In January 2017 after an eleven hour drive from San Francisco we arrived at Jeanette’s, a friend in Buckeye, Arizona thirty-five miles west of Phoenix. We were there for Joann Powers’ celebration of life which was to take place in the next few days. Joann was Jeanette’s very close friend and my wife Marcie’s sister-in-law.
Jeanette invited us down to a friend’s art gallery a couple days later. He was moving to a new gallery and trying to lighten his inventory.
His gallery was massive and we were looking forward to exploring it.
His Southwestern pieces came alive in the space. Jim’s works invoked the spiritual – the sacred.
My wife Marcie and I stood immersed and enthralled.
Over two hundred works lined the walls—American Indian and Mexican culture in motion, classic architectural forms, landscapes that carried ancient memories. Every piece felt like it had a special story behind it. And as Jim talked it turned out many did.
Jim Covarrubias a man of mixed Native American and Mexican heritage moved among them quietly.
Gallery owner. Artist. Part curator. Part storyteller.
Selling didn’t seem to matter much to him. If it happened, fine.
We ambled throughout the large space, reacting effusively to some of the pieces as they caught our eye and our hearts. We were immediate fans.
Then one painting stopped us cold.
A lone American Indian figure mid-dance—caught in motion on the desert floor, arms raised toward something unseen. There was movement in it. Spirit.
We bought it. $250. A small gem.
A bit later we moved into his office—a different world. Two large couches. A massive coffee table stacked with books and canvases. The mood was relaxed and we were now the owner of a Covarrubias.
Jim talked.
About his lineage. His influences. His memories. His long career in the art world.
And then—Frida Kahlo.
Not as history, but as proximity. Through family connections, he had been around those who knew her well. And at times, had even been in her presence. He spoke as if she was still alive and accessible. I lived a stones throw away from Coit Tower in San Francisco where many of the masterpiece murals painted on its walls were done by artists who studied with her husband Diego Rivera.
We hung on every word.
Before we left, we carried more than the painting. Two beautifully written, photograph-filled books on Frida came with us—tokens from a day that belonged in the “treasure forever” category.
Dusk was settling as we returned to Jeanette’s house in Buckeye.
It was quite a shift—stepping from a gallery space into a home.
Jeanette had been one of the protestors with us—part of the effort to free Joann Powers from her forced isolation at the hands of Integral Senior Living and her brother and Power of Attorney, Dennis Kloss. A fight that had consumed weeks of our lives.
A fight that, in the end, failed.
Joann Powers died after four months of isolation on December 15, 2016—never able to be comforted by those who loved her, and denied the medical care she had insisted on — surgery on an operable brain tumor.
Joann Powers’ brother and Power of Attorney Dennis Kloss was a deeply disturbed individual that should never have been allowed to be Joann’s Power of Attorney.
This was not supposed to happen.
Her son Harold sat at the kitchen table. His usual place.
A disabled Iraq war veteran.
Two Purple Hearts.
Quiet. Distant.
Over the previous two days, he and I had bonded—watching comedy together. Stand-up. Films. Sitting across the room from each other, laughing hard, glancing over at each other when something hit just right.
Some good vibes had been established.
But Jeanette had warned me that he could “go off” which I didn’t fully grasp.
I walked in that evening still riding high on the gallery experience.
A few minutes later Jeanette came through the door, I told her how great the day had been. How much I admired Jim—his work, his story, his connection to Frida.
She smiled.
“He thought you were pretty cool too—for a white guy.”
I couldn’t believe my ears — disbelief rolled through me.
After everything we had just experienced, it didn’t compute. It felt diminishing, insulting.
I waited—for the wink – “just kidding.”
It never came.
And something in me snapped.
Not at her—but at the idea of it. At what had been said. At the betrayal of a connection I believed had formed with him.
I went off.
Too hard. Too loud.
Eventually, my emotional storm passed. Conversation resumed.
But inside me—
it didn’t.
About an hour later, upstairs in the television area, Harold, Marcie, and I were talking.
I don’t remember how it came up again but it did.
And then—
without warning—
the military man was on me.
A blur.
Six rapid blows to the body.
Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left.
Then—
a left hook.
And a final, decisive right uppercut.
I never saw it start.
One moment we were talking—
the next, I was down on the cold varnished wood floor with Harold’s knee pressed firmly on and into my neck.
Cutting off my air supply.
I squirmed to break free but it was obvious that Harold had this hold down cold.
“Say uncle,” he said.
Calm.
Too calm.
I tried to speak. Nothing came.
“Say it.”
“Uncle.”
The pressure lifted.
Air tore back into my lungs—ragged, uneven. I rolled, coughed, forced myself upright. Instinct took over.
Out of the room.
Down the hall.
Into the bedroom.
Door slammed.
Phone.
My wife dialed 911.
“I have just been assaulted and my wife and I need an escort out of the house where we are staying.”
While we waited.
Every sound in the house was amplified.
Every movement a potential threat.
The fear that the Double Purple Heart recipient would reappear wanting more was real.
When the officers arrived, a deep sense of relief took hold.
We were interviewed in the upstairs bedroom while Harold was being questioned outside in front of the house.
We were told he had priors for assault and I was told I could press charges and he would receive maximum jail time of 6 months but ultimately I declined.
He was a sick puppy and needed psychological help not incarceration. I contacted the VA with my account so that they could contact him. To my knowledge he never pursued the help they offered.
It was a sad, depressing, chaotic scene as we were escorted out of the house of our fellow advocate with our luggage in tow. It was all too surreal. A total washout.
Our next stop – the closest ER. They looked me over pretty thoroughly.
Face. Neck. Jaw. Ribs.
No breaks. No internal damage.
Just bruised.
Black and blue.
“Lucky.”
But lucky was only part of what I felt. It didn’t touch what sat below the surface.
Rage.
Betrayal.
Not just by Harold—
but by Jeanette.
She went from concerned for me to…
Standing up for her son.
In her mind, the fault was mine.
I had set him off.
With a comment that had nothing to do with him.
And just like that, the solidarity we had built—the protests, the marches, the shared purpose to free Joann—collapsed.
Gone.
The irony didn’t escape me.
I had driven eleven hours across state lines three times in the last few months.
Built the website.
Made the signs.
Organized the protests.
Marched in front of the Arizona Attorney General’s office shouting through a megaphone.
I had been the point man.
The one out front.
And now—
the grand finale — an assault by a decorated Iraqi war army veteran.
This was not supposed to happen.
A few months later, I wrote to Jim Covarrubias.
Dear Jim,
I really enjoyed spending time with you that Saturday with Jeanette, my wife, and your friend.
When we returned to Jeanette’s house, she mentioned that you had made a comment about me—“pretty cool for a white guy.” I took it as derogatory. Maybe it was said, maybe it wasn’t. I couldn’t reconcile it with the connection I thought we had formed.
I reacted badly. I raised my voice. I let it get away from me.
About an hour later, while upstairs with Harold and Marcie, the subject came up again. I asked to join the conversation.
That’s when Harold attacked me.
Eight body blows. Two to the head. A knee to my neck that cut off my air.
I called the police and left the house under escort.
I want to forget that day.
Because of that, I’m returning the painting we bought from you. I’m also sending payment for the books.
I wish you continued success and all the best.
Sincerely,
Tom Van Lokeren
Some things aren’t supposed to happen.
Joann’s isolation.
Her death at the hands of Integral Senior Living and her brother and Power of Attorney Dennis Kloss.
And this.
But they did.
And once they do—
they leave their mark.
THE CHARACTERS IN THIS STORY AND THE ADJACENT STORY OF JOANN POWERS’ ILLEGAL ISOLATION
Joann Powers — who was illegally isolated for the 4 months leading up to her death thereby allowing the denial by her brother and Power of Attorney of the life prolonging and possibly life saving surgery that her doctors said was possible which she insisted on.
Artist Jim Covarrubias
Frida Kahlo
Joann (on the left) Jeanette (on the right)
Out of respect for Harold and what he has been through in his life he is not pictured.
Collette Gray – President and CEO of Integral Senior Living in 2016, the year of Joann Powers’ illegal isolation (Owner of The Stratford Senior Living Facility) – the one with ultimate authority who allowed Joann’s illegal isolation, which led to the denial by her brother and Power of Attorney of the medical care she insisted on that her doctors said was available that could have prolonged her life and possibly saved it.
Stephanie Templeton (above), Executive Director of The Stratford who took her orders from Collette Gray and Joann’s brother and Power of Attorney Dennis Kloss
Dennis Kloss, Joann’s brother and Power of Attorney who ordered Stratford personnel (Stephanie Templeton with the approval of President/CEO Collette Gray) to isolate Joann — meaning no visitors from her loved ones for the four months until she died — preventing advocacy for her well being and health outcomes ultimately cutting her life short.
Jerome Elwell — attorney with the Phoenix law firm of Warner Angle Hallam Jackson & Formanek PLC. When Joann’s brother and Power of Attorney Dennis Kloss and Integral Senior Living were challenged on Joann’s illegal isolation by our advocacy group Jerome Elwell was hired by Dennis Kloss to intimidate us and demand that we cease and desist our advocacy for Joann.
live link to Joann Powers story: