil as the Shenandoah Valley.

December 15, 1994:  Diana Therrell Thornton mailed her petition for bankruptcy for the Federal Bankruptcy Court of Western Virginia then flew to Atlanta International Airport. The only significant personal debt that Diana had was an $8,300+ past due credit card, which she had run up while spending the summer in Europe.  She listed the mortgage on the farm as her personal debt and delinquent . . . inferring this by saying that she had not made any payments since March 1993.  Actually, the loan was current and according to federal law, should not have been listed as security for her personal credit card debt.

Diana did not mention the $125,000+ she held in four Florida savings accounts or the rental income she had been receiving from an occupant of the house.  She also did not mention that Richard was co-owner of the farm or that all of the cheese creamery and its equipment were owned by Shenandoah Chevre, Inc. which was free of debt. Thus, any judge or layman, superficially reading the petition, would be led to believe that this was a woman hopelessly in debt, when in fact, she had cash in the bank to pay all her personal debts.

Escape from the marriage from hell

December 16, 1994: The divorce case is being held in the Superior Court of Tara County, Georgia.  Diana immediately committed perjury by signing a standard affidavit issued by the judge to both of us, stating that she had not filed for bankruptcy nor had any plans to file for bankruptcy.

Diana’s attorney charged Richard Thornton with desertion in order to live with another woman out of wedlock and then asked for me to pay Diana’s legal fees, $50,000 in cash, plus alimony until his client remarries. 

The plaintiff, Richard Thornton presented notarized audio tapes, which documented the defendant asking for a divorce, prior to her going on trips out of state in 1990, 1991, 1992 and 1993. He then provided proof that the defendant had already prepared a petition for Marital Separation prior to his weekend trip to visit his parents in Atlanta . . . and that he had lived with his parents for year afterward. His parents testified that he visited their home with only one change of clothes and planned to return on Monday, but the bank accounts and credit cards had been cleaned out by the defendant.

The attorney for the defendant withdrew that motion then submitted another motion that the plaintiff be charged with adultery with a woman named Teresa Torres and so be awarded the same obligation for legal fees, cash settlement and alimony.  Waving a post card, he said, “I have a seductive photograph of this woman that was hidden in the plaintiff’s dresser drawer, which I wish to be designated Exhibit A.” 

The plaintiff, acting pro se, requested a conference with the defendant’s attorney before the judge’s bench.  Diana’s lawyer eagerly agreed, thinking that the sexy photo had taken me by surprise and I was ready to settle the case immediately in his client’s favor. 

Once before the judge, I asked the defendant’s attorney to look at the postmark on the back of the postcard.  It was May 8, 1970 . . . when I was a junior at Georgia Tech. The judge asked to see the card.  He was more interested in the photograph.  “Nice-ce Mr. Thornton,  I don’t understand why you didn’t marry Teresa.”

I then presented a September 5, 1987 photograph, notarized by the editor of the Falcon Times student newspaper, of the defendant copulating on the office floor of the assistant principal of Shenandoah High School.  I then showed him a notarized January 12, 1991 photo of the defendant copulating on the office floor with the head of the math department at Shenandoah High School.  The defendant’s attorney quickly withdrew his motion.

As we were walking back to our desks, the judge asked me again, why I didn’t marry Teresa.  I told him that she never moved back to Atlanta from Miami. I met Teresa, while collecting for the “Toys For Tots” program in Midtown Atlanta in a Naval officers uniform at Christmastime. We ended up spending the weekend together. She was my first . . . if you get my gist. Ironically, the next week she was arrested for damaging federal property at Fort Benning at an Anti-Vietnam War demonstration and had to serve prison time. I never saw her again, but she sent me several sexy post cards, just before I departed for Mexico.

The judge examined the proposed property settlement, presented in the Divorce Petition.  He asked why it was dated August 2, 1992.  I told him that the defendant had been living in Georgia all summer and taken a job in Georgia.  She had asked that I prepare a property settlement so we could file for divorce in August.  The judge smiled and said, “Mr. Thornton, you really should have married Teresa.”

The judge announced that he saw no reason for this marriage to be continued. If the defendant would sign the property settlement, he would issue divorce decree immediately and let these two people get on with their lives.  Diana refused to sign the settlement. The judge then ordered the defendant and plaintiff to have a signed settlement within two months and return to court.

The Singles Scene

January 14, 1996:  Susan showed up at our Sunday School class again. For a change, she sat down beside me.  “Hey handsome!  When is Cindy moving in with Pookie Bear?”

“She’s not, Susan . . . she headed to prison or in prison.  On December 16, she was arrested for being a big drug dealer and heroin addict. The Commonwealth’s Attorney said in the newspaper that she will be an old woman when she gets out of prison.”

“Richard, she is no drug dealer.  In fact, I wouldn’t have known that she even smoked pot, if you hadn’t told me.  I checked her out thoroughly, after the first time you stayed with her. You do know that practically all the young college-educated women in Virginia smoke pot?”

“Tell you what Pooky Bear, I will check into it. Let’s go over the copy center on Powers Ferry Road and make me a copy of the newspaper article.  Maybe we can at least get her reduced to a couple of years. She is no hardened criminal.  My goodness, Vivi smoked pot all the time, when she was not around you.

“ALSO . . . I warned Vivi about keeping a man in every country, when it was really you, she loved. She thought that if I kept you happy, you wouldn’t care . . . but playing those dangerous games caught up with her.  If she had been at home in April 1993 instead of being shacked in the mansion of a man in England, y’all would be happily living together now in Virginia . . . probably married with two children. Ultimately, she screwed herself.”

“In the meantime, obviously Cindy is out of your life. Actually, I found someone for you in this class.  Do you see that Asian girl over there?  Her name is Juliana and she is 35.  She is Indonesian. Her husband was an American. He died in an auto accident about a year and a half ago. They had two young girls. She is finally ready to date again, so she got a teaching job in Roswell and moved out of her parents’ house.”  

“Her parents are from Bali and live in Dunwoody.  Juliana was born there, but has lived most of her life in Georgia and speaks perfect Southern, complete with y’all. They are close friends with the Reverend Charles Allen, who used to be at Grace Methodist, here in Atlanta.”

“I can tell that she likes sex as much as Vivi and I do.  She is not looking to date around, but wants a man in her life as much as possible, without living together, if you get my gist.  You have gotten use to hot bodies like Vivi, me and Cindy, so you wouldn’t be happy with most of cold fish in this Sunday School class.”

“Sit beside her next Sunday.  If she can look you in the eye, because you are both honest, she’s the one.”

“Now there is one problem.  Juliana is a city girl.  She is not outdoorsy like you and I.  She just might like going camping, hiking, canoeing and skiing. Whatever the case, she will at least last for two years though, because Vivi has trained you well. I know that for a fact.”  She winked at me.

Susan was right on every observation.  Juliana and I were “an item” after just the first date.  Because the white gals in the class didn’t notice her, they were unaware that we had already become a couple by late February, when I came back from a workshop in Natchez, Mississippi and visiting my sister in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

February 4, 1995: A man, who is a total stranger offers Juliana $22,000 to break up with me.

February 17, 1995:  I received my six-month review from the director of the planning department . . . got 5 out of 5. I should be making 2 ¼ times more income on my next paycheck.   Nope, they just gave me a $1000 raise, not $30,000 raise as promised.  The Community Development Director promised a full raise in six months.  This guy was lying through his teeth.  I needed to get back to the private sector.

March 7, 1995:   Elbert Blauser, a trustee for Diana’s bankruptcy petition, was presented a purchase offer for Toms Brook Farm by William Mastrioni, a realtor in Camden, NJ.  It would be six months before Richard or any of Diana’s creditors would even know that she had filed for bankruptcy. The farm was still owned by Richard and Diana Thornton and listed by a Washington area real estate firm.

Mastrioni mainly did real estate work for the Philadelphia Mafia.  He was not licensed to be a realtor or even conduct business in Virginia. By Virginia law, he would have had to present the offer to Richard’s realtor.  Instead, Blauser held on to the offer, never advertised the property for sale, as required by federal law, then lied to the bankruptcy judge, saying that this was the best offer he received.

March 10, 1995: A very pretty Jewish girl in her late 20s, asked to sit at my table in a neighborhood restaurant. She appeared to be very interested in me as a boyfriend and asked to come over to my Roundette that night.

The mysterious gal arrived at my Roundette after dark, knocked on the door and then asked to sit on my couch. She then asked if she could smoke. She smoked the same brand of cigarettes as Vivi and Susan – Benson & Hedges Menthol. When finished with the cigarette, she got up and stood in the center of the living room. Then she stood erect as if making a proclamation. She said, “It is important that you get out of the city as soon as possible. They will kill you here. You must move to the country as soon as possible.” She then smiled and said goodbye.

April 1, 1995: I found a very spacious, two bedroom rental townhouse in sight of Etowah Mounds in Cartersville, GA. It was large enough to hold much of the furniture that I would be moving from my house in Virginia and was across the street from a large city park with a complete range of recreational activities. The park was named after a Mr. Dellinger, who had moved to Cartersville, from the Shenandoah Valley!

It was a sign! The time between moving to Cartersville and December 1997 was wonderful for Juliana and me. We were deeply in love. She did not use drugs. She did not cheat on me. (At least she did not obviously cheat on me like my ex-wife.) She did not have a weird childhood. She loved physical nurturing. She was always a lady. She had two young daughters, but we got along fine. On alternate weekends, her parents would take care of the girls and so then she would drive over to Cartersville for a weekend of privacy for us.

There was one odd thing that I couldn’t figure out. She often smelled like cigar smoke when she drove over to Cartersville. Was she secretly buddies with Susan? Did she secretly like little cigars like Ana and Cindy? She never would answer me when I asked, but I never saw her smoking a cigar.

April 17, 1995: Diana did not show up for the second divorce hearing, but the attorney had with him a signed property settlement. I soon would learn why she delayed on the signing of the property settlement and then not shown up in court.  She had given away $10,000+ in farm equipment and sold about $40,000 of my inherited property during the intervening months.

Of all things, Juliana asked to attend the final divorce hearing. Guess that is a really good way to find out the past of your new boyfriend. The judge quickly granted me a divorce.  As the attorney left the courtroom, he was red-faced and sweating. He said to me, “Mr. Thornton, I never want to see you again as long as I lived.”  Diana did not pay him one cent for his services . . . nor did she ever pay her attorneys in Winchester, VA.  Neither was paid anything by her bankruptcy settlement. She ripped them off, just as she had ripped me off.

I was a free man.  I didn’t know where Vivi, Cindy or Susan was . . . but now was falling in love with Juliana, too. Around strangers and Sunday School, she liked to use her English name, Julie.

I was being robbed my whole marriage

April 18, 1995: As part of the divorce settlement, I was to change the First Union business line of credit loan to a First Union personal loan in my name only.  I was chatting with a loan officer about getting a small loan to pay off the balance, when she surprisingly said, “Mr. Thornton, we are always delighted to make loans, but with this money in savings, why would you want to get loan?”   She had found four First Union Savings accounts in Florida with my and my ex-wife’s name on them. Their total value was about $128,000! Three of the accounts had been started when we lived in Asheville, NC in the late 1970s and 1980s.

My immediate response was to draw out half the balance of the accounts, because it was specifically stated in the divorce decree that we split the remaining value of all bank accounts.  Of course, Diana had long ago cleaned out and closed our personal and business accounts in Virginia.

The loan officer turned the matter over to a Vice President, who immediately began typing up the withdrawal and transfer to my checking account. Then there was a problem.  All four accounts were jointly in our names, which meant that either party could deposit checks made out to the other party.  However, the signature cards only had her name on them.  She was the only person, who could withdraw money from the bank.

I told the Vice President that had just divorced and this money in an account with both our names was never mentioned in her financial affidavit.  Being a guy, he was quite sympathetic to my situation.  Obviously, my wife had been skimming money from our household and business finances for many years.  He agreed to prepare a sworn affidavit, containing all the critical information needed for a perjury conviction along with all of her deposits over a 14-year period.  Later on, the District Attorney refused to take the case, since my wife lived out of state and he would have to go through the nuisance of an extradition court hearing.

April 19-22, 1995:  Juliana and I drove a rental truck up to the Toms Brook Farm to get my personal belongings and clothing.   The realtor let us in the house and gave me a set of keys to the new locks, since I now had possession of the property.  That’s right, either Julie and I, Susan and I or Vivi and I could have moved into the house at that moment.  I didn’t know that the bankruptcy court planned to seize the property later in the year.

I walked into the entry and immediately noticed that a cabinet door on the side of the dining room closest to the kitchen was open.  Looking inside, I was astonished to see the open door of a secret compartment . . . essentially a safe . . . that my wife had directed someone to install without my knowledge.  Inside were numerous bank receipts from her secret savings accounts in Florida, plus a well-worn copy of a book, entitled, A Woman’s Five Year Guide to Winning at Divorce.  I skimmed through the book and was further astonished that every evil thing that Diana had done to me was recommended by the book.

I checked through the cabinets and discovered that all of my family heirlooms that I had inherited long before even meeting Diana, were missing.  That included a sterling silver tea and coffee service from Taxco, Mexico, valued about $25,000.  

Julie found my wife’s diary between two mattresses in my old bedroom.   It blew my mind.  My whole marriage had been a lie.  There were the names of her lovers in Asheville and Shenandoah County.  She had pretended to lose two huge diamond rings, which had been in my family since the early 1800s, but had actually sold them and put the money in the secret accounts.   However, beginning in April 1993 were repeatedly written in with large letters, words that stabbed me in the heart and have been a cross to bear since then.

“Richard’s parents promised me a lot of money for screwing him and getting him to Georgia.  They still have not paid me!”

My own parents had betrayed me. Were they behind the killing of the goats and all the other hell I had been through in Virginia?   That would be confirmed five years later.

Eventually,  Diana (wearing sun glasses) arrived with a Shenandoah County deputy and ordered him to arrest me for breaking into her house.  I showed the deputy the divorce judgment.   He turned to her, “Ma’m,  according to this judgment, you were supposed to have YOUR belongings out of the house by April 17, 1996.  He has legal possession of the property and could order us to throw your belongings out on the edge of the Back Road.   Mr.  Thornton do you want us to do that?”   I told him no, I didn’t want any more drama.”

By now, it was obvious to me that there were certain really evil men in the Shenandoah County Sheriff’s Department, who had been arrested and then there a lot of men and women, who were outstanding, honest law enforcement officers.

Vivi and the children depart the USA

May 13, 1995:  At this time,  Vivi and her two children were living near Nashville, but she flew to Washington to attend a farewell party for Ambassador Andreani.  She drove over to the farm on Saturday in a rental car to say goodbye to my soul and remember the wonderful summer that we spent together there in 1992.  She and Aimee picked a bouquet of wild flowers and left them on the porch.

Vivi noticed that there was a ladder leaning against the front of the house, but did not see anybody.  She arrived at just the moment that I was a mile away at Bakers Store, getting supplies to make sandwiches for lunch!  Just a few minutes before after her actual arrival and she would have seen me.  I probably passed her car on the way back to the farm. I was spooked by fresh bouquet of flowers on the porch, but nothing else happened that day, so I forgot about it.

May 1995: A man, who Juliana had dated briefly before moving to Roswell, asked her to break up with me. If she did so, he would pay for her and her two daughters to spend the summer touring Europe. The summer would climax with her attending the Mozart Festival in Salzburg, Austria. Juliana played the violin as a hobby and loved classical music. She declined his offer.

June 1995:  Ambassador Jacques Andreani moved back to France.   Vivi has given up hope of ever finding me alive.  Vivi visited the office of National Park Service Director Roger Kennedy in hope that he knew where I was or what happened to me.  He also was puzzled why I suddenly disappeared, but believed that my former wife was lying, when she said that she didn’t know were I was.  He told Vivi that he had planned to offer me the choice of several important positions.  She then flew back to Europe with her children, but remained in mourning for several years . . . not wanting any other men in her life.

Throughout the period from 1993 to 1998, Susan Karlson was trying to find Vivi in France. Vivi definitely did not live in France after leaving the United States, but was in some other country. Vivi is still “mum” with me concerning the years 1996-1998.

Making a US government grant disappear

July 13-16, 1995:  In 1995, the Cobb County, GA government was awarded the largest battlefield restoration grant in the nation by the National Park Service.  In mid-July, I was called into the office of the Director of Community Development and told that I would be fired unless I found a way for the National Park Service to take the money back.  In their sick minds I was a Democratic “spy” who were trying to make the Republican leadership of the county look bad by getting such an honor. Actually, neither I nor the NPS director, Roger Kennedy, were members of any party.  The grant was a reflection of the quality of my proposal, which the Cobb County commissioners had endorsed.  At any rate, I had to use my own money and previous overtime work, to drive up to Washington to make them happy.

Julie went with me.   She sat in the lobby of the National Park Service headquarters, while I met with Roger Kennedy, Director of the National Park Service.   First thing Roger said was, “Well I see that you finally married that French goddess.  She was just in my office last month, saying that she was moving back to France. They say that there is a pretty black-haired girl down in the lobby, waiting on you. Guess you persuaded her to stay in the states?”

“No Roger, I have not seen Vivi since February of 1993.  There was a period of time when we were not able to communicate with each other. After then I couldn’t find her. The lady down there is Julie.  She is Indonesian.”

Roger went on to tell me that I had been offered several positions with the National Park Service in April 1993, including Architect of the National Capitol, but they couldn’t find me. My ex-wife claimed to not know where I was . . . but my records with the Virginia DMV showed me still living on the Toms Brook Farm.

The clerk, who originally graded my application and exams with the Department of Interior had made some serious mistakes. Because I answered that I had never participated in an Affirmative Action Program, she didn’t give me any credit for being a Native American. Also, she did not give me any credits for working in supervisory positions in the private sector, having two decades of experience in historic preservation or serving as chairman for planning and historic preservation commissions. When those points were added, I scored No. 1 in almost every job opening.

Roger suggested that the National Park Service announce that the huge grant for restoring Civil War fortifications is being awarded to Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park, which is in Cobb County, and that the Cobb County Planning Department would be reimbursed for any technical assistance it provide the staff at Kennesaw. That way I could apply my historic preservation skills to the project, without any political fallout from the Republicans.

Say what?

July 17, 1995: As soon as I arrived at work at Cobb County Planning that day, I typed a letter, which described my meeting with Roger and the successful solution to their seemingly impossible demands on me. They were astonished and immediately assumed that I was lying. As is the case to this very day in 2021, the Republicans considered me an eccentric nobody of minimal mental power . . . a loser . . . because I was not rich. The Chairman of the County Commissioners telephoned Roger, thinking that he could fire me as soon as he hung up the phone. Chairman William Burns freaked out, when Roger told him that he first met me in 1990 at a Christmas party in Alexandria in the company of a beautiful French actress.

July 18, 1995: (one year anniversary of employment by Cobb County, GA) As soon as I arrived to work, I was told to go to the Planning Director’s office. There I was presented my annual review, where scored me 5 out 5 on all categories. He was still astonished about my success in Washington. He told me that I could expect to get an enormous raise later in the day.

A few minutes later I was called into the office of the Community Development Director. I expected to be at least given a raise to $74,000 a year. Instead, I was greeted with this statement: (I swear, this is exactly what he said!)

“You are fired. You have 20 minutes to leave the building or you will be arrested. The reason that we are firing you today is that you are doing too good of a job. You would be on Civil Service tomorrow and then it would be impossible to fire you. If you agree to fill out a resignation form, we will give a good recommendation to any potential employer.”

I took the resignation form, knowing he was lying. Relying on the training that US Naval Intelligence had given me 25 years earlier, I returned to the planning office, putting on a appearance of being happy. I gave a thumbs up to the Planning Director and then proceeded straight to the copier, where I copied the termination letter. I folded the copy into as small an object as possible. I then placed it inside my sock under my left big toe and second toe.

I returned the original termination letter and my resignation letter to the Community Development Director. Two Cobb cops were waiting in a side office. He ordered me searched. They told me to take off my shoes. They searched my wallet and every square inch of my body, except under my big toes.

I was then informed that I would get no two weeks notice check (as required by the state) or compensation for the two weeks of vacation time that I didn’t take. This was clearly a malicious attempt to put me in financial peril again.

I left the Cobb County office building incredulous. The County Manager immediately called the Georgia State Police and FBI to tell them that I had been fired and was believed to be dangerous and violent. I wasn’t. Oh did I mention that Cobb County also timed my last pay check to arrive on my birthday? Do you remember an earlier chapter where I mentioned that Satanists like to zap people on Christmas, Easter or their birthday?

I immediately went to the State Unemployment Office and showed them the resignation letter and the one day older termination letter. The lady’s comment was, “Good for you! They are a bunch of evil bastards in Cobb County government, who pull this trick all the time. You are the first person that’s ever outsmarted them.”

I received full unemployment checks, but had to stop them in three weeks. As soon as the City of Smyrna, GA heard that Cobb had fired me, they asked me to be their planning consultant, plus prepare conceptual designs for a revitalized downtown. Five years later, the Urban Land Institute named Smyrna the Outstanding Downtown Revitalization Project in the nation.

September 11, 1995: Police, employed by the US Bankruptcy Court of Western Virginia appeared on Toms Brook Farm as our realtor was showing it. Both he and the potential buyers were evicted. A new lock and chain was placed on the front gate and a sign was put up stating “Property of US Government.”

So, I was rewarded for seriously risking my life for my nation at no pay, by having my farm stolen from me by the US Government. Anybody who tried to place an offer on the property was turned away. I was not allowed to testify in the court case (violation of federal law) and the profound evidence I had that Diana had committed five serious felonies in her bankruptcy petition was “misplaced” until after the case was declared closed. They added the $100,000 of corporate owned cheese making equipment, when there was more than enough money to cover debts and still put money in both of our bank accounts. I did not receive an official notice from the court that Diana had filed for bankruptcy until Christmas Eve 1995. Again, note the timing.

October 5, 1995: Hurricane Opal struck northern Georgia, doing serious damage to many historic structures. I was the only architect in the region, who had significant experience in restoring very old buildings. Beginning in mid-1996, I would remain very busy, working on those buildings for the next six years.

1996 and 1997 – Major historic preservation projects enabled me to continue paying on the joint debts that Diana refused to pay on and still remain out of bankruptcy. These were joint debts that even though the bankruptcy court would ultimately relieve her, would still be my responsibility. There were times that after paying bills, I wouldn’t even have money to buy coat hangers.

March 14, 1997: Diana’s bankruptcy case was finally settled. The court intentionally held the purchase offer from New Jersey for two years, so that unpaid loan payments and penalties would eat up all of our equity. The court refused to let me bid on any of the property seized from me. It seized over $100,000 worth of European dairy and cheese making equipment and auctioned it off for $3000. It paid the lawyers for the Bank of America s $85,000 foreclosure fee, when the property was never foreclosed on. The loan went from being current to being owned by the United States Government, yet the bank kept on ring up the debt toward me, even though I no longer owned it. In the end, $775,000 of real estate and equipment paid $5000 to Diana and nothing to me. What the oligarchs of Virginia were telling me, is that you get nothing for your work unless you come over to our side, the side of Satan.

Cindy returns from hell

June 21, 1996: The new owner our farm, Debbie Butt, was a show dog trainer from Bucks County, Pennsylvania. I don’t know, if she knew it or not, but her next door neighbor in Bucks County was the Godfather of the Philadelphia-Trenton Mafia. She planned to convert the cheese creamery into a dog kennel. One of her American Whippet dogs won best in his breed at the Westminster Kennel Club Competition. She had no clue that the farm had been stolen from me. No good would have come out of me taking out my anger on her.

“Debbie Butt of Toms Brook, Virginia was honored with the 2010 AKC Breeder of the Year Award for her Sporting Fields Whippets at the AKC/Eukanuba National Championship on Sunday, December 5, 2010.  The annual award honors those breeders who have dedicated their lives to improving the health, temperament and quality of purebred dogs.“

Debbie got my address from our realtor. She wrote me a note saying that the estranged wife of one of my ex-wife’s lovers had dropped off a bunch of my tools. They put my things in the barn. Apparently, one of the many activities of my former wife, while in my absence, was to seduce blue collar men in order to break up their marriages.

I drove up there with my new dog, Rob Roy! I was really sad watching someone else occupy the farm that I had created, but what could I do? I had been betrayed by my wife, my parents and my nation.

Afterward, Rob Roy and I drove up to Winchester. I was hoping that the manager of the condominium project, where Cyndy formerly lived could tell me what happened to her.

The manager remembered me well. She had tears in her eyes as she relived the terrible days in December 1993. The manager said over and over again that Cindy was no drug dealer. The only time she even went out at night was when I was there. She also said Cindy was so excited about moving down to Georgia and living with me . . . then those animals in the state police destroyed her life. She told me that all of the neighbors railed at the cops about breaking into Cindy’s house. She was NOT a drug dealer! Then they saw the fake marijuana being brought in and realized that this was political hatchet job. The manager said that Cindy had bought a smaller townhouse at 143 Quakers Walk.

Astonished, I shouted, “Cindy is here now?” She answered, “yes.”

I drove up to the unit as she was sweeping out the garage. She did not initially notice me, until I got out of the truck. She started screaming repeatedly, “Oh God, please tell me it is not the drugs they gave me!” Then I told her it was really me, Richard the Goatherd.

Cindy looked like hell rolled over. The unending prison diet of psychotropic drugs, fats, carbohydrates and chemical preservatives had put about 25 pounds on her. The prison staff had kept her hair cut the same length as mine, but it was beginning to grow out, despite being unhealthy. She was wearing a drab prison-type dress with stains all over. Very frankly, she was now 30 years old, but now looked in her late 50s. I was 49, but most people thought I was in my late 30s or about 40. Her soul and eyes were dead. She did look like a woman about to be executed in a penitentiary. Very frankly, her mental capacity at that point in her recovery was borderline mentally retarded. It broke my heart.

Cindy cried on my shoulders for at least 20 minutes. All I could do was say comforting words and stroke her back. Finally, she quite sobbing and looked more alert.

I told her, “Cindy, this has been 2 1/2 years of hell for me too, but not nearly as bad as you. I am going to buy you a brightly colored dress that is more flattering to you. However, I will have to get it at Goodwill. That’s all I can afford. Is that okay?”

“Oh Richard, sweet Richard, you are the only person other than my parents and those nice lawyers at American University, who have given a damn about me in the past 2 1/2 years. Everyone else treated me like an animal. They put evil labels on people and then believed their own lies.“

On the way over to the Winchester Goodwill Store, I asked her if she would like go on a a date with me at Harpers Ferry. She said that she would love that. She missed the Shenandoah Valley so much. “Cindy, I don’t have any pipes with me, but how would you like to have a Little Cigar Ceremony at the same place that Vivi, Susan and I had a pipe ceremony?”

She grinned ear to ear, “Yes, I would love that too. You don’t know how much I enjoyed our little cigar ceremonies. It made me feel like we were a couple.“

We found some pretty maternity dresses that looked almost new. Someone from the Lutheran church, she formerly attended, recognized Cindy, while dropping off some luggage. She came up to me, said, “You have to be Richard” and put four twenty dollar bills in my hand. She hugged Cindy and added, “Get everything she needs.” I then told Cindy she could go hog wild in the store. She bough casual shoes and hiking shoes, hiking shorts, blouses, sun hats, sexy underwear . . . you name it. We ended up still having $35 to eat dinner with. I didn’t have to spend a dime in the store.

Cindy wanted to change into her new blouse and shorts before heading over to Harpers Ferry. For unknown reasons, she wanted me to stay with her while she dressed. It was all I could do to keep from weeping. Not only had she lost her athletic build, but she has a horrific, gash-like scar across her right thigh, where the stormtrooper had shot her. She obviously had received minimal medical attention.

Her parents did not know about the scar. After I called them about it, provisions for expert plastic surgery were added to the court settlement.

As we sat on the grassy bank, overlooking the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, I tried to learn more what had happened to her. She didn’t even know why she was free. One day, the guards had put her in a wheel chair and rolled her to a large van. The van drove her all the way to John Hopkins Hospital, where she had stayed several weeks. Her brain still suppressed the horrors of December 1993.

Cindy relieved me of one moral concern. I was very much in love with Julie and am by nature, a one woman man. She asked me to sleep with her that night, but only to cuddle her. She was not ready for intimacy. She still had nightmares from being raped by fellow female inmates. We ate breakfast at the Shoneys on I-81 in Winchester then I dropped her off at her townhouse and headed south to Georgia.

I did not go back to Virginia to see Cindy again during 1996. I was in love with Juliana and my memories of Cindy’s appearance in June approached that of being a nightmare. Nevertheless, about a month after my sole visit, I received an extraordinary letter from her mother.

The letter read: “Dear Richard, No matter what you do during the rest of your life, I can assure you that there is place waiting for you in heaven, because what you did for our beloved daughter last month. Until you spent a day with her, we expected to hear at any moment that she had committed suicide. She is a changed person now. She is actually smiling some!”

“Cindy was a sight for sore eyes then. I am surprised that you even wanted to be seen with her. I want you to know that our family is doing everything we can to help poor Cindy get back to the appearance and mental vitality that you knew. We realize that you are probably in a serious relationship, but if that ever ends we want you to know that it has always been our dream to have you part of our family and the father of our grandchildren.“

There was an obligation to the Cindy, I once had known, even if I was deeply in love with Juliana. I made it a point to write Cindy at least once a month and always included copies of the buildings or urban design plans that I was working on. Each month, her replies became more and more lucid. She was undergoing intense physical and mental therapy at Johns Hopkins. Then she announced in January 1997, that she was ready to start taking some easier courses in college. I thought she meant that she was taking classes at Georgetown, but that turned out not to be the case.

The persecution by ultra-right Georgia cops begins

August 4, 1997: I was renting a spacious ranch style house in the Pine Log Community of Bartow County, GA . . . a location highly significant to Cherokee history. On the morning of my birthday, a black helicopter woke me up by hovering closely above the house.

Two days later, I received a eviction notice by certified mail. It gave me three weeks to get out of the house. That’s against Georgia state law, if the tenant is current with rent. A tenant in good standing must be allowed a full month’s notice. I was current and had never even been late. The owners also refused to return my $900 security deposit as required by law.

That autumn I took my former landlords to court. Not trusting at all the magistrate’s court, I took with me the O.C.G.A. and read the laws of the state of Georgia verbatim. The magistrate ruled “that in his opinion, the laws of Georgia didn’t apply in this case.” [Yes, that is exactly what he said!]

Susan Karlson later determined that both the magistrate and the landlord were members of a secret society in the Southeast that is dedicated to creation of a one party police state, dominated by whites . . . The Brotherhood of Patriots. It is still today classified as a domestic terrorist organization by the FBI, but the label is meaningless, when the terrorists are wearing badges or serving as judges.

Cindy’s 29th Birthday

For her birthday on August 15, 1997 I sent framed reprints of the photos of her and us that had been on the wall of the entry hall in her former townhouse. I also sent her a framed 8″ x 10″ photo of the litter of 14 puppies that she said had made her fall in love with me in 1988. She called me up on the phone and giggled like she used to giggle. She said that she first cried, because the photos made her remember how much fun we had together in late 1993 and how much she loved me. A week later, she sent me a photo of my gifts mounted proudly on the wall of her new entry. The photo of the litter of puppies was the centerpiece of all her family photos on the wall.

September 1997: By this time I was on the Bartow County Planning Commission, the Historic Preservation Commission and the Cartersville Board of Zoning Appeals, plus was restoring the county’s most historic landmarks. My mother gave me the money for the down-payment to buy a modest 3BR house with a large fenced yard near Downtown Cartersville. The monthly notes were $300 less than what I had been paying to rent a house.

On the second day in the house, two members of the Sheriff’s Department Animal Control Section drove their truck into my driveway. Both deputies were known witches, who lived together. My kitchen door was open. Rob Roy was asleep and leashed to the screen door handle. Without saying a word they electrocuted Rob Roy, causing him to go in spasms.

“What in the hell are you doing?” I yelled. They answered, “We have a warrant from the Cartersville Police to seize this dangerous dog and have him euthanized (killed) at the new Bartow County Animal Control Center.”

As the two Animal Control deputies drove off with a semi-comatose Rob Roy, I raced to the police department with my Georgia law book. You can not just summarily kill somebody’s pet dog based on a rumor. The dog must be put in isolation and observed by a licensed veterinarian.

I went in the police office and demanded why they had ordered my dog killed. The officer looked through a stack of papers and then grinned. “Mr. Thornton, your dog has been running loose through the neighborhood for the past three weeks, biting elderly people and children. The complaint was made by the grand-daughter of a lady across the street from you. We could lock you up right now for that alone. If I hear anymore of your disrespectful language, I will arrest you right now. “

“Lieutenant Tidwell, I just moved to Cartersville yesterday. It is impossible for my friendly dog to have bothered anybody. The elderly lady, who this girl claims my dog bit, came across the street this morning and asked to pet my dog.”

The police lieutenant’s face grew red with anger. He pointed his finger at me and yelled, “You lying librul sonnabitch, I am going to call that woman right now. The moment she tells me you are lying, these officers here are going to handcuff you and march you off to the county jail. I promise you will rot in jail for at least two months!”

The gendarme introduced himself as a Cartersville police detective, investigating me for a crime. His face grew pale as she said that I had just moved in yesterday . . . was a nice man . . . and had a friendly dog living in my backyard. It turned out that the woman didn’t have any grand-daughters living in the county. The address the supposed grand-daughter used for her own home location didn’t exist. No one by her name lived in the county. Actually, she was the 28 year old wife of a county deputy, but had used a false name in the letter. The police officers still refused to release the dog and said that once they issued a warrant, the dog had to be penned for 10 days. I knew those two witches in animal control would kill him anyway.

I drove over to my veterinarian. He said that there was a provision in the law for him to move the dog to his animal hospital for 10 days. I had to pay board and keep. We did that, but the following Monday, the County Manager, who was my client, ordered the dog released.

That night, to get revenge for me making them lose face, the Cartersville police officers called all my neighbors. They told all the neighbors that I was a “suspected” postal thief. They told the little ole ladies that I was a known “peeping tom,” who went around at night in camouflaged clothing. They told parents of young children that I was a known child molester. They told parents of young women that I was a predator of young women. They told Republicans that I was a homosexual. They told members of the KKK that I was FBI Special Agent Richard Thornton. (He is a real person, but not me.)

These same lies by “law enforcement officers” have been repeated to my new neighbors in every community in Georgia that I have lived in during the past 24 years, since they tried to kill Rob Roy at the Bartow County, Animal Control Center. That includes here in Habersham County, where I live now. Yep, that’s how it all began.

The relationship between Juliana and Richard collapses

Beginning in the spring of 1997, I experienced increasing problems with Juliana’s eldest brother. He had a deep-set inferiority complex, which caused him to seek leadership positions within Atlanta’s Asian community to make him feel like a bigshot. He overtly tried to control Juliana, when in fact, she was a much more adult-like in her demeanor than him.

After happening upon us at the Atlanta Piedmont Park Arts and Music Festival, he scolded me, ridiculed me and tried to humiliate me in front of Julie for wearing hiking shorts to an event where one had to sit on the grass. Had he not been Juliana’s sister, I would have risen up from the ground and pulled his tongue out. From then on, he perceived my civility in front of his childish behavior as being a weakness. He certainly did not realize that he would have been an absolute nobody among the people I formerly circulated with in Washington, DC.

December 13, 1997:  Juliana graduated from Georgia State University with a Masters of Secondary Education.  She looked so happy and beautiful at the graduation. My parents came to her graduation. My mother knew that I was about to propose to her, because she had given me an engagement ring that had belonged to an aunt, who died single and without children.  I was going to offer it to Julie over the holidays. What I initially told Julie is that we should live together for at least two weeks, to see if we get along when it is not just a date.

My architecture practice was doing really well and I had paid off my debts, so I finally had some money to play with. I purchased the Smoky Mountain Christmas Ski Package at the Cherokee Casino Hotel from Christmas Day till New Year’s Day.  I was going to propose on New Year’s Eve.

Before I could tell Juliana about my surprise trip, she announced that she was going to Las Vegas for the holidays with her parents and siblings.  I was not invited.  She did modify the timing of the trip to stay with me a few days before Christmas, but had to be with her children and family on Christmas Eve and Day.

That rang bells from a lesson Vivi had taught me in 1990.  She told me that when a woman is truly in love, she would never want to go anywhere for any length of time without her man being with her.  I cancelled the package, but held on to the ring for a while. How sharply this situation contrasted with the parents of Ana Rojas in Mexico and Cindy’s parents in Blacksburg, VA, who did everything in their power to encourage us to bond physically so we would want to get married.

Susan showed up three days after Juliana left my house, so I wouldn’t be lonely, but we both agreed that we shouldn’t get totally physical, since theoretically Julie and I were still in a serious relationship. Susan did demand PG-13 attention, since she was on a mercy mission with me. I don’t know how Susan knew about the situation, but she did seem to know a lot. She said that my father paid for much of the Las Vegas holiday then gave Juliana’s father $35,000 to give to Juliana for a down payment to buy a nice house.

To both humor me and chide me about my choices of women since her, Susan reminded me that she and Vivi had warned me about never trusting a woman who doesn’t smoke a pipe (Susan) or model for Benson-Hedges cigarettes (Vivi). “You see Richard, if you had taught Julie how to smoke a pipe with you, she never would have gone to Las Vegas without you.”

Susan was a little PO’ed about one thing. She thought I should have invited her to stay with me at the Cherokee Casino Hotel, when Julie declined, and she definitely would have said yes to the offer of an engagement ring with a large diamond. The way I was staying poor after leaving Virginia, she was expecting me to give her a candy wrapper as an engagement ring, not a beautiful, century old diamond. I think that she was only half kidding.

Susan was not terribly PO’ed at me. For Christmas, she gave me a very expensive, high-tech, multi-spectrum PRO-ACTIVE brand electronic bug detector! Since about 1990, I had been forced to sweep all buildings I designed for the covert presence of electronic bugs. It became commonplace about then for organized crime and crooked cops to plant electronic bugs inside the walls of buildings under construction or rehabilitation. However, my analog bug detector was made obsolete by the rapid advancement of computer electronics in the 1990s. Now they were using passive microchips rather than miniature radios. The chips were undetectable with an analog device unless a beam of microwave was directed at them. The Virginia State Police installed the microwave near a building then monitored the radio waves bouncing back from a white van. I took the PRO-ACTIVE bug detector with me in case Cindy’s house was bugged.

Cindy relapses into a very dangerous situation

December 26, 1997: Cindy invited me to spend Christmas with her and her family, but this was the exact time that I had planned to propose to Juliana. As nicely as possible, I declined Cindy’s offer. She instantly knew that I had a serious girl friend. After all, the last time that she and I had been an “item” was in early December 1993! It was a miracle that I was not already remarried and had children.

I guess out of curiosity and wanting to put closure to us, Cindy called me at my home the night after Christmas Day. I was there alone. She repeatedly told me, “Now if it is the wrong time to call, I can hang up.” “No, please don’t.” I told her, “Tell you what Cindy. Let me get into my sleeping clothes and lay down in the bed. It will make it seem like the old days when we used to chat for hours in bed.”

Surprised, Cindy asked, “You are not living with your girlfriend? That’s crazy. Where is she?

Embarrassed, I responded, “She’s with her parents, brothers and cousins on a jet headed to Las Vegas for the holidays. I have never lived with her.”

“What? They didn’t invite you? You’ve been dating her two years and you said that she and her brothers have eaten several times with your parents. Remember my parents invited us out to eat the day after the first night we slept together. They have always been nice to you.” I responded, “Yes, they have.”

“I don’t feel crazy now. I drank three glasses of wine to get up courage to call you. Listen Richard honey. I am at a point now, where I don’t mind you seeing me. I am not as slim as I was in 1993, but my boobs are a lot bigger. My mama suggested that I try inviting you up here on our tenth anniversary of knowing each other on January 8.”

“Fine Cindy! I’ll drive up there. Now I will have to bring my young herd dog, Rob Roy. He’s house broken and sleeps in my house at night. I don’t think that . . .”

Cindy interrupted, “Richard, do you need some money to come up here. The City of Springfield just paid me $150,000 for shooting me. They already had to pay for the plastic surgery.”

“Cindy, I am fine. I had booked six days in a big hotel on the Cherokee Reservation in the Smokies along with a skiing and New Years Eve package. I was going to propose to her on New Years Eve. Fortunately, I got my money back just in time. I have the family heirloom ring right here on my dresser.“

Cindy giggled, “Well, I think that you should offer that ring to a lady, who loves you with all her heart . . . wants to be with you all the time and has parents who adore you, don’t you?“

I told Cindy that the only thing preventing me from driving up there was the heavy snows that usually hit the Valley in early January. She responded that since the Great Storm of March 1993, the Valley had been getting less and less snow. She promised me that she would greet me with a passionate hug and a big kiss.

Cindy asked me if I had plans for New Year’s Eve. I told her no. She said that she was going to call me on New Year’s Eve so we could have telephone sex as the new year begin. Actually, she did not call me until January 4. It was a brief message on the answering machine, asking if I was still driving to Virginia. I left a message on her answering machine, which said, “Yes.”

In the days that followed, I gave serious thought to the grave threat to the future happiness between Juliana and I. Susan was there much of time, but agreed to only have a platonic relationship with me, since theoretically Julie and I were still together. However, Susan immediately observed that unless Julie stood up to her brother, which obviously would not occur due to her cultural inhibitions, I would be walking into another marriage from hell . . . created by her brother.

I could humiliate her brother in front of his family with a thorough tongue-lashing and show of my biceps, but that would break us up in the process. On New Year’s Eve, I did give into our seven year long love between each other and “made out” with Susan . . . as in the first practice session we had so long ago. Susan and I indeed had an odd relationship. She only wanted to be the “the eternally affectionate girl on the side.”

January 7, 1998: A miracle! Throughout the Southeast, we had spring-like weather. The daffodils started coming up. I thought it was a sign from God. We wouldn’t be going cross country skiing, though.

Along with Rob Roy the Wonder Dog, I took the engagement ring with me in my white Ford Explorer. I fully expected to return home to Georgia in a few days to announce to my mother that she was going have a new daughter-in-law . . . a beautiful Virginia Belle from a fine family that adored me.

With nervous anticipation I approached the condominium complex on Opequon Creek. Odd . . . as I approached the gate, I noticed a white Ford Model 350 Cargo Van parked off the side of the entrance road. It had a clear line of sight to Cindy’s townhouse. These vehicles were used by the Virginia State Police to carry out electronic surveillance of residences or businesses thought to be involved in the drug trade. Those idiots! They are still harassing poor Cindy after all that has happened. Surely they didn’t still delude themselves into thinking that she was drug dealer or a heavy pot smoker?

Then I realized that I had only seen Cindy once in three years . . . the previous summer when she looked like a brain-dead, condemned prisoner being taken to Virginia’s electric chair. Would we even remember how to kiss or make love to each other?

I rang the door bell. I heard footsteps, feet shuffling and doors shutting for about two minutes. My heart was pumping fast.

Cindy finally appeared at the door. She looked different that the girl I loved four years earlier, but fantastic. She had a curvy woman’s figure now, but not the loose globs of fat like the previous summer. Her hair was curled some rather than straight . . . also had some blonde streaks dyed in. Couldn’t complain. She looked drowsy, though. Like she didn’t get much sleep and had only been up a few hours.

I expected her to come rushing up to me to almost knock me down with passionate hugs and kisses as before and as promised on the phone. Instead, she just stood there at the door way and said, “Richard, you got here earlier than I expected. Good to see you again. Well, come on in.”

“Hey Cindy! Cartersville is right on I-75, so it only takes a little over eight hours, if you don’t spend too much time for lunch.”

As I passed her at the threshold, Cindy gave me a loose hug, like one gives their cousin. She did not kiss me and turned her head away so I would not try to kiss her. My God! This is how my wife treated me for most of our marriage. Things were going to get worse, though.

I glanced at the wall of the entry hall. The photo of the puppies and of Cindy at Octoberfest were still there, but those containing me in the image had been removed recently. The paint under where they had recently been located was a lighter color than the rest of the wall. Apparently, Cindy had forgotten to remount them before I came.

The living room reeked of the odor of recently smoked marijuana! I was horrified. The “burning hay” smell was particularly strong around her couch. It’s not a repulsive smell, but was quite an illegal smell in the United States in 1998. Cops were arresting people on the street or in their car just for having that odor. In the times that I had visited Cindy’s old townhouse before her arrest, the odor of marijuana was barely noticeable, if at all.

I noticed that there were old fashion box matches at several locations around the house. They had been used recently. I looked closer. They were manufactured by Krone Holzstreichhölzer, GmbH & Co. – Koln (German for Crown Wooden Matches, Inc. – Koln, Germany). How in the world did she get these matches. Had she vacationed in Germany recently.

Cindy was just now cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast. She told me to make myself at home. I could put my luggage in her bedroom and take a shower in the Master Bath. The odor of marijuana from Cindy’s bedspread was overwhelming. Someone had smoked pot there a couple hours ago. I was ready to turn around and go back home. Then I thought . . . if I leave now, they are going to think I am a regional distributor and bust me on some dark highway in Southwest Virginia tonight. Virginia police were notorious for planting drugs in cars that were stopped at night.

Cindy had forgotten to empty the ashtrays on the bed stands beside her bed. One contained her Virginia Slims butts and marijuana ash. Both were fresh. The other contained a couple of butts with a German name on the paper, plus marijuana ash. They were fresh too. She was in a sexual tryst just hours before I arrived.

I turned on my high-tech bug detector. There were audio microphones under each bed stand and a powerful passive microchip signal coming from the drawer on Vivi’s side of the bed. I opened the drawer and I saw enough hashish to put Vivi behind bars for at least 10 years. Geez! How could Cindy do this to herself, her loving family and to me. Just being in her house would get me three years in Virginia prison, plus loss of my architecture license . . . and they would probably kill Rob-Roy, when they busted into her house.

I took a shower to cool off my anger. It helped not to lash out verbally against Cindy right nest to the audio bugs. Cindy said she needed to get in to her bathroom to clean up and get pretty for me with makeup. While she was in there, I swept her entire house with my detector. There was a microchip, hypodermic needle and what looked like heroin in her Guest Toilet vanity. Cindy did not use heroin. Both of us were being framed by somebody high up in some law enforcement agency. My anger cooled off a bit. Then, I found two marijuana bricks in a plastic bucket on a shelf in her garage. Now she was up to at least 15 or 20 years in prison.

One can always replace a bad wife, but it is awfully durn hard to find a good herd dog!

The interrogation

I grabbed Cindy by the hand and told her that we needed to go out on the deck to see the beautiful view of Opequon Creek. She looked at me like I was crazy, so I gripped her hand harder and pulled. That triggered the brainwashing received in the prison to always obey authority figures. Once out in the center of the deck, I whispered for her to get as far away from the deck as possible and face away from the creek. There was a van full of Virginia State Police watching her house and her house was bugged. Her eyes grew big with terror then she relocated as directed.

“Cindy I have always been honest with you, haven’t I?” Yes

“Can you be totally honest with me?” Richard, I will try. I am not the person, you once knew.

“Yes I know. You remind of the single women I met at that Christmas Party in 1990, where I met the French lady, named Vivi . . . trying to look happy, but miserable and lonely inside.” She didn’t comment.

“Do you know who gave your father and the lawyers the surveillance photos, plus put your father and the American University lawyers in touch with each other? No! How did you know about that? It was a big secret.

“That’s because I am the one who gave them the photos.” OMG! You saved my life! Who are you? What are you . . . CIA?

“Did you get a call from Georgetown University on December 27 or 28, stating that your 1993 pocketbook and wallet had been turned into Lost and Found? Yes! How did you know?

“After retrieving the pocketbook, did you walk about a half block before a handsome, smartly-dressed man from Germany stopped you to ask for directions to the Johns Hopkins Advanced School for International Affairs? Did he quickly tell you that he was looking for someone, who was fluent in German to teach East German industrial executives American accounting practices and American business English?” [East Germany had recently been absorbed by West Germany.] Yes, how do you know all this? Have you been stalking me? [Cindy was getting visibly upset, because she knew what was coming next.]

“So this charming German gentleman invited you to lunch to discuss the potential prestigious job in Germany. That extended into dinner at a posh restaurant, which then continued to being a night in his hotel room and a romantic breakfast in the hotel. Right? So 48 hours after you told me on the phone that you had been in love with me for 10 years and couldn’t wait to be in my arms again, you were shacked up with a complete stranger in his hotel room. Undoubtedly, you have had many other men this past fall. Do you remember any of their names? How do you spell the word, PROMISCUOUS?”

Cyndy collapsed into a lounge chair on the deck, crying profusely, but also angry. “Well, Mister Richard, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Meanwhile, you have been laying half the women in Atlanta!”

“No, I have not Cindy and certainly would never consider intimacy with a stranger because of the danger of diseases. Since leaving my parents’ home, I have only dated women in my church. [Of course, I didn’t tell her that there were over 800 single women in our church!] Furthermore, since my first date with Juliana three years ago, I never dated anybody else, until driving up here this week. I have known you and your family for 10 years!”

“There is much more to your story, isn’t it? The German gentleman invited you to a New Years Eve party fairly close to your townhouse. Once he had you boozed up, he started talking about how much fun pot was. You invited him to your house to smoke pot. When you indicated a desire to move on to the feature attraction, he excused himself to go to the bathroom then about 20 minutes later was ready for the feature attraction. He swallowed a Viagra pill in the bathroom. It is now legal in Europe and soon will be legal in the US. It enables a man to go all night.”

Shaking her head, Cindy said that she still did not understand how I knew all this. I told her that I could tell her in 2004. She didn’t understand.

I continued, “I am sure with that pot and Viagara, he gave you an exciting weekend. Then the evening after I called to confirm I was driving up on the seventh, he called you to say that he was falling in love with you, but had to fly back to Germany. However, he wanted to see you before he left. As a going away gift, he gave you that bag of hashish, worth several thousand dollars. He slipped you a sedative that night so that you would sleep like a rock and wake up around noon the next day after he had left for Dulles Airport. While you were drugged, he scattered more marijuana and drug paraphernalia around the house to insure that you would get a 25 year prison sentence.”

“Cindy, very frankly, I would drive away right now, but if would be dark by the time I got to far southwest Virginia. I am certain they would stop me there and toss a large bag of weed into the back of my Explorer. So, the only options I have now is running over to that surveillance van and ratting on you or . . . help you get rid of the drugs and marijuana odor. First thing you’ve got to do is wash the bed linens. While they are in the washer, we will head to town and buy a case of Lysol spray to get rid of the marijuana odor in the house. Then we will head over to Radio Shack to see if they carry one of those new compact security cameras with remote control. Let’s eat at a fast food place this afternoon, because we have a lot to do. A dusk, we will have take Rob Roy for a walk in your backyard down to Opequon Creek, so we can throw all the drugs in it. Let’s hope they float away.”

I told Cindy that she needed to get a cervical smear tomorrow. There was about a 100% chance that her German friend or some earlier stranger set up in her path, had infected her with a STD bacteria or virus, while she was drugged. If the doctors caught the bacteria or viruses only on the surface, they might be able to eradicate them completely. The STD thing is standard procedure, when the neo-Satanists are doing a number on a woman. Cindy was outraged. “Are you calling me a whore?”

“No, I am calling you a fool . . . plus an ingrate for putting me in so much danger, after I provided the photos for getting you out of prison.” Cindy had a pout on her face for the rest of the evening and barely spoke to me . . . except when I told her to be prepared to have her door broken in during the night. Then she called me crazy. However, she did do everything I told her to . . . because she was terrified of going back to prison.

Radioshack had exactly what we needed. It was a Compact Security Camera, operated by remote control that was imbedded in a functioning wall-mounted clock. The SAFE-HOME camera had just been introduced for the Christmas season. It contained high speed black & white film, which produced slightly distorted photos, which were still adequate for use in the courtroom. It cost $280 + sales tax. Cindy paid for it . . . probably because she thought it could be used for recording trysts at a later date.

I insisted that Rob Roy sleep with use on the bed, with his leash tied to my wrist. Almost always on no-knock, night-time raids, police officers around the country shoot any dog they see inside or near the entrance door outside . . . sometimes even Chihuahuas! Rob Roy adored sleeping next to a pretty woman. He lay on his back with his head resting on the edges of our pillows. He did bark loudly when the stormtroopers arrived, but could not jump off the bed. Because I was stroking his head when they were in the bedroom, he did not try to last at them or bite them.

Cindy was in such a state of shock by the dawn raid that she reversed her position about going to her gynecologist for a cervical smear. She came back positive for a type of STD bacteria that back then could be cured quickly with antibiotics, since the bacteria had not become systemic.

While Cindy was at the doctor, I took the surveillance photos to a pharmacy that had one of those new amazing machines, which developed photos while you wait. I then took copies of the most incriminating photographs to the Winchester Star newspaper in Winchester, VA and the Northern Virginia Daily newspaper in Strasburg, VA.

Cindy had a great deal to think about on the tenth anniversary of us first meeting. She had come very close to permanently destroying her life by letting hormones always control her actions. That night, there was zero affection. She mainly starred at the ceiling from her pillow . . . trying to come to grips with the fact that she was no longer a “nice Virginia Belle.”

Recreational use of marijuana by adults became legal in Virginia on July 1, 2021. Adults may also now grow small amounts of pot in Virginia. Hashish, which is the concentrated sap of marijuana is still illegal.

Some date in January 1998: Juliana’s father offered her $35,000 as down payment on a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood, if she would break up with me.  We broke up for a while and then began sneaking around with each other, then openly dating. 

Juliana said something very odd, when we first started dating again. She said that she had repeated dreams of being engulfed in flames while laying on her bed or some sort of altar. Several people, who testified in the Georgetown Hearings, mentioned having the same dream after joining a cult.

The 1998 Winchester Apple Blossom Festival

Winchester is the home of White House, Inc – long famous for its apple cider and apple sauce. In spring of 1998, the Smyrna city council and planning commission members became interested in some slides that I had showed them of Winchester, Strasburg, Woodstock and Harpers Ferry. They thought that these historic towns in the Shenandoah Valley would be ideal models for the future downtown of Smyrna. The city council authorized a small contract for me to drive up to the Shenandoah Valley and thoroughly photograph the streetscapes of those four cities/towns. It would be an opportunity for me to check on Cindy.

Instead of writing, I called Cindy in late March. She squealed with delight, when she heard my voice. I told her about my professional photography project up there in the Valley and checking if she would be available for lunch some time. Then she blurted out, “Richard, I still love you. You have saved my life twice, yet I did you very wrong last January.”

Cindy told me that she was taking some classes, but they were independent research studios, which she could easily skip and do later. She suggested that I drive up the last week in April through May 1st. That was the time of the Winchester Apple Blossom Festival, so I could get great photos of Oldtown filled with people. Flowers would be blooming everywhere. I said okay. Cindy obviously presumed that I had forgiven her and would be sleeping in her townhouse.

HOWEVER, by the time I got up to Winchester in late April, she was obviously in some sort of dating relationship with a man, who did live in Winchester. Upon seeing each other at her front door, she hugged me like a cousin and thanked me for saving her butt in January. She then kissed me like a girl would with guy on the first date, who she didn’t expect to date again. We had a lot of fun in Oldtown Winchester. However, she introduced me to her friends as “a man who used to live in the Valley, who is here this weekend on business . . . no mention of us first meeting in 1988 or her being in love with me for ten years. I got the feeling that the featured events for Friday and Saturday were just her saying thank you for saving her butt twice – nothing more.

Mid-May 1998: About two weeks later, I received an invitation from Cindy’s parents to attend her graduation from the Advance School of International Affairs of Johns Hopkins University in Washington, DC. Also, included were separate RSVP invitations for a dinner in her honor Saturday night at a restaurant in Washington and a barbecue on Sunday afternoon at their farm near Blacksburg. Her mother wrote a note on the back of the barbecue invitation, stating, “we would be honored to have you and Cindy stay at our house for the barbecue and as long as you can remain afterward.”

I called Cindy that night to learn where the nearest inexpensive motel was to her graduation site. She asked me not to come to the graduation, dinner or barbecue, because “she would not have time to give me adequate attention.” I returned the RSVP cards to her parents, telling them that Cindy had not wanted me to attend these events. About 10 days later, Cindy called me and asked if she could visit me in Cartersville, GA around the time of my birthday, August 4th. I said yes.

August 3-5, 1998: Cindy arrived late in the afternoon of August 3rd. It was quickly obvious that she was saying goodbye forever to me, but wanted the parting to be an affectionate one. She was moving to Ithaca, New York in late August. I presumed that there was a man involved, but she said that she was starting on her doctorate. For the first time since 1993, she was very affectionate, probably because she was having second thoughts. I also presumed that I would never hear from her again, but on the evening of August 3rd 2021 . . . 23 years later . . . she sent me a private message on LinkedIn . . . wishing me a happy birthday.

Like me, Cindy had married the wrong person because of being deceived by that person. She thought she was marrying a wealthy, divorced Cornell professor with two cute children, who loved her deeply. What she married was actually, like me, a skilled faker of emotions, who wanted a caretaker for his children, while spent his time with men. She quickly became very attached to the kids and so stayed in loveless marriage that didn’t produce offspring for 16 years. Life is indeed a box of chocolates.

Vivi is rediscovered . . . Susan holds hands for first time

Susan stopped by early on the morning of August 6th to tell me that she had finally discovered Vivi. She had tracked her down to the village where her winery was located. She and her brood of children, who all looked like Vivi or me [not standard French] lived on an ancient farm. A man was living with her, who looked very different than the children, but showed lots of affection to both Vivi and the children. They seemed all very happy. Susan did not make contact, because she did not want to resurrect the many sad memories in Vivi from 1993.

Susan asked if we could “practice” for awhile. I said yes. Just when we were about to . . . the phone rang. It was the Site Director at Etowah Mounds State Historic Site. She had just been given a copy of secret plans to convert Etowah Mounds and surroundings to an exclusive, gated golf course community. She wondered if i could come over and examine them, since I was an architect-planner.

Susan had never seen Etowah Mounds and so wanted to come along. I about fainted when I heard what was going on. A group of extremely wealth cult members had already cut a deal with Governor Zell Miller to lease Etowah Mounds for a dollar a year for 99 years. The existing museum would be torn down and replaced with a much large museum, owned by a private foundation, which presented Etowah Mounds as a Cherokee town. It would be called “The Etowah Museum of the Cherokee Indians.” Cherokees never lived there, but Zell Miller always claimed Cherokee ancestry. His ethnicity is actually a mixture of Jewish and northern European.

The Site Manager herself was from South Georgia and Creek ancestry. What horrified her more was the plans to build a subdivision of million dollar plus houses, which would be immediately adjacent to the ancient palisades of Etowah. The stated purposed for these occultists to soak up “the power rising from Etowah.” Beyond the houses lay a winding 18 hole golf course.

Sandra, the Site Manager, explained the members of this cult have a pile of money for bribing politicians. They are making large contributions to Democratic politicians in Georgia and Republicans in the national government. George W. Bush, especially was getting a lot of their money.

I commented, “Sandra they can’t build this project. It is in the flood plain of the Etowah River. It’s against federal, state and local laws.“

“Richard! The city of Cartersville, Bartow County, the State of Georgia and even federal agencies are firing people, who refuse to sign off on the project. It is being treated as a done deal.”

Susan looked at me and smiled. “Well Pookie Bear, it looks like the dynamic duo of missions impossible is back in business! The truth is honey, I am getting addicted to you. I miss the days when we use to pretend faking an affair at the Wayside Inn. It is getting harder and harder for me to leave you each time. If I am assigned to work with you, I won’t have to leave as much. First, though, you need to show me Etowah Mounds.”

As we went out the rear door of the museum, headed for the mounds, Susan notice a couple of teenagers holding hands. Spontaneously, her left hand grabbed my right hand. I told her, Susan, in all the seven years that we have know each other, you have never walked and held my hands at the same time.

She responded, “I know . . . but I like it . . . we will have to do this more often. “

“Susan, I’ve got a question for you. Did we have a child in 1996?”

She paused for awhile . . . smiled . . . then said, “Yes, a very special, beautiful daughter. She is in a safe place where no one can harm her. She will grow up knowing who her father is and be very proud of him. How did did you know Pookie Bear?”

“I am not near as dumb as I look.” I knew that Susan never told me any more than she wanted to tell me. I let that stand.

“Second question . . . unless I have taught you, you don’t know any practical things that toddlers, children, teenagers and young adults learn. You don’t know any of the movies, TV shows, rock songs, movie stars, TV stars, games and minor events before you were 25. I had to teach you how to kiss and make love. You don’t even know how to dance. Where are you really from? It doesn’t seem to be from Earth.”

She didn’t answer that question . . . then looked like an idea had come to her very big brain.

“Pookie Bear . . . I can use some of my budget to rent us a cabin in the Smoky Mountains, where we can plan our strategy for stopping Satan at Etowah Mounds. Rob Roy, of course, can come too. We can take your boom box and tapes along and you can teach me how to dance! Would you like that?”

“I’d love it Susan! Hey, do you remember long ago in the spring of 1991, when you and those crazy friends of yours at the shopping center church came out to our farm? You put olive oil on my head and then on your forehead, while we were standing in the middle of the pasture? You didn’t tell me it was a Hebrew marriage ceremony. Did you imagine that seven years later, we would end up here in Georgia walking in another place of grass . . . up to an Indian mound?”

“Not really Pookie Bear . . . but I love being close to you more than ever. It was not supposed to happen. It was not supposed to happen. ” She squeezed my hand.

“I’m glad it did . . . Pookie Girl.” I squeezed her hand.