A Father's Love by David Goldman Page A

earlier, to a suburban section of New Jersey that was much less stressful than New York City and ideal for raising a family. When he mentioned the location where they had purchased their home, I recognized it immediately. It was only a short distance from my house.
    Once out at sea, we found the fishing slower than usual, so after about thirty minutes or so, Mark and his father and I struck up a deeper conversation. Although I was unaccustomed to sharing my feelings with strangers, for some reason—maybe it was the father-and-son thing, I don’t know—I felt willing to open up a bit with Mark and his dad. Before I knew what hit me, I was pouring my heart out to them. I apologized for not being more on my game, and admitted that I had been going through a difficult time.
    I didn’t volunteer the details of what had happened right away, but as the day went on, I shared more openly with them about what Bruna had done, how she had walked out of our marriage without any warning and taken our son to Brazil. I could tell that Mark and his father were taken aback by the story, and although they offered no solutions, they were empathetic and kind in their encouragement to me. Despite my emotional condition, we did end up putting a nice catch together, with Mark’s dad landing a thirty-pound bass. Mark and I stayed in contact, and fished together again several times, and he never failed to ask me about what progress I was making in getting Sean home. Clearly he took more than a casual interest in my situation. He became a good friend, and one of my staunchest allies in my efforts to bring Sean home. Although I’m fairly certain that Mark DeAngelis would not claim to be a saint, I’m convinced that he was heaven-sent. Sometimes angels have beards.

    AFTER HER RECENT threatening tone, Bruna’s phone conversations remained somewhat cordial, albeit stilted, as she continued trying to coax me to travel to Brazil. When I suggested, instead, that she return to the United States, she became irate, screaming at me over the phone about how miserable she had been in New Jersey. “I don’t want to live in New Jersey anymore!”
    â€œWhy are you screaming at me, Bruna?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t want to live in that place. Please understand this!” That’s all she would say. When I suggested that if she had wanted a divorce or a separation, we could have talked about it had she been more open with me, she grew defensive.
    â€œBruna, you’re the one who ran off to Brazil with Sean.”
    â€œI ran off to Brazil with Sean because if I was there, and I told you that I wanted to separate, I knew you were never going to give me the separation. That’s why.”
    The phone calls continued with a tone of pseudo-friendliness, although I could tell that Bruna was growing impatient.
    One day in July, shortly after I once again refused to acquiesce to her demands, I came in from a fishing charter and was cleaning my boat when my Nextel Direct phone squawked. The only person who had that number was Bruna. But it wasn’t Bruna on the phone.
    â€œWe know who you are. We know where you live,” an ominoussounding male voice growled. “Prepare to die.” Click. The phone went dead.
    I stared at the phone in amazement. Is this some kind of joke? I asked myself.
    Then, a few days later, I received another such call. Again it was a man’s voice in a poorly disguised accent. The threats were much the same.
    It happened again a few more times.
    I called Tricia Apy, and she contacted the FBI. Federal agent John Marley and one of his colleagues came to my home to discuss the situation with me. The agents told me to get out of my house right away. “You have to take this seriously,” Agent Marley warned. “This is what we call a conditional threat. If you stop doing what you are doing, they will probably let you alone. But if you don’t, they may try to do