A military wife's battle is lost here at home

[thedrifter]

A military wife's battle is lost here at home
Boredom, frustration and loneliness on a remote base led Nicole Woody and her children down a dangerous path.
By Maeve Reston, Times Staff Writer
March 3, 2007

Twentynine Palms, Calif. — IT was the final day of Marine Sgt. Travis Woody's second tour in Iraq when the sergeant major pulled him aside.

"Do you know your wife has a drug problem?"

Travis sat back, stunned, as the sergeant major showed him an e-mail sent from Twentynine Palms, his home base.

Travis' wife, Nicole, was in jail, accused of helping a drug dealer rob, torture and imprison a man over several days in late August in her home on the base. Detectives seized hypodermic needles from a kitchen wastebasket, a police baton and a spoon crusted with methamphetamine.

The Woody children — 7-year-old Cody and 2-month-old Austin — were in protective custody.

Travis couldn't fathom how 25-year-old Nicole — who had filled his mailbox with love letters and whose worst offense had been a speeding ticket — could be involved.

He reached her by satellite phone.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he asked. She was crying so hard he could barely understand her. After seven minutes, the connection went dead.

He got an expedited flight home — from Kuwait to Amsterdam to San Francisco to Palm Springs. When he opened the front door of his military-issue duplex in Twentynine Palms, black fingerprint powder was scattered across the countertops. Every drawer in the master bedroom was turned upside-down.

Three days later, he finally saw Cody and Austin at the San Bernardino County Department of Children's Services office. Cody ran outside and hurled himself into his father's arms.

"When are we going to Disneyland?" Cody demanded. "You said when you got home we could go to Disneyland."

In her first week at the county's West Valley jail in Rancho Cucamonga, Nicole Woody spent hours on her bunk, facing the wall, crying and murmuring unintelligibly to guards about "her babies."

Travis, on his first visit, tried to calm her. She begged him not to leave her.

"I'm here," he told her. "Everything is going to be fine."

Three weeks later, Nicole signed over custody of the children to her husband. It was the easiest way to keep them out of the labyrinth of child protective services, she said.

But the next morning, beneath the fluorescent lights of the jail visiting room, she was pale and remorseful, worried she might never see her family again.

"I've made mistakes, but I don't belong here," she half-whispered. "They don't care that you hurt and that you want to change. I didn't have to have everything stripped away from me to see what I had."

Her eyes welled up.

"Being in here," she said, "is like being deployed."

THE strains on military families have increased dramatically in the last five years. Some Marines have been deployed three or four times to Iraq. The potential for trouble is heightened for those left behind, often young families isolated at such remote bases as Twentynine Palms.

"There are all these ladies with all these talents, and there's nothing for them here," said Beth Edwards, a military spouse who said it took her six months to find a job, even though she has an MBA.

When spouses get into trouble, whether it's drugs, credit card debt or extramarital affairs, they are often reluctant to seek help, said Dennis Orthner, a professor at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill who has studied the pressures faced by military families.

"There's a worry that anything on your record — even your medical record or help-seeking record — will somehow influence your career or your spouse's career," Orthner said. "That means there's a tendency to be silent, to grin and bear it. That's why, for this woman, trying to find help within the military is not always the safest thing to do."

Marine counselors at Twentynine Palms say that mental health records are protected by privacy laws and that they often make referrals to civilian counselors off the base.

Twentynine Palms Chaplain Michael Taylor noted that his one-on-one conversations with spouses and Marines were protected even from subpoenas. "There's an incredible support network available," Taylor said. "If the spouses choose to isolate themselves, there is only so much we can do."

NICOLE and Travis grew up in the Burlington, N.C., area. Nicole's mother worked in the garment mills, and Travis lived on his grandfather's farm.

Travis' mother came from a military family. He never thought seriously about any other career.

Travis met Nicole when he was 19 and on leave after Marine boot camp at Parris Island in South Carolina.

She was 16 and had just testified against her stepfather, a Navy man, for sexually abusing her beginning when she was 12. He was sentenced to four years in the Norfolk brig, according to Navy records.

Travis recalled that Nicole seemed fearless, with the maturity of a woman twice her age. Around Travis, Nicole said, she felt safe for the first time.

They stayed in close touch after he got orders to report to Kings Bay, Ga., and then to the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center at Twentynine Palms.

When Nicole flew to California for a military ball in November 1998, they skipped the dance and drove 180 miles to get married in Las Vegas.

When Travis left for Okinawa four months later — just before Nicole's 18th birthday — she was pregnant and on her own for the first time.

She set aside plans to return home to North Carolina because Travis thought she would receive better medical care at the base.

To Nicole, Twentynine Palms was an endless beach with no ocean. The wind howled all night, and there was little to do on the sun-bleached streets lined with tattoo parlors, dive bars and fast-food joints. Wal-Mart was a 45-minute drive away.

She tried to fit in. She attended the meetings of the band of military spouses charged with watching over the families of deployed Marines. But she thought the women seemed more like the cliques she knew in junior high. She retreated to her couch, leaving the house only for doctors' appointments or a run to the grocery store.

In May 1999, Nicole went into labor, three months early. The situation looked so grave that Travis' commanders sent him home.

Cody was born with underdeveloped eyes and lungs. He was cradled in neonatal intensive care for 3 1/2 months. Nicole was afraid that if she touched him, he would break.

Cody grew into healthy boyhood after the family was transferred to a naval base in Indian Head, Md., closer to home. Nicole got a job as a base receptionist and sought out counseling and treatment for depression.

But the tension in their marriage grew.

Nicole didn't trust Travis around other women on the base, an uneasiness that began early in their marriage when she said she discovered a phone bill showing that Travis had repeatedly called a girl back home. Travis acknowledged he made "dumb, immature" mistakes after they were married but said he was committed to working through them.

At home, towheaded Cody had begun acting out around his mother, but Travis could silence him with a glance. Cody worshiped his father and ran around the house wearing a pint-sized version of the Marine uniform — insisting on getting "promoted" each time Travis did.

By the time Travis was reassigned to Twentynine Palms in April 2004, 23-year-old Nicole felt she was failing as a wife and mother.

"I felt useless," she said.

Travis desperately wanted her to make friends on the base.

He was actually relieved when Nicole began going out with a neighbor several nights a week to a dive bar, the Downtown Josh, in Twentynine Palms.

It was there, after Travis left for Iraq in September 2004, that Nicole had her first taste of meth.

TRAVIS' unit was sent to Qaim, a town along the Syrian border that had become a haven for insurgents. He led a 12-man squad on patrols and raids throughout the region.

The steady stream of casualty reports from Al Anbar province unnerved Nicole. One day she was shopping at the 99 cents store when her mother-in-law called her cellphone. Travis' squad had hit a roadside bomb.

Nicole blazed onto the highway doing what felt like 80 mph to the 7th Regiment office on the base.

Her panic turned to anger when no one could give her specific information about Travis' condition. Travis, who had cracked his ribs on the steering wheel and suffered internal bruising, got through to Nicole 24 hours later.

His brush with death aggravated Nicole's deepening depression. Many days, she didn't get out of bed.

"Sometimes that meant Cody, at 5 years old, had to go downstairs and try to pull something out of the cabinet to eat, because I just didn't have it in me," she said.

Travis called Nicole about every two weeks. He rarely mentioned the dangers he faced, but Nicole's frustrations spilled into their calls.

"We would fight, and sometimes I would hang up on him," Nicole said. "I thought he had it so easy. He didn't have to deal with the kids. He didn't have to worry if I was going to die every day."

Several nights a week, after tucking Cody into bed and leaving him with a sitter, she took off to shoot pool and sing karaoke.

One night, a woman at the Downtown Josh asked if she had ever done speed.

In the darkened parking lot, the woman pulled out a glass pipe and lifted it to Nicole's lips — showing her how to hold it with one hand and light it with the other.

Soon Nicole was buying meth several times a week. It was self-medication, she convinced herself. Her prescriptions for depression didn't give her the energy that meth did.

She started hanging out with "tweakers"— meth users — and through them met Dale Adams, a lanky local who seemed to know everyone in town. Several years before, Adams had joined the Army's 101st Airborne Division, hoping a stint in the military would "straighten him out" and get him away from the drugs he had been doing since sixth grade, he said in a prison interview.

After searching caves in Afghanistan, he blew much of his $20,000 signing bonus on cocaine and was kicked out of the Army after failing a drug test, he said. He returned home to Twentynine Palms and became one of the largest methamphetamine dealers in town, he said.

The demand for meth from Marines and their wives on the base was "huge," he said.

Elizabeth Ayash, a substance-abuse educator for the Twentynine Palms base, said she had not seen any evidence to support Adams' claim. Less than 1% of Marines use drugs, according to the Marines' drug testing program.

"Our statistics do not show that meth is a huge problem on base as it is in town," Ayash said.

In his busiest month, Adams said he sold 11 pounds of methamphetamine in Twentynine Palms. The going rate was about $800 an ounce.

BY the time Travis returned to Twentynine Palms from his first Iraq tour in March 2005, Nicole said, she was in deep.

By summer, they had separated and she had moved into town with a roommate, leaving Cody with her husband.

Travis refers to that period as a "bumpy spot," but said Nicole would come home at least three days at a time to play with Cody, cook and take her treasured bubble baths. Travis said she hid her drug use well.

Meanwhile, Adams moved in with Nicole and her roommate. Nicole was embraced by his drug-using friends, who would bring her late-night Del Taco in the hopes Adams would get them high, she said.

"He gave me everything I wanted," Nicole said. "If I wanted to go out to dinner every night, I could go out to dinner every night. If I wanted a little bit of meth, I could get it. If I wanted a lot of meth, I could get it."

On a few occasions Travis got suspicious that something was going on, he said, and would show up unannounced at her apartment early in the morning. But Adams, who had rigged the outside of the apartment with surveillance cameras, vanished before he arrived, and Nicole always sleepily answered the door and seemed happy to throw on jeans and go out for breakfast.

"She was really tired and worn down…. I figured that she'd just got through seven months of dealing with a 7-year-old," Travis said.

In late 2005, Nicole found out she was pregnant. She wasn't sure if Travis or Adams had fathered the child, she said.

Travis, who was leaving for Iraq again in late February 2006, insisted that Nicole move back on base during her pregnancy.

Shortly after he was deployed, Nicole said, she persuaded Adams to stop dealing and move into her house on the base.

But he started "slamming" meth again — shooting up instead of smoking, Nicole said.

His moods darkened, and he became more controlling. They fought. After she gave birth to Austin in June, Adams would make her leave one of her sons at home with him when she left — insurance that she would come back, Nicole said.

Whenever Travis called, Adams would tower over Nicole on the phone until she hung up.

When Nicole stopped picking up the phone, Travis panicked.

He asked military police to go by the house and check on her. Then he phoned Nicole's obstetrician, who recommended that Travis be sent home to care for his children as his wife worked through her depression.

Travis said his commanders denied each request.

Gunnery Sgt. Christopher Cox, spokesman for the Twentynine Palms base, said: "It takes an extreme case to pull a Marine out of a real-world scenario like this. What the Marines and the United States are involved in right now has far-reaching historical implications, and every Marine, regardless of their position, is important."

ONE day in late August, Adams and Christopher Bickford, Adams' longtime friend who had recently been discharged from the Army, headed to Nicole's house on the base.

Adams and Nicole later told officials that Bickford had started acting crazy after binging on meth. According to Adams, Bickford claimed to be rapper Tupac Shakur, threatened to gouge his eye with a spoon and mistook the Woodys' dog for his own brother.

Adams said that when Bickford confessed he had told Nicole he had feelings for her, he was furious. Adams said he grabbed a shotgun and dragged Nicole and Bickford to the kitchen table, telling them they were going to "answer some questions."

When Bickford kept staring at baby Austin with what Adams' described as a "satanic" gaze and then asked who the baby's father was, Adams flew into a rage. He tied Bickford to a metal chair and put him in the downstairs bathroom, he said, to make sure Bickford didn't hurt Austin or scare Cody.

Adams pummeled Bickford and repeated the beatings over several days, according to court records. Bickford told detectives that he was blindfolded and tied up with duct tape and ropes.

Nicole, who was back on meth, was in bed suffering from kidney stones. She told investigators she never called for help because she was afraid Adams would hurt her.

On Aug. 30, Adams took Nicole to the hospital for treatment of her kidney stones, leaving Cody with a baby-sitter. The baby-sitter found Bickford in a downstairs bathroom and untied him, according to court documents. That night, Nicole and Adams were arrested after military police, naval investigators and sheriff's officials raided the home.

Bickford, through his mother, declined to be interviewed.

"I have a lot of remorse — I have nightmares about it," Nicole said. "I wake up just scared to death for this person, which is how I felt during the time."

Her probation officer asked why she allowed that kind of activity in her home.

"Meth was taking over everything," she replied, according to her probation report.

NICOLE pleaded guilty to false imprisonment and was sentenced to six months at Glen Helen Rehabilitation Center, a jail in Devore, where she could get counseling and take parenting classes.

Adams pleaded guilty to assault and an earlier drug sales charge. He was sentenced to three years in state prison.

Travis assumed custody of Cody and Austin, and Nicole's mother took Austin to North Carolina for a long visit while Nicole was in jail. Travis' commanders structured his days so that he would be home whenever Cody was out of school. Travis ruled out divorce.

"I knew that if there was a way to work it out, I wanted to work it out," Travis said. "This guy basically forced himself on her to stay as long as he did … then he started putting threats on the kids."

Every day, Cody asked Travis when his mother was coming home. They drove at least twice a week to see Nicole at "the hospital." She was never handcuffed, and Cody seemed content to think she was behind heavy glass to keep out the germs. Travis told Cody that Nicole was getting better from "bad things" that made her "sick" when she was around Adams.

"Maybe next time if you have to leave," Cody replied, "… her friends won't make her do bad stuff."

TWO days after Christmas, Nicole was released. Cody sprinted across the parking lot toward her, with Travis and Austin close behind. They drove to Chick-fil-A to celebrate.

She walked in to their new home on the base — a result of Travis' promotion to staff sergeant.

There were no "Welcome Home" signs that might invite questions from the neighbors — just the promise of pizza and a bubble bath and a night where they could all cuddle on the couch.

"When I was able to see her and touch her … it's almost been 11 months … just to be able hug my wife and kiss her, that was the best thing," Travis said.

But the homecoming for Nicole has been bittersweet.

At home, Travis started interrogating Nicole about her relationship with Adams, how she got hooked on meth and why she didn't seek help, Nicole said.

He checked in constantly by cellphone when Nicole was alone — nervous that one weak moment could spell disaster.

Cody followed Nicole around the house demanding every moment of her attention. But every time Travis got ready to leave, Cody would cling to his father, not wanting to be left alone with his mother.

In the first few weeks, when Nicole tried to put Austin to sleep at night, the baby fought her, she said.

"I could hand him to Travis and he was good to go," Nicole said. "And that hurts. It hurts bad."

She got stares from others on the base. She was shocked when she took Cody to the doctor and the doctor demanded that she take a drug test because her pupils were dilated. The test was negative, she said.

"I see now the road that I have ahead of me," Nicole said. "This is going to follow me for the rest of my life."

She lives with the fear that Travis could ask her to leave.

"I am only allowed on that base and in that house because Travis said it was OK," she said.

"Because of the mistake I made, I have no say. He has 100% custody of [my children]…. If he was to tell me when I get home right now that I have to leave, I'd have to leave."

But Travis said that won't happen.

"Everybody that's married wants the perfect marriage, but … nothing's perfect," Travis said. "This isn't the easiest job to be married into, and she stuck with me…. This is the one time in our relationship that she's kind of messed up."

During her final weeks in jail, Travis brought a surprise, which he showed her through the heavy glass — a new diamond-and-gold engagement ring to replace the band she sold for $200 to a local jewelry store when she and Adams needed money.

On Thursday they left Twentynine Palms for Travis' new assignment in South Carolina. Back home, with the California desert thousands of miles behind them, Travis said, they plan to renew their vows.

maeve.reston@latimes.com

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About this story

This account is based on interviews with Nicole Woody, Travis Woody and Dale Adams, and court records. Jailhouse interviews were conducted with Nicole Woody at San Bernardino County's West Valley Detention Center in Rancho Cucamonga and the Glen Helen Rehabilitation Center in Devore, and with Adams at West Valley Detention Center and the California Correctional Institution in Tehachapi, Calif. Travis Woody was interviewed in Joshua Tree, over the telephone and at home with his wife in Twentynine Palms after she was released.

The quotations in this story are from those interviews or are quotations that Adams, Nicole and Travis Woody reconstructed from their recollections.

Corroborating information was provided by the San Bernardino County district attorney's office, San Bernardino County Sheriff's Department officials and Adams' lawyer.

Ellie

[dimac690]

Being a Marine's wife isnt easy, we're misunderstood, alone alot, know every 4 letter word in the book, but we're always faithful, even a Marine's wife needs support sometimes