He slowly puts down his head and sighs. His voice shakes and cracks as he says, “I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“What’s going on?” I ask as I become increasingly concerned. Complete silence falls over the room. I can’t take it anymore and ask again with more conviction.

“What did you do, Gerard?”

“I have been accused of something really bad.” He stands there in a daze, frozen in time.

Impatient for more information, I ask “What is it?”

He pauses for what seems forever and then he looks up. I stare straight into his eyes. He still doesn’t speak, so I shout, “C’mon! What?” My ferocity surprises me.

He drops his gaze to the floor again and walks into the kitchen dividing us by our bar. He can’t look me in the eye as he sputters these words, “I’ve been accused of having one of my clients give me a blow job.” I stand at the bar; gripping the edge tight because I’m afraid I’ll fall to the floor. Sheer terror turns my legs to rubber as I fight the spinning of the room. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The whole room starts to go black except for the small tunnel as my eyes meet his. Am I going to pass out? I muster up enough courage to ask if it’s true, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Did it happen?” He bows his head and pauses for too long. I say repeatedly in my head, this is not real. This cannot be happening! Oh My God! I catch an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

I am dumbstruck. I look him up and down thinking I don’t know this man standing in my kitchen. How could he cheat on me with a client? What did he do to that poor woman? This not only risks our marriage, but his job, as well – his reputation, his dignity. How could he do it? Where was his head?

I steady my legs and slowly walk over to the dining room window. A sick feeling invades my stomach and an incredible emptiness takes over. My lips tremble as I try not to cry in front of him. I can’t look at his face. I’m totally disgusted with his presence and desperately want to leave, but my legs don’t work. I guess, because he just stands there looking guilty.

I can’t say how much time passes, but I hear him ask me, “C’mon, Deb, haven’t you ever cheated on anyone?”

I can’t believe he is asking me this. “No, I have NOT! I would never do that to anyone including you!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

“I would think you should know me by now. But, then again, I thought I knew you, too, and I never would have believed until just a few minutes ago that you could be so deceitful and reckless with our marriage.”

A thought crosses my mind. “How did you find out about this?”

“Someone from work called me when I was on my way home.”

“One of the staff?”

“No.” Gerard barks at me.

“Well, then, who?”

“One of my clients called. Apparently, the one I had “been with” told her friends about what happened, and they encouraged her to go to the Rape Crisis Center to file a complaint.”

Rape. Crisis. It is the first time I think of it in those terms; before this moment I thought he meant this “encounter” with his client was consensual.

“Rape Crisis Center! Oh my God! You forced her?”

“No, no!”

I slowly shake my head in a constant no movement while thinking, did I just hear that? “How can your answer not be no?”

He is quick to respond, “Remember last week when I told you one of my clients wrote a sexually explicit letter to her ex-boyfriend, who she’s legally forbidden to have any contact with?

By now, I am nodding with repulsion while remembering our conversation. I question him,

“I remember reminding you what your ethical responsibilities are as the clinical supervisor. I strongly suggested you turn the letter in since it was a violation of her parole?”

"She’s the one. I never turned the letter in. I know I should have, but I really didn’t want to get her in trouble. She’s been trying to get her life together.”

I am too traumatized to even speak by this point. My husband tries to explain himself innocent.

“It was in my desk this afternoon when we, when it happened. She told the police she went along with my advances because she was afraid if she didn’t I would turn the letter over to Drug Court and she would go back to jail. So it’s considered coercion, I guess. But honestly, Deb, I never threatened her with turning over the letter – I thought what we did was consensual. Whatever, it wasn’t rape; you have to believe that!”

“So, she knew you had the letter/evidence in your desk and you ask for a sexual favor. How do you think she was going to feel? You risked your career, your reputation and your marriage for that?”

“No, you do not understand.” While defending himself.

“I cannot believe this! You reluctantly agreed you would turn that letter in to your supervisor the next day! You know you are obligated to. I don’t know what to think – why didn’t you just turn it in? I’m supposed to believe that holding on to that letter didn’t have anything to do with what happened today? “

“It didn’t – you have to believe me. I made a mistake. But I didn’t rape her!”

This is one million times worse than I first thought. My husband, who up until a short while ago I trusted completely, just broke his vows to me and committed a horrendous crime against a woman,

I am still trying to process this when Gerard says, “I really need to get out of here for a while.”

“Good, because I can’t look at you right now.” I don’t think about where he is going or what he is going to do. I just want to be rid of him so I can think. I am starting to comprehend the chain of events that are about to become my life. Not only is he unfaithful to me, but he is a criminal and could go to prison for this. I can’t think of this right now; I have to figure out what I am going to do.

Even though I know I’m probably in no condition to drive, my better judgment goes out the window. He’s not the only one who needs to get out of here, I think to myself. I grab my keys and head to my Mustang convertible, craving a long drive with the top down and the wind blowing through my hair. I hoping the wind will blow away all my dreadful thought since Gerard walked in the door. Driving to the ocean comes natural think it will sooth me, but today it has the opposite effect. I’m flooded with so many wonderful memories; of our walks on the beach, kisses under the boardwalk - we even got married on the beach. Now those memories are filled with an ocean of questions. I feel my head is going to explode as tears start streaming down my face without a warning.

When I come back to present, I am parked. Fear floods over me as how I got there. Scary. My body doesn’t have one ounce of energy left so I sit bewilder. I put my hands up to my face and scream, “Oh, my God, I can’t believe what is happening. How could he do this to me, to us, to her? What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Damn!”

Unexpectedly, I have a horrendous vision of Gerard with his client, doing what they were doing a few hours ago. My stomach starts to churn and burn. I try to breathe deeply to calm my whole body down. Not working. I open the door and lean out of the car and wretch up nervous bile that has been building up in my stomach over the last hour. This doesn’t make me feel any better.

What am I going to do? I wish I was in Maine where I could turn to my family and my best friends. How am I going to explain this to anybody? I need help dealing with this, but I feel so alone, terrified, helpless and devastated. I want to go Home. I need to figure out a way to get me and my belongings back to Maine. These questions come to fast to comprehend.

When things get bad, I will think of Maine until I can get there. I will think of my son, my beautiful new granddaughter, my country home and the comfort of my dear old friends. I am so glad I did not listen to Gerard when he wanted me to sell my house up north. I just have to figure out how to get there. I can’t stay here, that is not an option. I can’t get away fast enough! I do not know this man any more.

I start hitting the steering wheel hard with my fist, over and over. Not sure what this accomplishes but it’s an outlet for my pain and anger. Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple staring at me as they get into their car. I turn away as my cheeks get redder so I try to calm down until they drive away. I nervously chuckle when I think what I must look like. If they were mandated reporters, as I am, they would be obligated to call the police for my safety and others. Maybe someone should take away this poor, crazy soul to the psychiatric unit. Who knows, maybe that’s where I belong right now.

Made for TV Movie – My Life

Journal Entry – September 29, 2011

I receive a call from a young woman from my husband’s past which drastically changes my life as I know it. This phone call has me Caught in the Middle, leading to my decision to become a police informant. I’m a mandated reporter who took an oath to report any type of abuse or neglect so I had no choice.

I think back to the exchange I had with Michelle as I lay in bed the next evening. I talked to a former female client from Gerard’s past. I try to absorb all the details I heard about her past abuse at the hands of Gerard Pepin. Her sexual and emotional battery started seven years before I met him! That is least thirteen years of abuse and probably more victims!

I relive the same sensation as the night before as my body is shaking from the inside out and the familiar sick feeling return. How many women has he abused for at least thirteen years I know of? This really could become a Made for TV Movie. Now more of Michelle’s and my conversation bombard my head.

We both repeatedly said, “It doesn’t seem real that we are even talking to each other.”

Both of us are in utter shock as we learn about his other secret lives in Maine and Florida. We kid about whether we really would help the authorities gather evidence against Gerard? Is this really happening? We joked about how all the pain and injustice sounded like a “Lifetime Movie”.

Using more humor to calm myself down, I asked her, “Who would you like to play you?”

Michelle said with a giggle. “I don’t know and how about you?”

I paused to think and said, “The actress has to be talented and pretty.” We nervously laughed, not knowing what else to say. There was a pause, Michelle inquired, “What are you really going to do with all this information?”

I sighed and searched deep for the ethical decision as I digest the magnitude of what I was thinking of doing. I responded, “Because of my profession and the oath I took twenty years ago, ‘I am caught in the middle’. I needed to contact the police to tell them of Gerard’s thirteen years of sexual and emotional abuse for all those years.”

I suggested ending our awkward call so I could call the authorities. I promised to keep her updated after I talk with someone. More memories flood my mind, producing a paralysis as my body goes numb. I feel myself sink into the bed, unable to move as I remember everything Detective Chris Vahey told me and my offer to become a police informant.

The detective said, “Three Drug Court Judges want his head on a platter. What we have learned while investigating is that he was sabotaging his past female client’s recovery by hunting them up to exchange drugs for sex. He also paid rent and utilities with a credit card for another past female resident at the Salvation Army”.

To clarify, these details were not confirmed by the Daytona Beach Sex Crime Unit. From the information they shared answered questions about some of his behaviors I observed.

Detective Vahey continues, “This is going to be high profile because of his position and the felony crimes he is accused of. Compare this to the Casey Anthony trial”.

I struggle hard to block these thoughts so I can sleep but I am unsuccessful for hours. I wonder when my brain will shut down giving much needed rest. I awake later to see I only slept a couple of hours. A bombardment of memories inundates my mind causing sheer panic. Michelle was right. This is a Made for TV Movie. An incredible idea and or epiphany enters my already filled head. Why don’t I turn my journaling into a book? I have all my feelings on paper about hearing his confession, the breakdown of our marriage and the decision to leave. And now the story evolves to the behind the scene of my responsibility as a mandated reporter, my involvement as a police informant and the emotional and financial hardships I will endure.

I would never watch a movie about Gerard Pepin, Clinical Therapist who commits two counts of felony sexual battery during a counseling session. But, I would watch how his ex-wife works with law enforcement as an informant to put a stop to his sexual and emotional crimes. I decide to come up with a description, for the fun of it. Again, trying to make light of how this is my life unfolding. This is as it might appear in a TV Guide. That is, if it ever becomes a “Lifetime Movie”.

Caught in the Middle, a Wife Turns Informant airs on, (date to be determined), at 9:00-11:00 pm. rated R, docudrama (2018): Gerard Pepin, a clinical supervisor with the Salvation Army in Daytona Beach, Florida is arrested and sentenced for two counts of felony sexually battery. He is a rehabilitated drug and alcohol therapist who is abusing drugs and alcohol, while leading a double life. A twenty-four years old female client is blackmailed for a sex favor during a counseling session.. His wife, who divorces him after learning of his alleged crime, works with Daytona Beach Police and the State Attorney’s Office in Florida gathering crucial evidence, a taped confession, leading to his arrest. CC

Usually when looking for a movie to watch, I look at the guide and . . .
1. I decide to not watch the movie because it is too disturbing.
2. I watch part of it and turn it off because it is too offensive to see sexual battery by a professional using his position to sexually abuse them. What the victims go through will break my heart.
3. Or I watch it all, having it make an impact on me. It will stir up feeling sadness for all his victims and hatred for the perpetrator.

Then there is me! I don’t have the options others have. I’m living this nightmarish movie I wish I could turn it off. This is not possible because I’m the ex-wife trying to get my ex-husband to confess on tape. The further the investigation goes on the more disturbing the news of further sexual and emotional abuse. The desire to stop the abuse has pushed me to write Caught in the Middle, A Wife Turns Informant.