Friday, July 11, 2014

Musical Warner Robins and Kentucky

I wasn't in the Houston, Peach County area of Georgia long before the police began their harassment.  I understood it was a law in Georgia that a person had to be pulled over for a something other than seat belt violation to actually get a citation. My case was an exception. I asked the officer about it and he gave me the ticket anyway.  From then on the Warner Robins area would be a nightmare with police and other locals.

It was this area where musicians began to show up.  My son, Gerry, was an extremely gifted musician in the Atlanta area. He played keyboard and guitar, sang, wrote and composed his own music. He had been playing in Buckhead where folks were donating money to him. He was growing in popularity there.  Both the boys were gifted musicians, yet the older said he could never achieve the level of success in music as his little brother.  Later I would discover that his father's mistress whom he later married had a son who was involved with management of the Black Crowes music group in Georgia.  Music seemed to encompass the situation in many ways.

Georgia was a horror story, but Kentucky would be worse, I'd find. 

I was missing a necklace from landlord, Nell Stumph's Peach County (Fort Valley) rental apartment and reported it to police.  The Peach County police came and wrote up the report. Later I was arrested by that same department compliments of Nell Stumpff in a felony charge that later miraculously disappeared.  It was difficult to get records from them to later, hopefully if I could survive, prove my story.

The Peach County magistrate's offce didn't have my arrest records, so I went to the jail to get them. The jailer said it would "be a while" before she could get the records.   Would it take two hours or two days? I asked her if her filing system was that bad.  I asked her to come and let the receptionist hear her tell me she couldn't provide my records.  Soon the receptionist at the jail said, "Go to the Magistrate's office and get your records." I went  back to the Magistrate's office, and the door was open and there was a person standing there with the records with his arm extended. It was quite a run-around.

Same thing had happened when I went back to Central State Hospital to get those incarceration, medical and billing records. I had been ordered there for 72 hours yet detained nearly 7 days against my will. They were resistant in giving me my records and I told them I was willing to rent a motel room for however long it would take to get them and was prepared to wait indefinitely.  I had all of the records within two hours.

A woman named Sandy Goldschmidt who had bred and shown dogs including Chow Chows. She had rented Nell Stumpff's apartment before I arrived and had moved to the area from Jacksonville, Fl.    She had been involved with a veterinarian there who was also into scuba diving, like my husband.  We had that in common which, to me, scuba diving was a curiosity.  My husband had tried every way he could to encourage me to take the lessons and I continuously declined.

The apartment stood in a field that was several acres.    In the same field, behind the apartment hidden in the woods was a trailer also owned by Nell.  I was later told the property had at one time been a dump area.

An elderly dog breeder from North Carolina, Walter S. "Bud" Samples had moved down to Nell's to live in the hidden trailer.  Bud had been my neighbor when we lived in Matthews, NC (1988-1993)  and was separated and estranged from his wife.  He had taught me much about showing and breeding dogs and was known for his World Champion Chow Chows.  It was through him that I had met Nell Stumpff and Dorothea Carvelas, both of Georgia.

Bud said Nell had granted him use of the trailer as his home in exchange for his construction expertise on the construction of the apartment-kennel and for helping her with her show dog grooming and care.

According to a neighbor (Betty Jo Calhoun)  who lived near the apartment, Sandy Goldschmidt had said she was with Nell Stumpff when Bud Samples collapsed and died on Nell's property.  The story from Betty Jo was that Nell had waited about 10 minutes while Bud lay on the ground before picking up her cell phone to dial "911."  She had given him ample time to die before calling for help.

Things became scary for me at the apartment. Nell was constantly at the door.  Steve, her son who had moved into the trailer after Bud died, had friends in and out all hours of the night. Nell Stumpff  insisted that I keep a gate at the road locked with a lock that had a dial combination.  I didn't want the gate to be locked because I lived there and it was difficult for me to operate it at night when I couldn't see the numbers. She insisted.  There was also a secret entrance to the area through an adjacent brick house that she also owned.  I was later told by a neighbor that brick house was also sharing a water supply with the apartment.

Things became sketchy and with Steve's friends' traffic in and out all hours of the night it became frightening. They were driving large trucks and gunning their engines just under my window as they proceeded back to Steve's trailer.   There was plenty of exhaust fumes coming into the windows.  I also was suspicious that they were monitoring my activity as I saw a blue light in the light receptacle when the apartment was completely dark.  Also, I turned on the fan in the bathroom and white powder dust covered the room as though someone hadn't used the fan since the apartment had been drywalled.  Red Georgia clay mud mixed in with the water was in the pipes when I turned on the bathtub faucet.

Steve Stumpff,  Nell's son, was rumored to be a local drug dealer. One neighbor later said they wanted him out of the area.
Nell had said she put a pan of ammonia into the apartment oven to "loosen the dirt on the sides" as though she was explaining why it was there.  I told her I would get the pan out and tried my best to get her to stop showing up uninvited so much at the apartment. She was bothering me because she continuously visited.  She would ask things like "What happened to your wrist?" I had scratched it caring for the dogs.  It was none of her business.  And the dogs were acting as though they were poisoned, fighting like crazy.

Finally when I got around to removing the pan I noticed it was stuck, and couldn't imagine what it was hung on. It was a broiler pan - the kind that comes with the oven - and she had put the ammonia in the drip pan. Closely inspecting it, I realized it was stuck inside the oven because there was a wire that went through the hole on the end of the pan and was wrapped around the top broiler heating element. The oven wasn't even dirty. It didn't appear to have ever been used, and I wondered why she had imagined it was. I had a mother-in-law like that who imagined dirt, so I figured Nell may be "one of those." But why did she attach the pan to the heating element? It had a green jelly like substance in the pan and I thought that if this was ammonia it must have been there a long time because it was no longer liquid but a gel.  I removed the pan and washed it out.

Later when I  told my attorney, George Childs, about the ammonia pan he asked "Did you get a picture of it?" I said, "No" because I hadn't even thought about it.  Later I wondered why he asked that question.

She had finished the apartment with Bud Sample's expertise, which sat atop kennel runs. It was strange that she had put solid metal on the ceiling of the kennel.  I had never seen a metal ceiling in an unfinished type basement type situation before.

Nell had me go with her to three dog shows while there, one in Augusta and one was in Birmingham and another in Knoxville.  Her son, Steve had cared for my dogs while I was gone.

After things began to get spooky, I started sneaking out of her apartment by opening a window and crawling out. After I saw the blue light, the powder from the fan and the mud in the bathtub and with Steve's friends in and out all hours, forced to keep a gate locked (why?)  living there was pretty creepy.   I figured if they had the doors monitored they wouldn't have had the windows monitored as well. I felt I was being closely watched because Nell was being way too curious.

Nell's preoccupation with dropping in caused concern.  Later when I heard how Bud Samples died, I got very, very frightened.  I had also heard Nell had a boyfriend named "Jim" who owned a local, private landing strip. He had a stroke and Nell used to kindly go and sit with him as he lay paralyzed.  I was also told that Nell Stumpff had "every drug known to man" and her house.  She had bragged she'd spent 12 years in Dachau, Germany with her US Army husband.  It got even creepier as time went on and information flowed.

She kept my $600 deposit when I decided to get out of that situation for my own safety.The lawyer cost $500 and I'd paid her ample rent. It was an expensive endeavor that nearly got me a criminal record. She was working with my husband, obviously.

While I was moving out of the apartment with the help of Darrel Calhoun, Nell and her son,  Steve were downstairs stealing my belongings.  I reported those things stolen to the Peach County sheriff but it did no good. They didn't do anything about it and I was the one who would eventually end up in jail.

After I moved out I went to Jim's son and told him that I wouldn't let Nell sit with anybody in my family and he should probably keep an eye on his dad.  I then rented a house from Michael Living ston.

Landlord Nell Stump took a warrant out against me on December 7, 1998, the same day I signed a lease with Michael Livingston.  She lost control of me and my situation that day, and she knew it.

My son disappeared on December 8, 1998.

I rented the house at 622 Miller Drive. There a litter of puppies was poisoned.  The vet believed it was old venison meat that caused it. I had no venison but had put the pups outside that day in a temporary pen to get some sunlight and fresh air.  That's when they got sick.

Soon after I moved there, a long-haired guy knocked at my door one night and asked for $1.75.

  "I have a flat tire and I need "$1.75," he said.  I handed him $2.00 and told him to keep the change.  It was odd, I thought, a very small amount of money for a flat tire and why did he specifically knock at my door? I needed friends and no more enemies, so $2.00 was little to spare. Later I thought about it........ it was really odd.

I have thought about that for years and it was about the same time my son had disappeared.

My husband had a dispute with my mother when Little Gerry was born over $175.00.  My husband was so angry in that argument he never got over it because it nearly had put a price on that baby boy's head.  It was odd that same number, "$1.75" in a smaller increment was mentioned at the same time that my son disappeared from a car that had two flat tires.  

A neighbor across the street was a musician who had plenty of metal and tattoos on his face and body.  He had dark hair and dark skin. His wife or girlfriend had shoulder length hair that was so blonde it was almost white.   I thought I saw her again in Harrodsburg, Kentucky a couple of years later with the enduring Kentucky marijuana-growing drug gang. It was the hair that was similar and I've thought so man times, it may well have been the same girl–– and the same crowd.

One day a man walked up to my door at Miller Drive and knocked, and I looked out to see a nice looking guy.  He had a gold earring in his ear and a clean "beatle" style cut.  He looked clean-cut and wanted to chat about the guy across the street. He said his name was Buchanan and that he was a musician and had a gold record.  The guy across the street was his friend.  He said he cared for "handicapped" kids in his profession.

Later as he was leaving and after hearing all I'd been through with my divorce situation he mentioned that I didn't need the cops I needed the mafia to get help in my situation. He said, "They can roll up a newspaper and walk in front of you, blow in it and the powder you inhale will give you a heart attack." I think this man was sent to interview me and try and find out what kind of person I was.  I also suspected since he was quite possibly a part of the network that was involved in my son's abduction.

It wouldn't be long until Gordon Bennett of Kentucky would show up. Kentucky had a pretty incredible musical network I'd discover later.

The people who lived next door on Miller Drive had a limo in their driveway with the name "Nelson" on the front tag. They were an African American family and very good and kind people. Once when my landlord Michael Livingston refused to fix the broken air conditioning they wanted me to come and stay with them because the temperature outside was near 100 degrees.

It was a local teenager who lived nearby that Gordon Benn ett in July 1999 had tried to deal with later on in driving the loaded u-haul truck to Kentucky.  Gordon had talked me into going to Kentucky to await the divorce. I knew I had to get out of the state of Georgia and Gordon showed up and I am certain he was sent there.   I figured at the time after all I'd been through everything I was encountering had been prearranged.  If Gordon was sent, I planned to find out by whom and find out what he knew because he just might know where my boy was.  And if this was the network, I could gather information.

My family had been turned against me with lies from my husband and Nell Stumpff, the landlord. I couldn't go home.  I've wondered since who was to be the guardian for me as I stay strapped in a state hospital as for the $1/2 million someone would control. Rumors floated through the family and I didn't need any more betrayals from someone I once trusted.  And they didn't need organized crime sitting on their doorstep.

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

Gordon had offered a local Warner Robins teenager a pound of pot, all the "white pussy" he and a friend could dream of, $100 for each and a bus ticket back home.  The high school kid  declined explaining his parents would be angry because they he had to finish summer school.  I acted as though I hadn't heard the proposition and looked the other way.

I knew I was in trouble. Gordon Bennett of Lexington, Kentucky boasted I should read the book "The Bluegrass Conspiracy."  He had presented the deal but at that point I was in too deep to back away, committed to run with the truck already rented and loaded.   Gordon bragged he had "Brought down the Fayette County, Kentucky sheriff," and later I found the news accounts about the former Sheriff, Lones Taulbee indicating Gordon's involvement and criminal record.  Gordon's felon testimony had helped remove the sheriff. What was this world coming to? Now a few years later, Gordon was a self-proclaimed "highwayman for the mafia" and offering dope and sex to teenagers.  He had also said, while enroute that he had C-4 explosives in his truck, "enough to blow up this entire (Warner Robins) air force base."

The Georgia cops and entire governmental system were pitted against me and they had the keys to institutions, having already tried to lock me away permanently in a state hospital, and convict me for a felony I hadn't committed.  They had made me an organ donor against my will.  At least if I ran I might have a chance to get out of this mess, get the divorce finalized, and use any assets to unravel the network I was up against. With the harassment I was enduring in Georgia, I didn't see any other choices other than to get out of Georgia as fast as I could.

Having never believed the fictitious, flawed stories about my missing son's disappearance and suicide, I hoped to find him.  That would require the freedom and money to survive and fight.  I couldn't go to Virginia because my husband and landlord, Nell Stumpff, had managed to lie to my family to the point they were going to become wealthy guardians.  I couldn't trust them, my lawyers, my friends, the law, or anybody else.

I knew enough to believe it having read the papers they'd signed to put me away and read the legal verbage written by his lawyer, Michael Broadbear.  The only way I could get to the bottom of the dirty Georgia deeds was to be free and maybe I could find a way to do it while living elsewhere, even if I had to run with the Devil Himself.

Gordon had said, "Oh you will meet Loretta Lynn in Kentucky. I will take you over to eat fried chicken at her house."  Maybe not so coincidentally it wasn't long until I met the uncle of the Montgomery brothers, James E. Lay.  He invited me to his lake house in Stanford, and pointed to a camera. Later I would find out that the Montgomery brothers, particularly Eddie, were quite good friends with R.J. Corman.  Rick had helped finance Eddie's restaurant in Harrodsburg that eventually folded.  Odd that I met with the family of very famous Nashville people so quickly.  I was taken to "The Grapevine" bar owned by the Gentry family, and John Michael Mon tgomery owned a farm in the same county where I eventually purchased a farm.  Small world!

There were a lot of country music types in Kentucky. In Nicholasville at the Corner Pocket, there were even look-alikes for folks like Travis Tritt.  Not being a particularly big fan of country music, I knew I would at least have to learn to appreciate it.

Later I was approached on the internet by other musicians as I wrote about the loss of my child–– one Tommy Do yle of NY who said his kids were at Asbury College, Ky. He had a band in NY - "the Evil Rock Band," something like that.  He bragged his band played in the movie, "Pot Luck" about marijuana.  He tried to get me to move away from my farm in  Ky to a condo he said he'd rent me in Fl.  He'd also offered me a job singing at the American Legion in NYC where his band played.  Because of that, I knew to be cautious. The only experience I had as a pretty bad singer was at karaoke.  And from that offer, I figured I was being watched locally where I sang.

I had also been offered a drummer position by John Michael Montgomery's uncle, James Lay of Kentucky. I knew something was rigged then.  I'd never played drums professionally in my life.  So what was going on?  The Montgomerys were supposedly "in" with Rick Corman of RJ Corman Railroad.  Rick had invested in Eddie's Harrodsburg restaurant. Rick also was apparently tight with my husband's boss at the railroad, Phil Ogden, who became a director of RJ Corman.  Coincidentally a Nicholasville farm came available to rent when I was desperate to find a place for me and my dogs. If I walked across the street I would be at RJ Corman's headquarters.

I had never heard of Corman before. His was a small railroad, but obviously in my story, a very important one.  Ogden had loved music, particularly country and loved wearing a cowboy hat.  He'd worn one on the private plane to St. Simons Island not so long before my troubles began.  An Alabama ballast company owner named "Idis" provided the jet for the trip.

Ogden had Canadian connections and he also loved to travel extensively according to Cheryl, his wife. Mike Broadbear, the Atlanta attorney my husband had hired, also had Canadian connections. Broadbear was in with communications people including Randy New who was a CEO for Bell South.  Small world. Atlanta based Phil Ogden being Vice President of Engineering had construction and communications for the entire corporation under him. He was  an extremely powerful man with the demeanor of a small town Southern redneck.  I used to wonder how he got the high level job because of it. I used to wonder how my husband kept his because he was one of the most unliked and unadmired men I have ever known.  He didn't seem to care that he was unpopular, either.

It is still humorous to me, when I think of how stupid they must have thought I was.  How could they think a nearly 50 year old housewife with no experience could be a singer or drummer for a band?  When they made the offers,  I had the same vision of myself as when my husband kept insisting I take scuba diving lessons–– hospitalized in intensive care.

My missing son was a musician too.  Pretty talented. Did they know it?  Both of my boys had played, hung out and worked at the Guitar Center in Marietta. The younger one was writing, composing, singing and playing his own instruments in Buckhead at some of the bars.  They were both talented in music as was my grandfather, father and brother.  The younger was exceptional and had everything to live for.  It's another reason besides all the evidence, I'm sure he didn't commit suicide.

Landlord Nell Stumpff's son, Stephen Stumpff.
It was definitely a drug gang in Warner Robins with Steve Stumpff after I found his record it was confirmed.  Cops, my landlord and my husband were apparently involved with the harassment and false accusations and arrests I endured there.  I was told my husband had visited Judge Spires prior to my incarceration to make the arrangements.  But his name wasn't on the committal papers, because it couldn't be because of the pending divorce. He had carefully explained this to my brother.  He used my brother, lied to him, to my mother, and to my son.

I believe he and Nell were colluding and conspired together, as both contacted my brother and mother  via telephone with awful tales to convince them I had to be put away.  Nell had told my family I had "ice picked" her stove which was a lie.  They both enticed my brother and son help them take care of a bad situation.  The whole thing was lies.  Later when I told Betty Jo Calhoun about it she couldn't believe Nell had done what she did and Ms. Calhoun put her home up to bail me out of jail.  Betty Jo laughed about the stove, she lived next door. She hadn't seen anything ice-picked and knew it was lies.  And she didn't like Nell or Steve and wanted Steve out of the neighborhood, but she didn't need or want any trouble.

I had to respect that.  She was a good person who didn't need any kind of retribution from criminals.  Drug dealers always belong to criminal organizations.  It's a fact of life and this organization has been around a long, long time–– particularly if it involves the players in the Bluegrass conspiracy.

When I returned to Georgia for the harassing phone call charge yet another musician showed up and began a conversation at the restaurant.  He said he had been "lead guitarist for the Searchers Band." Wow! I thought, how lucky could I be to meet somebody like that by chance?  This was in 1999.   I explained the  criminal charge and he offered to bail me out if I happened to be jailed. He was British, had a British accent and said he drove Porsches in competition all over the world.  He confided that he "owned a Caterpillar dealership" in Georgia and had a lot of trouble with the corrupt Cobb County police. They continued to put his drivers in jail.  It was bad for his business. The only person I knew who was involved with Caterpillar in Georgia was my husband's fraternity brother, Buddy Wilfore, who worked for Yancey.  "Maybe it's your competition that's arranging this," I said to him.

Looking back I realize this musician was probably a part of the network.  He was accompanied by his young son, which indicated he'd won custody in his own divorce.   Time and circumstances lead me to believe he was a part of the larger, affluent network I was up against.  Drugs and criminal organization was involved–– and so were musicians.

How could one person survive any of this? How could a housewife who had little to no street smarts and no connections or support system fight them?  They knew the odds were stacked to their favor because they planned it that way.  And they had plenty of money for the battles.

My only objective day-to-day was to survive.  As long as I was still alive, I was winning with the chance of eventually, maybe someday, unraveling their network and exposing it.  Days turned to weeks, then to months and to years.

Eighteen years later with all the fighting, still no real answers or lawful assistance, even with all the documentation that proves incredible corruption, and criminal activities –– even conspiracy.  I was able to prove to my family they had been used, played for fools.  My brother has since died and to be honest the only good thing is that he never found out how badly he had been used and played for a fool.  He didn't need to be hurt any more than he had been because when he signed those papers, he no longer had a sister and he knew it.

They tore what little family I had left, totally apart with what they did.  None of us will ever fully recover from it.

Eighteen years ago is still like yesterday. I relive the arrests, the false accusations, handcuffs, jailers faces, dead dogs–– all those memories of horror and shock live in the front of my mind each day.  I see my son's smile and his face, remember his laughter knowing someday I'll know the truth about his circumstances.

The emotion is still there of having to bear the deceit, betrayal and lies of a man I had trusted for 23 years and of a landlord who pretended to be a friend.  I would never have believed the level of evil had existed in our home for 23 years or that a woman who pretended to be a good friend could be a deceitful, betraying liar with a smile on her face.

I was conned and knew I was up against criminals the day I backed my car out of the garage when ordered by the Cobb County police in 1998.  But I am alive, sane and am proud to have survived and will continue to fight with the only weapons I have available - all that I have gathered along the way, the names, faces, places, incidents, documents, business cards, telephone numbers, pages and pages of documentation:

The truth.

To be continued...

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