When Laurel Hester learned of her terminal lung cancer early last year, she knew she was in for the fight of her life. What she didn't realize was that there would be two fights: one against the cancer itself, the other against the five Republican freeholders of Ocean County, New Jersey, who would refuse to let Laurel leave her pension benefits to her partner, Stacie Andree. Without those benefits, Laurel fears Stacie will lose their home after Laurel is gone.
Laurel knew how to fight the cancer--with doctors, medication, and sheer grit. What she didn't know how to fight were the homophobic freeholders who threatened to make her final days even worse than anticipated. Laurel took comfort knowing she wouldn't have to wage either fight on her own. Her partner of six years would by her side.
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"She is my rock," says Laurel. "The wind beneath my wings."
What Laurel didn't know at the time of her diagnosis was that there would be a second rock supporting her -- one she had not ever dreamed of being able to count on.
His name is Dane Wells, a self-described straight, middle-aged, white guy who had never given gay rights more than a passing thought and calls himself fairly conservative. Indeed, he voted for Bush twice.
But Dane is now leading the fight to force the Republican freeholders of Ocean County to grant Laurel and her partner domestic partnership rights.
How in the world was such an unlikely activist born?
Dane and Laurel first met as fellow detectives back in 1980 in the Ocean County prosecutor's office. They worked a couple of cases together and found they meshed remarkably well. Dane recalls how much the young female detective impressed him. "There's a lot of swearing and crudity with cops," says Dane. "And some of the women were the worst offenders. But not Laurel. She was very classy."
She was also very intelligent and thoughtful, he says, something else that appealed to him tremendously. Very early on his career, Dane felt troubled by some of the moral ambiguities involved in law enforcement. "We'd bust people for narcotics use," says Dane. "And then we'd go down to the bar and drink for hours. (Laurel always declined to join them.) Frankly, I didn't see a whole lot of difference between doing the two things."
When Dane tried to discuss this with other detectives, their response was, "Aw, screw'em. Lock'em up and throw away the key. But Laurel was different. She was someone I could talk to about those value issues."
Thus their friendship was born. For the next seven years, the two detectives worked side-by-side. Dane found himself constantly impressed by Laurel, and the way she let others have the credit for her work.
"Many times I saw her work furiously on a case to bring it to a conclusion, and then let the coup-de-grace be executed by someone else," he says. "By the time the front-page story appeared announcing the arrest and showing the preening cops, Laurel was already back tucked away in the basement of the courthouse quietly working on the next case. But you had to see it for yourself because Laurel would never tell you of her role."
Eventually, Dane changed careers and the two lost touch for almost twenty years. That changed in October of 2004 when Dane saw an article in the local paper announcing Laurels promotion to Lieutenant. "When I called to congratulate her, she knew who I was even before I could tell her. `Hey, Partner!' she said."
Just like that, they resumed their friendship. Laurel was thinking about retiring and asked Dane for advice on how she might get into teaching. He promised to look into it and get back to her. By the time they had a chance to discuss it again several weeks later, Laurel knew she had cancer. She told Dane the bad news. That also marked the first time she told him she was a lesbian.
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