CHAPTER 3 — DIVORCE WARFARE | Criminals Behind The Badge

The divorce detonated in the latter part of 2019, and it was never one fight. It was two things at once: the money, and my daughter.

Isolde had two plays — bank accounts and property lines on one side, blood on the other — and when the marriage blew up she pulled both at once. Williamson County wanted me bleeding out slow, milking the system for every per-diem dollar.

First she went after the house in Round Rock. She couldn't touch it, not directly, because my father had already moved it into a trust.

When I asked him why, he said: “I knew this was coming. That's why I put it in a trust, so you wouldn't lose it this time.” So Isolde pivoted to custody filings, financial sabotage, and false charges stacked one after another — every motion built to drain me and erase me.

The Judas attorney:

Then came the blindside. My own attorney set up a sit-down: “Get Isolde here.” But he didn't want me in the room. He wanted her, one on one.

He came out smitten: “You need to keep her happy.” Then: “You'll never make enough money to make her happy.” Then: “If you don't stop posting on Facebook, you're going to lose.”

I stared him dead in the face. “My attorney doesn't tell me I'm going to lose.” Then I let it rip: “I don't fucking lose!” And then: “You're fucking fired.”

I walked out of that room lawyerless but lighter. Better no attorney than a traitor on retainer.

The all-female crew:

So I stopped hiring friends and started hiring killers. I built a crew of three women, one for each front: criminal, civil, divorce.

A Hispanic criminal defense attorney, top-tier, #1 in Texas, with a plaque on her desk that said BADASS BITCH. She got straight to it: “Show me the evidence, tell me what they've got, and here's how I'll burn it down.”

The civil attorney she trusted was cool as ice: “Your problem isn't just criminal or divorce. It's structural. They're stacking cases to bury you. We unstack it, we win.” The divorce attorney had seen Isolde's game before.

The forensic psych gambit:

Williamson County put a wall between me and my daughter and handed me one condition: pass a forensic psych evaluation. Until then, zero contact.

An independent forensic psychiatrist, a woman in her late thirties, ran five sessions, five hours. Then a written test of five hundred questions. I passed.

Looking back, the gambit was about my weapons and my Second Amendment rights.

The first husband:

In the middle of the quasi-criminal part of the civil proceeding, my mind kept going back to what Isolde once told me about her first husband: “He put a hit on me in Nicaragua.” I started digging.

Name, Houston address, business — all legit. I called the man she'd painted as a monster, and he said: “Man, I wanted to call you. I should have. But by the time I found out you were with her, you were already married, and I didn't want to poison the water.”

On the hitman story he said: “A hit in Nicaragua? Bullshit. She made that up. You believe that? She couldn't organize a goddamn yard sale, let alone an assassination.”

She'd claimed Carlos Alberto Fonseca Amador was her uncle. He told me she ran up a five-grand debt to a rock dealer in Florida for fake gemstones; he paid it off and stayed married long enough to push her green card through.

The computers:

Her side pushed the judge to order me to hire a forensic tech to break into my own computers — ten, maybe fifteen machines I hadn't been allowed back in the house to recover.

My defense attorney cut them down: “Those machines have proprietary data.” The judge finally said: “This is a divorce trial. Why the hell are we talking about computers?” Motion denied.

1. One machine, three heads:

Civil, criminal, divorce. Three heads of the same monster, run in parallel so every motion in divorce bled into criminal and every delay in criminal bled into civil. A strategy to keep me spinning until I puked out everything I had.

The line in the sand:

Not the house, not the money, not the cars. The one thing I wasn't going to let go of was my daughter.

Money was the steak. My daughter was the knife. My daughter is my line in the sand.

“Money was the steak. My daughter was the knife.”

What the Record Shows:

A divorce opened in late 2019 in Williamson County on parallel civil, criminal, and divorce tracks: a house in a trust; a psych evaluation — five sessions, five hundred questions — passed clean; a motion for ten to fifteen computers denied; a first husband who called the hitman story bullshit.

When a county can stack dockets and bill per diem, the fight is not only about custody or property. It is about whether one person can outlast the machinery long enough to keep his child.