Six days before the scheduled court date, I received a handwritten letter by certified mail. Considering the circumstances surrounding the demise of our relationship, its contents were not surprising:
“Dear Ms. Ryan:
This letter is being written to you to inform you of your negligence and irresponsibility concerning the property purchased by you on February 20, 2001 [sic] at 2717 Confederate Boulevard, Lansing, Michigan.
As of this date, the expenses on the property are in the $8,100.00 range, for which you are liable. You can get in touch with me at the above address by mail or leave a note inside the house.
Any possibility of your settling this debt prior to our court date would be greatly appreciated.
Yours truly,
Jonathan S. Collier”
“‘Yours truly’? Obviously enough, Jonathan needed a course in writing professional business letters,” I thought. “And, ‘leave a note inside the house’? I haven’t had a key to the property in three years! What the hell was he thinking?” Clearly, he wasn’t. The request merely solicited a chuckle, and I somberly shook my head.
As an organized individual, I already had the pertinent documentation; still, I made beaucoup phone calls and physically ran myself ragged over the next several days, scrounging up every tidbit of additional documentation I thought might be useful. Additionally, I requested a personal day from work on the day of the hearing because, as a migraine sufferer, I knew stress was a definite trigger for me – and seeing Jonathan again would be extremely stressful. It was a wise decision.
I found myself wondering if he’d actually show up for the hearing he demanded. Knowing that his cohesiveness, his functionality, was dependant on his state of mind on any given day, I wasn’t sure what to expect. In all honesty, I’d learned to expect nothing ordinary. While the contrary was tempting, I decided I would do everything within my personal ability to keep his schizophrenia out of the courtroom – I promised myself I would be professional and let the judge hear the truth for himself. (Although I silently decided that if he pushed, I’d shove.)
The hearing was held at a local magistrate’s office not far from home. Timing was crucial: I wanted to arrive early, yet, not too early, as I surely didn’t want to interact with Jonathan before the hearing. I arrived at 8:45am; Jonathan was already there.
Directed to the courtroom, I approached what I knew to be the defendant’s table and arranged my paperwork on the desk: one row of papers for my defense of the suit he had filed and another for my counter suit. I was ready.
The Honorable Judge Martin entered the courtroom, and we stood to be sworn in. “Be seated.”
The judge began: “Mr. Collier, I’ve looked over the papers you’ve filed; you’re suing Ms. Ryan for $8,116.50. You’ve stated that you’re requesting 50% of the mortgage payments for the past three years and 50% of the sewer and refuse charges for the past three years. Additionally, you’re suing for the rental of a lawn mower for three years and for rental of a storage facility for three years. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jonathan replied.
“And, Ms. Ryan, I do have record of your counter suit in the amount of $4,682.56 for moneys owed regarding property closing costs, an appraisal fee and, also, moneys owed for unpaid rent by Mr. Collier. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor, it is,” I concurred.
Leaning forward, the judge requested information. “Mr. Collier, please explain the reason for your bringing these charges.”
“Ms. Ryan has been negligent and irresponsible with regard to the mortgage payments for the past three years,” Jonathan began.
Addressing both of us, the judge queried, “I’m assuming you jointly purchased a property; the address of the property is that of Confederate Boulevard?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” came the simultaneous response.
“Mr. Collier, do you have a copy of the mortgage?” the judge asked.
“Yes, I do.” Jonathan approached the bench and handed the document to the judge. “I also have a copy of an agreement between the two of us that states that ‘both parties shall equally contribute to the monthly mortgage obligation, utility expenses, and maintenance costs associated with the real estate’.” (Number 5)
“Do you have a copy of the mortgage, Ms. Ryan?”
“Yes, I do, Your Honor,” I replied.
“How long did Ms. Ryan live in the property, Mr. Collier?” questioned the judge.
His response was returned with a snap. “She never lived there – not one day.”
“Very well,” the judge continued. “Do you have a copy of the sewer and refuse bill?”
Again, Jonathan approached, handing the judge his documentation.
“And do you have a copy of this, Ms. Ryan?”
“I’d like to see it, if I may.”
The judge handed the papers toward me, and I approached the bench, studying the documentation. With my response, I offered a nod. “I visited the Sewer and Refuse Bureau on Friday and received a similar printout, Your Honor. Thank you.”
“You’re also suing for rental of a lawn mower, Mr. Collier?”
“That’s right. I had to keep up with the lawn every week. ‘Had to keep it mowed so the neighbors wouldn’t complain’,” Jonathan laughed.
“Have you attempted to contact Ms. Ryan to resolve these issues?” the judge inquired.
Jonathan’s reply came quickly. “Yes, I have, Your Honor.”
“And how did you attempt to contact her?”
Jonathan’ shoulders puffed and a slight smiled appeared. “I sent her a certified letter.”
“Do you have the green receipt she signed?”
“Uh, not with me; I think it’s out in my truck.”
“And when did you send this letter to Ms. Ryan?”
Confused, he stumbled with his reply, “Uh, I don’t remember.”
Continuing the line of questioning, the judge asked, “A year ago? A few months ago? A few weeks ago?”
“Ummm, a few weeks ago,” Jonathan erroneously decided.
I really wasn’t expecting things to unravel so early in the hearing, but Judge Martin apparently noticed the inconsistency on the black and white paper as if it were a red fireball.
“It says here that you’re suing for rental of a storage facility. Why is it that you feel Ms. Ryan should pay for rental of a storage facility?”
Jonathan barely skipped a beat. He lifted his head, smiling confidently. “You see, Your Honor, someone sprayed a toxic substance into the house. It’s everywhere; it got all over my belongings. I had to remove everything from the house – the house is uninhabitable.”
“Are you alleging that Ms. Ryan is responsible for this toxic substance?” inquired the judge.
“Uh… well, someone is. I don’t know whom, but someone is,” he rebuffed.
I had heard this version of his story before, during the Summer of 2002, when he telephoned my sister – several states away – relaying that he believed I had sprayed some sort of toxic substance throughout the house. I simply lowered my head and shook it sadly.
“Have you had someone come in to clean up this toxic substance or to find out what it is?” the judge wondered aloud.
“Well, not exactly. It’s just not safe for me to be in there,” Jonathan pleaded. With a sly smile and jerking his hands in a chopping motion, he further explained that, in addition, someone had put bits of fiberglass into the ductwork in the house, with the intent of its being blown throughout the house. “Clearly, someone intentionally tried to harm me, knowing how dangerous fiberglass can be when breathed.”
An unexpected chuckle escaped my lips, and I immediately raised my hand, covering my mouth. Judge Martin quickly turned his head toward me, and I turned my hand in a stop-type motion toward the judge, mouthing the word, “Sorry”.
“Well, Mr. Collier, where is it you’ve been living?” was the next question posed by the judge.
With a bit of embarrassment, Collier acknowledged that he’d been basically living out of his vehicle for much of the past two years.
The judge moved on. Turning toward me, the judge asked, “Ms. Ryan, do you have any questions of Mr. Collier?”
“I sure do, Your Honor. Additionally, I’d also like to present some information and documentation regarding Mr. Collier’s suit before moving on to my counter suit, if I may.”
*
We had been in a relationship almost six years, and I felt I knew Jonathan well when we made the joint purchase of a small house. With the exception of the large furniture and kitchen appliances, nearly everything had been moved into the house when the undetected, smoldering volcano erupted.
I recognized that something had been amiss in the then-recent months, as Jonathan seemed to be exhibiting signs of depression. Although I hadn’t noticed it in earlier years, that particular winter had been a repeat of the previous one. I had seen some documentaries and also read a few articles; he seemingly suffered from SADD (Seasonally Affected Depressive Disorder). Even so, I assumed it was because he had yet, again, lost his job.
We had spent several consecutive days renovating one of the upstairs rooms at the house, so we decided to take the day off and spend it in the city. That day, for the first time in months, I saw Jonathan smile. The mood had been refreshingly light and jovial; it was a good day – one that I would ultimately archive as being the last.
Having arrived home well past the dinner hour, I headed to the kitchen to forage for something for us to eat. Jonathan sat down at the kitchen table and, suddenly, his mood changed. He had such a serious, contemplative look on his face; it was as if someone had flipped a light switch.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Uh… nothing,” he replied.
“No, something’s wrong; what is it?” I pressed.
“Ummm… I’m just curious what you meant when you said you were going to kill me.”
My mouth fell to the floor. “What! What the hell are you talking about?” I stammered.
“You sat right there at the kitchen table and said you were going to kill me,” he calmly explained.
I was flabbergasted, could hardly speak. “When? What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense!”
“It was a couple months ago. You said you were going to kill me. At the time, I thought you were kidding, but I’m on to you… You think you’re slick, don’t you? I know you’ve been poisoning my food for months.”
The words that flew over the next few hours remain jumbled in my mind, at best. The most significant thing I can remember is the fact that he tried to convince me that perhaps I had a multiple personality disorder – that, perhaps, I simply didn’t remember wanting to hurt him.
“How could I possibly hurt you? I’m so in love with you!” I pleaded.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Jonathan retorted.
A few days later, I had gone to bed early and, exhausted, immediately fell asleep. Jonathan came into the room a short while later and sat on the edge of the bed. Even though I was asleep, he simply began talking to me (a bad habit he had adopted) until I awakened.
“When I was in the military, we used to have this thing we did, kind of like a hazing… you know, when kids are new? We would wait until they were asleep, and we’d prick their skin with needles and, in the morning, they’d tell us that they dreamt someone was pricking them, and we’d laugh at them,” he rambled.
“What? It is really important for you to tell me this right now?”
Jonathan laughed, defiantly. “Oh, you bet it is, and you’re going to listen.”
Why don’t you tell me what you’re trying to say?” I begged him, trying to get awake.
He said, “I know you’ve been pricking my skin at night with needles while I’ve slept. How long do you think you can keep pretending I don’t know about you?”
I couldn’t believe my ears; this was absolutely too much for one person to handle. I threw the blankets back, jumped up out of bed, and grabbed my coat. As I crossed the room, I looked back over my shoulder urging, “You need help!” I stumbled into my coat and, sobbing, went out onto the porch.
It was early March, but I was unsure if my convulsing body was indicative of the outside temperature or, rather, it was simply that my body was resounding, yet, again, with uncontrollable tears and could take no more.
In the weeks that followed, I cried more tears than I ever dreamed one person was capable of crying. I also didn’t know what I was going to do. We had just purchased a house together, for Pete’s sake!
I humbled myself and finally telephoned the attorney who had coordinated the settlement for the house, urging a meeting. Confused and sobbing throughout our meeting, I explained the recent chain of events. He revealed several scenarios and, ultimately, advised that as long as Jonathan was paying the mortgage payment that I should do nothing. Besides, he added, “You were wise to ask me to create the addendum, and I included every detail you requested. That document covered nearly every conceivable pitfall.” He further advised that if I were to encounter a stumbling block, we’d address it then. Today was the day.
“Very well. Proceed, Ms. Ryan.”
