“Yes, the jellyfish, and me neither, in this case. I did what any intelligent man in my position would do: I lied through my teeth until I had no choice but to confess. Then I begged forgiveness.” I shrugged again. “There's no other way.”
“Maybe so,” said the Yale-man, “but Joel knows that too.”
“Knows what?”
“That all guilty people swear to God.”
“Ahhh… but do all guilty people offer to take a lie-detector test?” I gave the Yale-man a knowing wink. “You see? I'm different, Nick!”
Nothing but silence.
“Anyway, what can I say? You guys are the best! And you, Nick.… well, I'm so indebted to you that I'm willing to overlook that last insult and move forward with this relationship.” Now I looked at Magnum. “So, tell me, Greg: When must I plead guilty to this latest crime of mine?”
“Sometime in the fall,” he answered, “although we're gonna drag it out as long as possible. Remember, the obstruction charge won't be covered by your 5K letter, so Gleeson will have to throw the book at you.”
But I had acted like a man! “Well, two and a half years isn't that high a price to pay for my self-respect. In fact, one day maybe I can explain all this to Carter and he'll be proud of me”—strange looks from my lawyers—”or maybe not. Anyway, I'd rather get the whole thing over with than delay it. You know what I'm saying?”
Magnum stared at me with his lips pursed. I looked over at the Yale-man, and he was staring at me the same way. “Okay,” I said, “what am I missing here?”
“Welllll….” declared the towering tenor, “let me start by explaining how things went down at the U.S. Attorney's Office yesterday. There were five of us in the meeting. Nick and me, and Joel, of course, and then Coleman, as well as someone named Ron White, who just became head of the criminal division.”
I perked up: “Yeah, I know Ron White! He debriefed me once in another case. He's a really nice guy. Too bad he's not my AUSA, instead of Joel.”
Magnum nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be nice, but, unfortunately, he's not. So it's Joel we have to deal with, and, likewise, it's Joel who has to deal with you. So as nice a guy as Ron White is, he'll still defer to Joel.”
“I thought Joel was leaving the office soon?”
“He is,” said Magnum, “and that's why we're not rushing your guilty plea. See, if we can delay it until after he leaves, then we can try renegotiating with the next AUSA, who, hopefully”—Magnum winked—”will be more sympathetic to our cause.”
“That's brilliant!” I exclaimed—and what a two-tiered justice system, I thought. In fact, it was absolutely mind-boggling. If I had been poor or even middle class, for that matter, I would be sitting in jail right now, freezing my ass off and facing the better part of thirty years.
The Yale-man said, “Our first goal will be to try to get the obstruction charge reduced to lying to a federal officer, which is far less serious.”
“It carries no mandatory jail time,” Magnum added, with a tiny wink.
“Correct,” said the Yale-man, with a starchy shrug. “Of course, it would be even nicer if we could convince them to drop the whole thing, although I don't think that's realistic. Joel already let the genie out of the bottle, so it would look indecisive if the U.S. Attorney's Office did a complete one-eighty.”
Playing devil's advocate, I said, “What you're saying sounds logical, but what if the next AUSA is even worse than Joel? Can they go back on the current deal?”
“Two good questions,” answered Magnum. “Under no circumstances can your position get worse. Obstruction of justice is too harsh as it is, and I'm sure Ron White would agree with me on that. And, almost anyone would be better than Joel Cohen, save Michele Adelman. But she won't be the one taking over this case, because she's already got her hands tied up terrorizing Victor Wang. Most AUSAs would have let you off with a stern warning, but, for whatever reason, Joel has it out for you.”
The Yale-man said, “I think Joel is just too emotionally involved in your case.”
That, and he's a f**king a**hole! I thought.
“In other words,” continued the Yale-man, “he's chased you for such a long time that he can't help but look at you as ‘the crook you used to be,’ for lack of a better term, rather than the ‘upstanding citizen that you are now,’ which is an accurate term.”
Now Magnum chimed in: “Nick is right on the money with this, and that's why it's so important to wait things out. The next AUSA will have no history with you; the only person they'll know is the Jordan Belfort who's part of Team USA.”
“And what about Coleman?” I asked. “He chased me longer than everyone else combined.”
Nick said, “It's different for an FBI agent, especially in a case like yours, where there's no violence involved. You had a reputation for being a brilliant guy, so Coleman respects you. You weren't just some schnook who broke the law.”
“And FYI,” added Magnum, “it's because of Coleman, mostly, that Joel didn't break your agreement. He stood up for you in a very big way yesterday. He made the case that, with the exception of the Dave Beall note, you'd been a first-class cooperator. And he also said that you guys are working on a very big case right now. You know what he's talking about?”
I nodded. “Yeah; Gaito and Brennan. We haven't had much luck so far, but that's about to change. I'm actually meeting with Coleman right after this, and I have a little gift for him.”
“What's that?” asked Magnum.
I nodded and clenched my teeth, angry at the recent string of betrayals by men who had had the audacity to once call themselves my friends. “A little recipe on how to cook the Chef,” I said coldly, because if the shoe were on the other foot he would do the same f**king thing to me.
It seemed only appropriate that we would be in Brooklyn Heights when I finally told OCD the story of how the Duchess and I first met and how she ultimately stole my heart away from Denise. After all, it was here, in this very gentrified neighborhood, with the U.S. Attorney's Office a few blocks this way and the federal courthouse a few blocks that way, where I had picked the Duchess up on our first date.
At the time she was renting a one-bedroom apartment in a town house on Joralemon Street, which was just down the block from where OCD and I were now having lunch at a Chinese restaurant. Obviously, the main topic of today's lunch was not the sordidness of my personal life, but I felt that, after all OCD had done for me, I owed it to him. After all, no red-blooded American—even a dedicated FBI agent—can resist a story like this, where the primary ingredients are sex, drugs, greed, lust, divorce, betrayal, and blondes. I was now in the middle of explaining how our paths had crossed for the first time.
“… throw these wild parties at my beach house, and there was a total open-door policy. All you had to do was show up, smile, and you were in. It was the greatest recruiting method ever.” With that I paused and took a bite of a mu shu pork pancake that I had just rolled as if it were a joint, while OCD sampled a heaping forkful of his favorite chicken chow mein.
After a few seconds I said, “You were right; the food is really good here.”
OCD nodded. “The prices are dirt cheap too. To tell you the truth, I don't know how this place stays in business. It's not like the rents are cheap around here.”
I shrugged and stated the obvious: “They're probably paying the waiters six cents an hour and threatening to kill their relatives in China if they complain.”
“Probably,” said the FBI agent. “But if that's what it takes to get chicken chow mein at $5.95 a plate, then what can you do, right?” He scooped his fork back into the food and held it in the air suspensefully. “So you were saying?”
I nodded and put down my pancake. I said, “In the beginning, the parties were relatively small, maybe a few hundred people at most, but over time they grew into the thousands. And like everything else with Stratton, each party had to be more decadent than the last.”
OCD put down his fork. “Why is that?”
I shrugged. “Desensitization, mostly; you know, what seemed wild in 1989 didn't seem so wild in 1991. It was that, and also the fact that Stratton was a self-contained society. We were like ancient Rome, in that way—held together by a bloodlust to witness acts of depravity. In Rome they used to feed their slaves to the lions; at Stratton we used to toss midgets at a Velcro target.” I paused and picked up my pancake and took another bite.
“Anyway, the first parties were relatively harmless: There were DJs spinning records, there were people dancing, we had an open bar, some hors d'oeuvres, maybe a little bit of drugs, but that was about it.
“But flash-forward a few years later, and it's complete and utter insanity: Thousands of people are at my house, and they're literally pouring out onto the street and onto the beach, and on my rear deck are so many people that it's on the verge of collapse. Dune Road is completely impassable, because it's filled with drunk and drugged-out Strattonites, and it's all being supervised by the Westhampton cops—so the party goes on, despite complaints from my neighbors.
“Meanwhile, there's a live band playing and jugglers are juggling and dancers are dancing and hookers are hooking and strippers are stripping and acrobats are doing somersaults and a midget is walking around dressed in overalls, simply for the sake of amusement. On the beach itself there are giant hog snappers and even more giant lobsters, spinning on a rotisserie, next to a suckling pig with an apple stuffed in its mouth. And to make sure no one gets thirsty, two dozen half-naked waitresses are walking around, carrying sterling-silver trays with glasses of Dom Perignon on them.”
“Jesus,” muttered OCD, and he took another forkful of chow mein.
“Anyway, when I first met Nadine it was July Fourth weekend, 1990, which was still relatively early in the game, so she wasn't totally freaked out when she walked in the door. I was in my living room at the time, playing pool with Elliot Lavigne”—a wonderful thought!-“who, by the way, happens to be making a fortune again.”
“Really?” said OCD, putting down his fork. “I thought he was broke.”
I shook my head. “Not anymore! I heard he's flying high again.” Just how and where I heard, I chose to keep to myself. “He's got something going on in the garment center; I don't know all the details, but rumor has it he's making millions.”
“It's amazing,” said OCD, “considering the guy is a complete degenerate.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “and if I know Elliot, he's probably still smuggling cash over from Hong Kong.” I shrugged my shoulders. “You know, I'm surprised you and Joel never went after him. I mean, he kicked me back more cash than everyone else combined.”
OCD shrugged. “It's a difficult case. We subpoenaed his bank records a while ago, and there was just too much cash going in and out to find a pattern. In that sense, he was a good choice for a rathole.”
“Yeah?” I countered. “Well, I remember a time when his secretary loaded up a gym bag with seven hundred thousand dollars in cash and then gave it to my old driver, George, to deliver to me. And I know for a fact that all the money was withdrawn from the Bank of New York on the same day, and it went straight from the bank to his secretary, then to George, and then to me.”
OCD twisted his lips. “And how do you know that?”
“Because his secretary called and told me she'd just taken the money out of the bank and to have George come pick it up before Elliot gambled it away. And when George dropped the money off, he was sweating bullets and giving me this sort of strange look. He never said anything to me directly, but he did say something to Janet, and then she said something to me. Apparently George got curious and opened the gym bag and almost keeled over.” I shrugged. “Anyway, all you have to do is subpoena Elliot's secretary, George, Janet, and the bank records, and the rest is history.”
OCD stared at me for a second. Then he took another forkful of chow mein and started chewing. The unspoken message: “I'll check it out. Get back to your story.”
I took a deep breath and said, “So, anyway, Elliot and I were in the middle of playing pool when the Blockhead came running over all out of breath, and he said, ‘You gotta see the girl getting out of this Ferrari. She's off the charts,’ and, of course, since it was the Blockhead I took it with a grain of salt. But then he literally dragged me to the front door.
“And that's when I saw Nadine for the first time.” I smiled at the memory.
“I felt like Michael Corleone in The Godfather, when he sees Apollonia for the first time; she was walking through the olive fields in Sicily, and when Michael sees her he gets hit by the thunderbolt. Well, that's how I felt: I was totally blown away by her.” I paused and looked down at my pancake, considering whether or not to take a bite. I looked back up, realizing that I'd lost my appetite. “It was her legs I remember most. I always loved the Duchess's legs, and her ass too. It's rounder than a Puerto Rican's, in case you've noticed.” I winked.
OCD started laughing.
“Anyway, we said only a few words to each other, because she showed up with a date, and then the Strattonites immediately started torturing her.”
“How so?” asked OCD.
I shrugged. “Mostly they just ignored the fact that she showed up with someone else, and they started coming on to her, as if the guy didn't even exist. It finally came to a head when the two of us were being introduced. We were standing by the pool table and she said something like, ‘This is a really nice house,’ and I said, ‘Thanks,’ and then suddenly I saw her face drop, so I turned around and saw Mark Hanna, who was one of my brokers at the time. He was standing a few feet behind me, staring at her and jerking off.
OCD recoiled in his seat. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “He had literally dropped his pants to his knees and he was pulling on his own pud. And then his wife, Fran, came running over, and she was screaming, ‘What the f**k is wrong with you, Mark! Pull your pants up!’ So Mark pulled his pants up, and Fran started smacking him. Then, when I turned back to Nadine, I expected to see a look of astonishment on her face or maybe even fear, but, instead, I saw stone-cold anger. She had her eyes narrowed and her fists clenched in rage, and she was leaning forward as if she was getting ready to take a swing at him.
“Of course, I didn't know she was a Brooklyn girl back then; she looked like she was from Australia or Scandinavia or somewhere like that. Anyway, suddenly Denise was on the scene and sensing danger in a way that only a woman can, and then I heard Nadine's boyfriend say, ‘Okay, it's time to go now.’ Nadine and I were both saying, ‘No, no, not yet,’ and Denise started bum-rushing them out the front door. As all this was happening, the party was raging around us, with the music blasting and the champagne flowing. And just as Nadine was about to leave, she turned around and flashed me this mischievous little smile, and then a second later her boyfriend yanked her out the door like a rag doll. I saw a long trail of flowing blond hair behind her, then she was gone. It was just like you see in the movies.”
I paused and took a moment to study OCD. He seemed to be enjoying my story immensely. He was still shoveling in his food, but he had this wildly expectant look on his face. Yes, I thought, despite the badge and the gun he was a man like any other man. He said, “Sooooo…” and he waved his fork in tiny circles.
I nodded. “So, to make a long story short, the second she left I began asking everyone under the sun who she was and then spent the rest of the summer trying to run into her, which I occasionally did but always when I was with Denise. Denise would always say something like, “Oh, look! There's that pretty blond girl from the party, remember her?’ And I would be like, ‘Oh, yeah, I think that's her…’ but my tone was like, ‘Who gives a shit.’ But, to my own credit”—I rolled my eyes—”I made it all the way to Thanksgiving before I finally broke down and paid someone to arrange a date.”
OCD's eyes popped open. “You did?”
I shrugged sheepishly. “Yeah, I know it sounds kind of lame, but that's the way it is. We didn't really have any friends in common, except for this one girl named Ginger, who was a complete mercenary. So she was pulling this shit on me, saying, ‘Come on, you're married, Jordan; I can't get involved in this,’ so I said, ‘Fine, Ginger, how about if I give you ten grand in cash? Will that ease your conscience?’ Of course, the next day I had Nadine's phone number and Ginger had already put in a good word for me.”
“Jesus,” said OCD, “what a player this Ginger is!” He shook his head, amazed. “And what did Nadine say about you being married?”
I shrugged innocently. “Well, that was the first thing she asked me when I called, so I did the only thing a married man could do: I said, ‘I'm in the process of getting divorced.’”
OCD's eyes popped open again. “You didn't think you'd get caught lying to her?”
I shook my head quickly. “Nah, it wasn't really like that. I mean, I didn't say it so bluntly—like ‘I'm getting divorced tomorrow.’ I just kind of painted the picture that things weren't going so well in my marriage. You know, that we were considering whether or not to consider getting a divorce.”
OCD started chuckling.
“No, I'm serious! That's exactly what I said to her. That's what every married guy says when he starts an affair.” I shrugged my eyebrows. “It's what you call standard operating procedure. Anyway, there happened to be a bit of truth to my words; not that I was contemplating getting a divorce, but my marriage to Denise was feeling the effects of Stratton. The two of us were never alone— we always had an entourage of Strattonites around us—and we'd already met Elliot and Ellen; and if you think Elliot's off his rocker, you oughtta get a load of his wife, Ellen! Anyway, I don't want to place the blame on Elliot and Ellen, but any bit of magic Denise and I had left was squashed when the four of us became running partners. Before that, we hardly did any drugs, and Denise was like this young beautiful girl, but then Ellen sunk her claws into her. Before I knew it, Denise was wearing Chanel outfits and buying Bulgari jewelry and taking Quaaludes during the day.
“I mean, don't get me wrong: I wasn't upset about Denise spending money on things. My money was her money, and I was making it so fast that she couldn't put a dent in things if she tried. It was just that that wasn't Denise. You see, what made her beautiful was how pure she was, how she could go out to dinner dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and still look gorgeous. That was Denise—not the chichi clothes and the overpriced jewelry. She was much too good for that.