(Continued)

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: why didn’t I just divorce the shmuck – did I have to whack him? Easier said than done. You know the story. I left a couple times, he came and dragged me back, threatening to kill not only me but my mom if I ever left again. And then there was the response of the cops and the courts.

One time Bruce was arrested after he threw me to the ground outside a five-star restaurant. But he was buddies with the police chief, who personally went to the jail at three a.m. to release him and drop the charges. Another time he beat me so badly I had to go to the hospital. We almost made it to court on that charge, but then the hospital records documenting my injuries mysteriously disappeared, and the case was dismissed for lack of evidence.

By then Bruce had incurred some serious debts with his drug habit. Some really shady characters started hounding him. Bruce bought himself a gun. He just didn’t figure that someday I’d use it on him. Neither did I. Until that night.

That was four years ago, when I was thirty-five. After the shooting, I spent a few nights in the county jail overlooking Donald Trump’s golf course up in West Palm. Finally, the DA decided it was justifiable homicide and let me go. So, I unloaded my Boca Babe lifestyle – the house, the car, the clothes, everything – and decided to start over as far from there as I could. Well, inasmuch as I hate winter and love Florida, I didn’t venture all that far. Just to the edge of the Everglades.

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