Deadly Divorces (12 page)

His mother’s eyelids fluttered a little as they did when she was uneasy about something, but she replied ‘No.’ Over the next couple of hours Gabriel would repeat the question several times but still he got the same response. One time Susan even suggested that he might ring the road traffic authorities if he was worried to check there hadn’t been an accident.

Gabriel went down to the pool house but found the door locked. So his father must be out after all… and yet there was something that still didn’t seem right about the whole situation, something that gave him a kind of sick feeling in his stomach. Again he went to find his mum to ask if there was any explanation she could think of for Felix’s continued absence.

Then Susan said a strange thing. ‘Aren’t you happy he’s gone?’ she asked her son.

‘No,’ he replied.

‘I am,’ was her reply.

Even more unnerving was her next statement: ‘I guess I didn’t use a shotgun.’ Even for a teenager used to hearing bizarre statements from his mother, this was disturbing.

Gabriel tried to put the gnawing worry out of his head and started playing a video game in his room. But it was no good – he just knew something was horribly wrong. With an increasing feeling of foreboding, the 15-year-old grabbed a flashlight and made his way down to the pool
house, unknowingly retracing the same path his mother had taken the previous night.

Finding the front door still locked, he went in through a side entrance. What he saw will be forever imprinted on his memory: there was his father – dead. Shaking, Gabriel retreated from the pool house and made his way back up the stairs. Surely this wasn’t real? It couldn’t really be happening, could it? His heart was thumping as he went into the main house and took the portable phone off its stand. His mother was in her room but he was taking no chances. Going back outside, young Gabriel Polk hid as he dialled the emergency services number, crouching down in the chill October air. When the operator came on the phone, he didn’t hesitate before announcing what he was convinced had happened. His mother had killed his father.

Susan Polk was lying in bed when she heard her youngest son make his anguished call. What passed through her mind as she realised the nightmare she’d kept at bay for the past 24 hours was about to become sickeningly real? Had she by that time so rewritten her own truth that the horrible memories had been wiped clean?

When police arrived at the house, instinctively wiping their feet so as not to leave footprints on the polished floors or the expensive-looking rugs, Susan denied knowing where her husband was. Hearing he was dead, she made another of the bizarre statements for which she would later become infamous:‘Oh well, we were getting a divorce anyway.’

Over the following two days, Susan continued to deny any knowledge of what had happened to Felix. She’d had no idea he was dead, she told police – she hadn’t heard or spoken to him. When crime scene investigators discovered strands of Susan’s hair in Felix’s clenched fist she changed her story. She had killed him, she admitted, but it had been self-defence. Her husband – 50 pounds heavier than she was – had cracked when he realised she really was going to leave him and had attacked her with a knife. As a battered wife who’d withstood her husband’s violence for years, she’d been only too aware what he was capable of. Killing him had been an instinctive act of self-preservation.

Going against her version of events was the fact that her husband had sustained a total of 27 knife wounds – 5 of them serious – while she herself escaped with reddened eyes, a welt on her shoulder and bite marks to her hands.

Susan Polk’s trial in the summer of 2006 was one of the most sensational in recent years. The meek-voiced, reed thin Californian housewife who painted herself as the innocent victim of systematic domestic abuse had publicly fallen out with a succession of attorneys appointed to her defence. Among them most notoriously, was Daniel Horowitz whose own wife had been brutally murdered at the start of Susan’s aborted first trial.

By the time the second trial was underway, Susan had decided to do away with legal counsel and represent herself
in court. Testifying against her as two key prosecution witnesses were her own sons, Gabriel and Adam.

You’d think that when a mother is up on a murder charge that could put her in prison for life, there might be some sympathy from her own children, some soft words, despite what she is alleged to have done. You’d think that when a son is up on the witness stand, forced to give evidence about an event that has left him traumatised, there might be some gentleness from his mother but that didn’t happen here.

When Susan Polk cross-examined her youngest son Gabriel it was the first time she’d spoken to him in three years. For four days she subjected him to a barrage of often bizarre questions, which the judge labelled as ‘bordering on the abusive’ and aimed at establishing less what had happened on the night of 13 October and more what kind of mother she’d been. But Gabriel never wavered from his conviction about her guilt.

‘Isn’t it true,’ his mother asked him during a dispute over how tall he’d been at the time of a school yard fight, ‘that you were not the big guy that you are now?’

‘Between the four years when you murdered my Dad and now… yeah, I grew a lot,’ was the unbending reply.

From Gabriel’s evidence emerged a picture of a family in crisis, propelled on a downward slide into bitterness and violence by a delusional mother.

‘I do have good memories,’ Gabriel told his mother on the
witness stand. ‘I do love you, but there’s terrible memories with the good memories.’

Adam Polk – by this time 23 – was even more brutal in his dealings with his mother, calling her ‘bonkers’ and ‘the embodiment of evil’. Typically, Susan had a ready explanation for her sons’ condemnation. They’d recently bought a civil wrongful death case against her and settled for $300,000. Their motive for wanting her proved guilty, she asserted, was financial.

Susan’s third son Eli, who by the time of the trial was serving time for an unconnected assault on an
ex-girlfriend
, was the only one of her children to testify in her favour and back up her allegations of domestic abuse. The almost unnatural closeness of the bond between mother and son gave rise to speculation about coaching between the two and even – some commentators suggested – a possible incestuous relationship.

‘I miss you so much that it is driving me crazy,’ Eli wrote to her while she was in jail awaiting trial. ‘I love you enough to burn what I am and meet you in the afterlife.’

The trial not only set brother against brother and mother against son, but also saw Susan herself pitted against practically everyone in the courtroom. Her angry outbursts at officials, from the judge right down to the court reporter, and her constant interruptions and demands for a mistrial brought her ‘victim’ status into serious question. The prosecutor, who she’d variously labelled a ‘moral
creep’, ‘deceitful’ and ‘disgusting’, later declared her the ‘most hateful’ person he’d ever come up against.

Susan – who accused crime scene investigators of tampering with evidence – brought several witnesses to the stand in her defence. These included a therapist who agreed that she could indeed be psychic and a medical expert who testified that Felix was more likely to have died from a heart attack than from his wounds.

In the end, though, it was not enough to convince a jury. On Friday, 16 June 2006, Susan Polk was found guilty of second-degree murder. The jury didn’t find enough evidence to prove she premeditated the murder but was equally not convinced she acted in self-defence. In court to hear the verdict were Adam and Gabriel Polk, who listened impassively as their mother’s future was sealed with that one word: ‘guilty’.

On 23 February 2007, Susan Polk – who suggested during her trial that Winona Ryder might be a good choice to play her in a movie of her story – was sentenced to life imprisonment with a minimum of 16 years.

Prosecutor Paul Sequeira has no doubt she will serve the full term. ‘She has shown no remorse. She is still defiant and I think she will be until she draws her last breath.’

T
he Hotel Mercure, just outside St Albain, near the French town of Macon, is not the sort of place that sticks in the mind. A modern, 86-room building, it’s more acclaimed for its accessible location just off the A6 Autoroute du Soleil than for its ambience. Tourists heading down through the centre of France might break up their journey there before heading on towards more fashionable holiday spots such as Provence or the French Riviera. Otherwise it’s mostly used by businessmen taking advantage of its convenient location and conference room facilities or by golfers attracted to the nearby courses. Occasionally guests may stay a few days, perhaps sampling a bit of wine-tasting in the surrounding Burgundy
vineyards, exploring Macon or even venturing into nearby Lyons. But mostly it’s used as a mid-route stopover where weary drivers can recharge by the outdoor swimming pool, or just take in a meal in the restaurant before they flop into bed for the night, continuing their journey the next day.

When Derek Symmons pulled up into the car park at the Mercure on 6 September 2005, there was nothing to suggest he was anything but a normal tourist on his way down to the South. The BMW he was driving had British number plates, suggesting he’d probably got straight onto the Autoroute after arriving in Calais, and had decided this was as good a place as any to decamp for the night. The
62-year
-old electrical engineer looked slightly wide-eyed and haggard as he arrived in the hotel’s rather soulless lobby with its circular seating bench and curved reception desk, all in various shades of beige and brown. But then most guests seemed that way when they arrived, after hours spent staring at the tail lights of the car in front on the endless French motorway.

Having checked in, Derek went off to his room but when he reappeared in the bar some time later he showed no signs of being refreshed or rested. Instead he seemed agitated and distressed. Despite his smart, obviously expensive clothes, he had an almost wild look about him. Curious hotel staff would soon discover why. ‘I’ve done something terrible,’ he told the hotel’s receptionist. ‘I’ve killed my wife. Her body is in the boot of my car.’

The private Loudwater estate near Rickmansworth is one of Hertfordshire’s most exclusive addresses. With its leafy lanes and river views, all within a mile of the M25, it contains some of the most desirable real estate in the country. The homes on Lower Plantation, Loudwater are among the most sought after in the area. Large detached buildings with landscaped gardens and, in several cases, swimming pools, they are an estate agent’s dream and fetch upward of
£
1 million, sometimes several times that.

When Derek and Christine Symmons bought their modern, six-bedroom home there in the early 1980s, with its decorative shutters on the upper windows, they were really trading up, as well as stretching themselves to their financial limit. Although Derek was forging his way up the career hierarchy, he wasn’t yet earning a fortune and Christine didn’t bring in much from her job as a part-time hairdresser. But they knew Loudwater would be the perfect place to bring up their two children, Mark and Claire, even if they did have to mortgage themselves up to the hilt to live there.

It was a decision they wouldn’t regret. The Loudwater house provided them with a comfortable, stable base in which to raise their family, plus friendly neighbours to share barbecues in the summer and Christmas drinks. Above everything, it was a home rather than just a house and they soon became very settled there, particularly after
Derek’s earnings increased and they no longer lived in dread of not being able to make the monthly repayments.

But as their financial position improved, their relationship began to show signs of strain. Derek had always been inclined to be moody and the family came to dread his quick flares of temper and sulky outbursts when things weren’t going his way. In addition, his growing reputation as an electrical engineer involved projects that took him away from home for long periods of time. An outwardly ebullient, sociable man, he wasn’t the type to sit around in lonely hotel rooms during these extended trips. He loved to go out and engage with new people, especially women.

Derek was never a particularly handsome man, neither did he wear his accumulating years with a huge amount of dignity, choosing to dye his hair reddish-brown rather than confront his greying reflection in the mirror. But he did have great charm and of course the sex appeal that comes with having monetary success. He never seemed to have trouble finding female company while away working.

Christine might have been based at home but she’d been married since 1968 and she knew her husband well enough to guess what he was up to. Not that he bothered to be terribly discreet. She’d once driven past his workplace and seen him kissing another woman outside. Another time she opened a Christmas card from one of his lovers.

With every fresh betrayal, the marriage crumbled slightly further although from the outside it appeared as strong as
ever. Friends and neighbours often commented on how great it was to see a couple so happy together after so many years. In private, Christine was losing patience with her moody, wayward husband, however. She’d given him so many chances and he just seemed to throw them all back in her face.

As Derek reached his mid-fifties the situation became even more desperate. He’d always been sensitive about his sexual virility, having suffered a bout of impotence around the time of his mother’s death. He’d been unusually – some said unnaturally – close to his mother and her death had hit him very hard. Around 2000, the impotence returned, plunging him into a crisis of confidence and putting further strain on the marriage. Only Viagra enabled him to perform in bed, something that both infuriated and panicked him in equal measures.

The couple began to argue more frequently and more violently. Derek’s paranoia about his sexual inadequacy increased and he became convinced Christine was belittling him behind his back. He even bugged the house in the hope of catching her ridiculing him to her friends. But Derek’s concerns about his sexual prowess did little to stop his philandering ways. In 2004, he began an affair with Myra Croney, a divorced teacher he’d met through an internet dating site. Christine found out about the affair a year later in the most humiliating of ways when her mobile rang. Having answered, it quickly became clear that the caller had pressed the dial button by accident and she could
hear two voices. One was her husband’s and the other, she was shortly to discover, belonged to his mistress. Listening in to the conversation, Christine felt as if someone had grabbed hold of her insides and was twisting and squeezing them in a kind of excruciating torture.

‘I love you,’ the female voice said at one point. Soon after she heard her husband laugh crudely. ‘You don’t need to wear knickers in the summer,’ he told the woman. Hanging up, Christine felt sick. Even though she’d known Derek hadn’t been faithful to her over the years, having to listen to him being intimate with another woman was painful beyond belief. How could he use that same loving tone of voice he’d once saved for her on some stranger? And how could he laugh and joke without being torn apart by guilt at what he was doing?

She felt completely destroyed by what she’d inadvertently heard. Yet somehow, she managed to find the self-control to keep the information to herself until she’d had more chance to work out what was going on, and what she was going to do about it. When Derek got home, Christine secretly fished his wallet out of his jacket pocket and started to search through, looking for evidence of what she’d heard on the phone. Once again the nausea welled up inside her as she came across the very clues she’d been seeking – condoms and Viagra.

There can be few more upsetting discoveries than finding out the person you think you know best is practically a stranger with a whole double life you’d never
suspected. But Christine was wary of Derek and his unpredictable temper. She knew that confronting him about his affair could unleash a vitriolic backlash and she didn’t know if she was strong enough to withstand it. For a few nightmarish weeks, Christine kept her unwelcome knowledge to herself, constantly revisiting it in her mind as you might keep probing a painful ulcer with your tongue.

Then one evening at a wedding reception, Christine cracked. ‘I know you’re having an affair,’ she told her stunned husband. Derek was shocked. He had no idea his wife had even the slightest idea about his latest paramour. He told her he was sorry and he said it wouldn’t happen again. What’s more, he even emailed his children flamboyantly confessing his misdemeanours and claiming it was the first time he’d strayed.

‘I swear on your life I’m telling the truth,’ he told his daughter, dramatically.

‘Liar,’ she replied.

But Christine Symmons had had enough. She was fed up with the rows and the bullying, and with being treated with such blatant disregard. While she might be a grandmother she was still in her fifties (well, just) and she’d kept herself trim and attractive. Her copper-coloured hair always impeccably styled and highlighted, her nails perfectly polished. Why shouldn’t she make a new start? Why shouldn’t she have the chance of maybe meeting someone else? Her husband seemed to have no trouble doing that.

Although she was afraid of her domineering husband, Christine worked up the courage to consult a solicitor about a possible divorce. The children, of course, were grown up now but she wanted to know exactly where she stood financially and legally. She was also terrified of how Derek would react to her trying to make a life without him. His behaviour had been so erratic recently, so volatile. If she was going to take a stand against him, she wanted to be sure she had the full backing of the law.

Derek was flabbergasted by his wife’s new determination. The fact that she’d actually found out her legal rights meant that she really was serious about splitting up. What would happen to the house? What about the His and Hers BMWs and all the exotic holidays? If the marriage broke down, there was so much that he stood to lose. The idea was just unthinkable.

‘I want a trial separation,’ Christine demanded, determinedly keeping her voice firm so as not to betray the quivers of fear that shot through her as she stood up to her controlling husband. Shocked into uncharacteristic acquiescence Derek agreed to move into the granny annexe in the house. At least it was less final than a divorce. He also agreed to stop his affair and to start marriage counselling.

For a few weeks, the couple lived like relative strangers in their different parts of the house. It was like being in a kind of limbo – not exactly housemates, but not lovers either. Then, halfway through August 2005, Christine discovered
that Derek was still seeing Myra Croney. Finding her number in his mobile, she called and confronted the other woman only to be told that Derek was passing himself off as separated following his ‘unhappy marriage’.

That was the last straw. Christine was now determined to break up from her cheating husband and start a new life. But she knew he’d never want to give her up and nor the comfortable existence they’d built up together, at least not without a huge struggle. She was torn between feeling elation at the idea of starting over and terror at what Derek might do to her when she finally pulled the plug on their marriage. He was so unpredictable, so threatening, she confided to her friends and her daughter. There really was no telling what he was capable of.

On 5 September, the Symmons had their first session with a marriage guidance counsellor. As expected, it had been a tense encounter and emotions were still running high as they pulled up on their stone-cobbled, hedge-lined driveway that evening. Christine tried to focus on positive things to take her mind off the altercation she was sure was coming. She thought about her gorgeous new grandchild. The following day, as usual, she’d be going round to her daughter Claire’s home to help her bath and tend to her baby. She loved the fact that Claire lived near enough for her to be a fully involved grandmother and it was such a marvellous distraction from all the problems at home. All she had to do was get through that night.

But as they let themselves in through the porticoed porch, the tension that had been building in the Symmons’ relationship for the past months reached bursting point. A bitter argument broke out between husband and wife. Derek would later claim Christine taunted him with slights about his beloved mother and about his sexual prowess. ‘Yeah, well how come I was with Myra just a couple of days ago,’ he bragged. ‘She certainly had no complaints.’ That’s when Christine lost control and lunged for his neck, said Derek. The only way he could stop her from strangling him, he claimed, was to grab her neck in return. When she slumped to the ground he realised he’d gone too far.

However, the evidence points to a different version of events. Christine was a slight woman and not given to violence. Furthermore, when Derek was examined after being arrested in France, there was no bruising on his neck. Far more likely is it that Derek was riled up by the counselling session and angered by something his wife had said. In a rage at seeing the writing on the wall spelling out ‘divorce’, he attacked his wife of 38 years, beating her around the legs and arms, and squeezing her throat with his hands until every last breath of air was gone from her body.

Having realised what he’d done, Derek must have panicked. His first thought would be to get the body out of the house and as far away as possible. Somewhere in the house or the shed he had some plastic sheeting. Glad to have something else to focus on, he went off in search of it. On his return he
carefully wrapped up his wife’s lifeless body and hoisted it up, staggering outside with it before heaving it into the boot of the larger BMW. Then he went inside to tidy up and change, grabbing his passport and throwing some things into a bag. During the course of his preparations he’d decided what he was going to do: he was going to drive to the south of France.