The Rich Poor Woman
The woman I’m about to describe is Beth Jamison. She’s a statuesque woman in her mid-forties. At one time she was beautiful. She is still beautiful but living on the street does something to aggravate the aging process. She has over the top make up. Her bright red lipstick went over the edge of her lips and looked smeared. From a distance she appeared to be dressed in fine clothes. As you get closer the clothing is old and tattered. It’s 1984 in Ft. Worth Texas. I’m working the downtown midnight shift for the police department and have recently started seeing the woman around the police station. It’s late fall and gets cold at night. She comes and sits all night on a bench in front of the police station. I generally pass by several times during the course of a shift and also get called to the station once or twice a night. She stays there all night and when the sun comes up, she leaves.
I generally don’t say anything to her but one night I said hello. She responded back with a quick hello while looking down at the ground.
After a few nights I decided to talk to her. As I approached, she grabbed her purse and began digging through it. She pulled out her lipstick and quickly applied it.
I walked up, “How’s it going tonight?”
She looked up and tried to smile, “I’m doing fine.”
“I noticed you sit out here every night. Is everything alright?”
She put her head down, “Yes young man I’m fine.”
“Would you like to go to the shelter? I’ll drive you over there.”
“No. I can’t stay in that shelter. Bad things happen in the shelter at night. All the yelling and screaming. It's like a madhouse, I can’t take it. I just stay on the street.”
I now sat on the end of the bench to talk, “This bench doesn’t seem very comfortable. There are better places down at the Water Gardens (a local park in the downtown area visited by tourists during the day and the homeless at night).”
“This isn’t comfortable, but I feel safe here.”
It finally hit me. She was sitting there because the police department was a safe place. The water gardens are mostly male transients. If she went down there, she would be in physical and sexual danger. What could be safer than sitting ten feet from the front door of a building full of police officers coming and going all night long. It bothered me she was in this situation.
I asked, “How long have you been on the streets?”
“I’ve only been here a few months.”
“So, you’ve lived on the streets in other places?”
“No, I’ve been at Wichita Falls in a mental institution. I just got out.”
I hear those kinds of stories a lot from homeless transients. About then the dispatcher called to inform me of a disturbance call she had waiting which needed my attention. I told the woman I would talk to her later and left. I was used to dealing with homeless people and listening to their stories. Everyone had a story. Most stories are believable, from the alcoholic to the financially ruined family man whose wife ran off with someone else, and a lot more. So many life stories. There are a few that go off the reservation. I had a guy tell me he was Jesus Christ. You hear those stories quite a bit, but this guy actually had a Texas driver’s license with the name Jesus Christ. The birthday on the drivers license was 12-25-58. He also had an out-of-date credit card with the name J. Christ on it and several other forms of identification. I was extremely nice to the guy.
I didn’t realize the amazing story this lady would have. The next night I started the shift and went on several calls including an armed robbery in progress. Just an hour into the shift and I’m exhausted and decided to head to the police building. I arrived and the woman was sitting on the bench. As before, when I approached, she grabbed her purse and began applying lip stick. I decided to sit and talk for a few minutes to catch my breath.
“How are you doing tonight?”
She finished applying lip stick, “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“It’s really chilly out tonight, are you warm enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I never got your name. My name is Steve, what’s yours?”
“I’m Beth, Beth Jamison.”
“Hi Beth Jamison. I was wondering, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you in the institution?”
She turned her head away for a second, then looked back, “My husband had me committed so he could run off with his girlfriend. He took our two kids and left. There’s nothing for me anymore.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Beth.”
She continued, “We were rich. We lived in a huge house on the west side of Ft. Worth.”
As she’s telling me this, I start to realize who she’s talking about. There’s a powerful man named Dan Jamison who lived on the west side. He was a filthy rich lawyer, politically connected, and a local celebrity. He lived in a mansion in an exclusive neighborhood. I made a few calls at his house when the burglar alarm went off and talked with him several times. I never met his kids or his wife. “Are you telling me you were married to Dan Jamison?”
She nodded yes, “We were deeply in love for many years. I raised our kids and kept a happy home.” She started to cry, “A year or so ago he met another woman. He was in love with her. He decided the easiest way to get rid of me was to have me committed to a mental institution. He started telling me things to make me think I was crazy. They were small things. He would tell me something needed done and I would do it. He would come around later and ask why I did that. When I told him he wanted me to do it, he looked at me and told me I was losing my mind. This hell went on for several months. After a while I started to believe I was crazy.”
I’ve seen this before. It’s called gaslighting. A partner drives the other person crazy by telling them lies and making the lies seem real.
She continued, “After some time he had me committed. All I know is they took me to Wichita Falls. With his connections and influence it wasn’t hard. I spent months there and underwent many procedures. They prescribed many drugs, and I don't even know what they were. It was terrible. After an eternity, they let me out. I went back to the house, and it was for sale. Dan and the kids were gone. He apparently ran off with the kids, the woman, and all the money. I have nothing. I searched but couldn’t find him.”
I’m enthralled by now, “Did you contact an attorney? He can’t do that to you. You have a right to those kids and assets.”
“I contacted several attorneys, and it was the same thing every time. No one would represent me since I didn’t have any money and they didn’t want to go up against Dan. I finally exhausted every avenue and ended up on the street. I’ve been here for several months and it’s scary.”
“You don’t have any relatives nearby?”
She hesitated and composed herself, “I had relatives in California but became isolated from them.”
Another gaslighting technique, isolate people from friends and relatives.
She went on, “I tried to contact relatives, but their information was old. I couldn’t find them. They probably wouldn’t talk to me anyway.”
“That’s an amazing story Beth. I must tell you though it’s kind of tough to believe. I hear stories all day long about people on the streets and the fantastic things they do. This story though tops them all.”
She sat there and smiled at me, “I’ve only told my story to a couple of people and none of them believe me. I have proof though.” She pulled a single photograph out of her purse and showed it to me, “This is the only picture I have left.”
It was a picture of Jamison, herself, and two kids. It had been taken maybe four years ago and appeared to be a happy family. I was intrigued.
She stared at the picture, “They took all my pictures of the family, but they missed one. I’m going to show you something else I’ve never shown anyone. I figure I can trust you since you’re a police officer.” She put her hand down her shirt and dug around. It must’ve been in her bra. She produced a huge oval diamond ring with multiple diamonds around the oval. She handed it to me. I felt like I’d found a buried treasure. I just stared for several seconds.
Now she was smiling, “It’s my wedding ring. It’s real.”
I’m no jewelry specialist but I handled enough stolen jewelry to think the damn thing was real, “It has to be at least four carats and worth fifty thousand dollars!”
She said, “The oval is five carats. The total weight is seven carats. The last time I had it appraised, ten years ago, it was worth close to one hundred thousand dollars. It’s a high-quality diamond.”
I was shocked. I said, “Beth, you have to sell this. You could get off the streets.”
She shook her head, “No, if I sell it, I’ll just spend the money and then I won’t have the ring anymore. No, I’ll find another way.”
“You have to put it somewhere besides your blouse. You can’t walk around the streets with a big rock like that. It needs to go into a bank safe deposit box. Please don’t walk around with that thing on your person.”
“I know, and you’re right. I’ll figure something out.”
I was still in shock. I believe she was telling the truth, but the ring story could not get out without a plan to get her off the street. If the street people found out, everyone would be after her. I figured we would move at a slow pace to ensure her safety. I called a lawyer friend of mine and explained the situation. I didn’t give any names or where he could locate her. He said he would look into it. I told Beth about it, and she seemed pleased and waited. I stopped by at night to check on her and we talked about how things could really change for her.
We talked for the next few nights and then my friend called. I got Beth a meeting with a lawyer. I told her to meet me the next day at 2:00PM in front of the courthouse. She agreed. We met at the courthouse and walked a block or so to the lawyer’s office. As we walked in, she looked at me and smiled, “Thank you so much Steve.”
“You’re welcome. Now let’s get you taken care of.”
Beth went in and I waited in the lobby. After some time, she came out and had a smile on her face. I asked, “How’d it go?”
She said, “He told me he would handle it. He’s taking my case and said, ‘I’ll get you some temporary help.’ He thinks I have a lot of money coming.” She reached out and hugged me.
I said, “That’s great news!” As I hugged her back.
She was almost crying, “He said come back in a day or so and he’d have some news for me.”
For the next two nights we talked as usual. On the third night I came in and she wasn’t there. I was concerned and searched for a long time. I checked the water gardens, the homeless shelter, and all points in between. I couldn’t find her.
I called my lawyer friend, and he told me she had come to his office. He gave her money to get a place to stay. That took a load off my mind.
After several weeks I called my friend and inquired as to what was happening with Beth. He said, “She never came back. I gave her money, and she hasn’t been back since. I have good news for her. If you see her tell her to get down here. Jamison is ready to settle, now. She is about to get a windfall.”
I thanked him and went looking for Beth. I searched all the usual places and even started checking the hotels in the area. I never could find her. It was like a Twilight Zone episode.
In my devious police mind I always wondered if the lawyer contacting Jamison alerted him to the fact that Beth was out and had representation. Jamison had the money, the power, and the connections to kill her. Or, maybe, Jamison found her and gave her a chunk of money to go away.
Either way, I never saw or heard from her again. When I think about it, the not knowing bothers me. I like to think she got large amount of money and had some semblance of a life. If the terrible thing happened, probably no one will ever know.
