…until I saw my little Mercedes, at which point my jaw dropped. The car was totaled out, from front to back. The passenger side, which I was now looking at, was completely smashed in, and the rear wheel was bent inward at an extreme angle. The front of the car looked like an accordion, and the rear fender was hanging on the ground. All at once I felt dizzy…my knees buckled…and next thing I knew…bam!…I was on the ground again, looking up at the night sky.
The two policemen bent over me. The fat one said in a concerned tone, “Mr. Belfort, what are you on, sir? Tell us what you’re on so we can help you.”
Well, I thought, if you’d be kind enough to go upstairs into my medicine cabinet, you’ll find a plastic Baggie with two grams of coc**ne in it. Please bring it to me and allow me to do a few blasts so I can even out, or else you’ll be carrying me into the police station like an infant! But my better judgment prevailed, and all I said was: “You zot za zong zy!” You got the wrong guy.
The two policemen looked at each other and shrugged. They lifted me up by my armpits and walked me to the police car.
Just then the Duchess came running out, screaming in her Brooklyn accent, “Where the f**k do you think you’re taking my husband? He’s been home with me all night! If you guys don’t let him go you’ll both be working in Toys ’R’ Us next week!”
I turned and looked at the Duchess. She was flanked by a Rocco on either side. The two policemen stopped dead in their tracks. The fat policeman said, “Mrs. Belfort, we know who your husband is, and we have several witnesses that he was driving his car. I suggest you call one of his lawyers. I’m sure he has many of them.” With that, the policemen resumed walking me to their police car.
“Don’t worry,” screamed the Duchess, as I was being placed in the police car’s rear seat. “Bo said he’ll take care of it, sweetie! I love you!”
And as the police car pulled off the estate, all I could think of was how much I loved the Duchess and, for that matter, how much she loved me. I thought about how she’d cried when she thought she’d lost me, and how she stood up for me as the policemen were taking me away in handcuffs. Perhaps now, once and for all, she had finally proved herself to me. Perhaps now, once and for all, I could rest easy—knowing that she would be there for me in good times and bad. Yes, I thought, the Duchess truly loved me.
It was a short ride to the Old Brookville Police Station, which looked more like a quaint private home than anything else. It was white, with green shutters. It looked rather soothing, in fact. It would be a fine place, I thought, to sleep off a bad Quaalude high.
Inside were two jail cells, and pretty soon I found myself sitting in one of them. Actually, I wasn’t sitting; I was lying on the floor with my cheek against the concrete. I vaguely remembered being processed—fingerprinted, photographed, and, in my case, videotaped—to bear witness to the extreme state of my intoxication.
“Mr. Belfort,” said the police officer with his belly hanging over his gun belt like a roll of salami, “we need you to give us a urine sample.”
I sat up—all at once realizing that I was no longer stoned. The true beauty of the Real Reals had come shining through once more, and I was now completely sober. I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know what you guys think you’re doing, but unless I get a phone call right now you’re gonna be in some deep shit.”
That seemed to stun the bastard, and he said, “Well, I see whatever you were on finally wore off. I’ll be happy to let you out of your cell, without handcuffs, if you promise not to run.”
I nodded. He opened the cell door and gestured to a telephone on a small wooden desk. I dialed my lawyer’s home number—resisting the urge to draw any conclusions as to why I knew my lawyer’s home phone number by heart.
Five minutes later I was peeing in a cup, wondering why Joe Fahmegghetti, my lawyer, had told me not to worry about testing positive for drugs.
I was back inside my jail, sitting on the floor, when the policeman said, “Well, Mr. Belfort, in case you’re wondering, you tested positive for coc**ne, methaqualone, benzodiazepines, amphetamines, MDMA, opiates, and marijuana. In fact, the only thing you’re not showing is hallucinogens. What’s wrong, you don’t like those?”
I offered him a dead smile and said, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Police Officer. As far as this whole driving thing is concerned, you got the wrong f**king guy, and as far as the drug test is concerned, I don’t give a shit what it says. I have a bad back, and everything I take is prescribed by a doctor. So f**k off!”
He stared at me in disbelief. Then he looked at his watch and shrugged. “Well, either way it’s too late for night court, so we’re gonna have to take you to Central Booking in Nassau County. I don’t think you’ve ever been there, have you?”
I resisted the urge to tell the fat bastard to go f**k himself again, and I turned away and shut my eyes. Nassau County lockup was a real hellhole, but what could I do? I looked up at the wall clock: It was just before eleven. Christ! I would be spending the night in jail. What a f**king bummer!
Once more I closed my eyes and tried to drift off to sleep. Then I heard my name being called. I stood up and looked through the bars—and I saw a rather bizarre sight. There was an old bald man in pin-striped pajamas staring at me.
“Are you Jordan Belfort?” he asked, annoyed.
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m Judge Stevens. I’m a friend of a friend. Consider this your arraignment. I assume you’re willing to waive your right to counsel, right?” He winked.
“Yeah,” I replied eagerly.
“Okay, I’ll take that as a plea of not guilty to whatever it is you’re being charged with. I’m releasing you on your own recognizance. Call Joe to find out when your court date is.” With that, he smiled, wheeled about, and left the police station.
A few minutes later I found Joe Fahmegghetti waiting for me out front. Even at this time of night, he was dressed like a starched dandy, in an immaculate navy suit and striped tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly coiffed. I smiled at him and then held up one finger, as if to say, “Hold on a sec!” Then I peeked back into the police station and said to the fat policeman, “Excuse me!”
He looked up. “Yes?”
I shot him the middle finger and said, “You can take Central Booking and shove it up your ass!”
On the car ride home I said to my lawyer, “I’m in deep shit with that urine test, Joe. I tested positive for everything.”
My lawyer shrugged. “Whaddaya worried about? You think I’d steer you wrong? They didn’t actually catch you in the car, now, did they? So how can they prove those drugs were in your system while you were driving? Who’s to say you didn’t walk in the door and take a few Ludes and snort a little coke? And it’s not illegal to have drugs in your system; it’s only illegal to possess them. In fact, I’m willing to bet I’ll get the whole arrest thrown out on the grounds that Nadine never gave the police permission to come on the property in the first place. You’ll just have to pay for the damage to the other car—they’re only charging you with one accident, because there were no witnesses to the others—and then you’ll have to pay some hush money to the woman whose arm you broke. The whole thing won’t run you more than a hundred thousand.” He shrugged, as if to say, “Chump change!”
I nodded my head. “Where’d you find that crazy old judge? What a lifesaver he was!”
“You don’t wanna know,” replied my lawyer, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just say he’s a friend of a friend.”
The remainder of the ride was spent in silence. As we pulled onto the estate, Joe said, “Your wife is in bed, pretty shaken up. So go easy on her. She’s been crying for hours, but I think she’s pretty much calmed down now. Anyway, Bo was here with her most of the night, and he was a big help. He left about fifteen minutes ago.”
I nodded again, without speaking.
Joe added, “Just remember, Jordan: A broken arm is one thing, but no one can fix a dead body. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, Joe, but it’s a moot point. I’m done with all that shit. Done for good.” And we shook hands, and that was that.
Upstairs in the master bedroom, I found the Duchess lying in bed. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then quickly undressed and climbed into bed with her. We stared up at the white silk canopy, our nak*d bodies touching at the shoulders and the hips. I grabbed her hand and held it in mine.
In a soft voice, I said, “I don’t remember anything, Nae. I blacked out. I think that I—”
She cut me off. “Shhh, don’t talk, baby. Just lie here and relax.” She gripped my hand tighter, and we lay there silently for what seemed like a very long time.
I squeezed her hand. “I’m done, Nae. I swear. And this time I’m dead serious about it. I mean, if this isn’t a sign from God, then I don’t know what is.” I leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek. “But I gotta do something about my back pain. I can’t live this way anymore. It’s unbearable. And it’s feeding into things.” I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. “I want to go to Florida and see Dr. Green. He has a back clinic down there, and they have a really high cure rate. But whatever happens, I promise you I’m done with drugs once and for all. I know Quaaludes aren’t the answer; I know it’ll end in disaster.”
The Duchess rolled onto her side to face me, and she put her arm across my chest and hugged me gently. Then she told me that she loved me. I kissed her on the top of her blond head and took a deep breath to relish her scent. Then I told her that I loved her back and that I was sorry. I promised her that nothing like this would ever happen again.
I would be right about that.
Worse would.
CHAPTER 26
DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES
Two mornings later, I woke up to a phone call from licensed Florida real estate broker Kathy Green, wife of world-renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Barth Green. I had enlisted Kathy to find the Duchess and me a place to live while I was going through the four-week outpatient program at Jackson Memorial Hospital.
“You and Nadine will just adore Indian Creek Island,” said a kindhearted Kathy. “It’s one of the quietest places to live in all Miami. It’s so serene and so uneventful. They even have their own police force—so given how security-conscious you and Nadine are, it’s another plus.”
Quiet and uneventful? Well, I was looking to get away from it all, wasn’t I? So how much harm could I create in four short weeks, especially in a place as boring and peaceful as Indian Creek Island? A place where I’d be insulated from the pressures of a cold, cruel world, namely: Quaaludes, coc**ne, crack, pot, Xanax, Valium, Ambien, speed, morph**e, and, of course, Special Agent Gregory Coleman.
I said, “Well, Kathy, it sounds like just what the doctor ordered, especially the part about the place being peaceful. What’s the house like?”