The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 37

A moment later, one of the cutest ladies on the planet walked in the kitchen. As big as he was, she was tiny-maybe five feet, a hundred pounds. She had strawberry-blond hair, honey-brown eyes, tiny features, and perfect Irish Spring skin, smattered with a fair number of freckles. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties, but very well preserved.

George said, "Annette, say h.e.l.lo to Jordan. Jordan, say h.e.l.lo to Annette."

I went to shake her hand, but she moved right past it and gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. She smelled clean and fresh and of some very expensive perfume, which I couldn't quite place. Annette smiled and held me out in front of her by my shoulders, at arm's length, as if she were inspecting me. "Well, I'll give you one thing," she said matter-of-factly, "you're not the typical stray George brings home."

We all broke up over that one, and then Annette excused herself and went about her usual business, which was making George's life as comfortable as possible. In no time flat, there was a fresh pot of coffee on the table, as well as cakes and pastries and donuts and a bowl of freshly cut fruit. Then she offered to cook me a full-blown dinner, because she thought I looked too thin, to which I said, "You should've seen me forty-three days ago!"

And as we sipped our coffee, I kept going on about my interventionist. Annette was quick to jump on the bandwagon. "He sounds like a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d"-bahstid-"if you ask me," said the tiny Brooklyn firecracker. "I think you got every right in the world to wanna chop his cojones cojones off. Don't you, Gwibbie?" off. Don't you, Gwibbie?"

Gwibbie? That was an interesting nickname for George! I kinda liked it, although it didn't really suit him. Perhaps Sasquatch, I thought...or maybe Goliath or Zeus. That was an interesting nickname for George! I kinda liked it, although it didn't really suit him. Perhaps Sasquatch, I thought...or maybe Goliath or Zeus.

Gwibbie nodded and said, "I think the guy deserves to die a slow, painful death, so I want to think about it overnight. We can plan it out tomorrow."

I looked at Gwibbie and nodded in agreement. "Definitely!" I said. "This guy deserves a fiery death."

Annette said to George, "And what are you gonna tell him tomorrow, Gwib?"

Gwib said, "Tomorrow I'm gonna tell him that I want to think about it overnight and then we can plan it out the next day." He smiled wryly.

I smiled and shook my head. "You guys are too much! I knew you were f.u.c.king around with me."

Annette said, "I wasn't! I think he does deserve to have his wasn't! I think he does deserve to have his cojones cojones chopped off!" Now her voice took on a very knowing tone. "George does interventions all the time, and I've never heard of the wife being left out of it, right, Gwib?" chopped off!" Now her voice took on a very knowing tone. "George does interventions all the time, and I've never heard of the wife being left out of it, right, Gwib?"

Gwib shrugged his enormous shoulders. "I don't like pa.s.sing judgment on other people's methods, but it sounds like there was a certain warmth warmth missing from your intervention. I've done hundreds of them, and the one thing I always make sure of is that the person being intervened on understands how much he's loved and how everyone will be there for him if he does the right thing and gets sober. I would never keep a wife away from her husband. Ever." He shrugged his great shoulders once more. "But all's well that ends well, right? You're alive and sober, which is a wonderful miracle, although I question whether or not you're really sober." missing from your intervention. I've done hundreds of them, and the one thing I always make sure of is that the person being intervened on understands how much he's loved and how everyone will be there for him if he does the right thing and gets sober. I would never keep a wife away from her husband. Ever." He shrugged his great shoulders once more. "But all's well that ends well, right? You're alive and sober, which is a wonderful miracle, although I question whether or not you're really sober."

"What do you mean? Of course I'm sober! I have forty-three days today, and in a few hours I'll have forty-four. I haven't touched anything. I swear."

"Ahhh," said George, "you have forty-three days without drinking and drugging, but that doesn't mean you're actually sober. sober. There's a difference, right, Annette?" There's a difference, right, Annette?"

Annette nodded. "Tell him about Kenton Rhodes, *13 George." George."

"The department-store guy?" I asked.

They both nodded, and George said, "Yeah, but actually it's his idiot son, the heir to the throne. He has a house in Southampton, not far from you."

With that, Annette plunged into the story. "Yeah, you see, I used to own a store just up the street from here, over on Windmill Lane; it was called the Stanley Blacker Boutique. Anyway, we sold all this terrific Western wear, Tony Lama boo-"

George, apparently, had no patience for drizzling even from his own wife, and he cut her right off. "Jesus Christ, Annette, what the h.e.l.l does that have to do with the story? No one cares what you sold in your G.o.dd.a.m.n store or who my tenants were nineteen years ago." He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

George took a deep breath, puffing himself up to the size of an industrial refrigerator, and then slowly let it out. "So Annette owned this store up by Windmill Lane, and she used to park her little Mercedes out in front. One day she's inside the store waiting on a customer, and she sees through the window this other Mercedes pulling in behind her car and hitting her rear b.u.mper. Then, a few seconds later, a man gets out with his girlfriend, and without even leaving a note he goes walking into town."

At this point, Annette looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and she whispered, "It was Kenton Rhodes who hit me!"

George shot her a look and said, "Right, it was Kenton Rhodes. Anyway, Annette comes out of the store and sees that not only did he hit the back of her car but he also parked illegally, in a fire zone, so she calls the cops and they come and give him a ticket. Then, an hour later, he comes walking out of some restaurant, drunk as a skunk; he's goes back to his car and looks at the parking ticket and smiles, and then he rips it up and throws it in the street."

Annette couldn't resist the temptation to chime in again: "Yeah, and this bahstid bahstid had this smug look on his face, so I ran outside and said, 'Let me tell you something, buddy-not only did you hit my car and make a dent but you got the nerve to park in a fire zone and then just rip the ticket up and throw it on the floor and litter." had this smug look on his face, so I ran outside and said, 'Let me tell you something, buddy-not only did you hit my car and make a dent but you got the nerve to park in a fire zone and then just rip the ticket up and throw it on the floor and litter."

George nodded gravely. "And I happened to be walking by as all this is happening, and I see Annette pointing her finger at this smug b.a.s.t.a.r.d and screaming at him, and then I hear him call her a b.i.t.c.h, or something along those lines. So I walk up to Annette and say, 'Get in the d.a.m.n store, Annette, right now!' and Annette runs inside the store, knowing what's coming next. Meanwhile, Kenton Rhodes is mouthing off to me something fierce, as he climbs inside his Mercedes. He slams the door shut and starts the car and hits the power-window b.u.t.ton, and the thick tempered gla.s.s starts sliding up. Then he puts on this enormous pair of Porsche sungla.s.ses-you know, the big ones that make you look like an insect-and he smiles at me and gives me the middle finger."

I started laughing and shaking my head. "So what did you do?"

George rolled his fire hydrant of a neck. "What did I do? I wound up with all my might and I hit the driver's side window so hard that it smashed into a thousand pieces. My hand landed directly on Kenton Rhodes's left temple and knocked him unconscious, and his head fell right in his girlfriend's lap, with those obnoxious Porsche sungla.s.ses still on his face-except now they were all c.o.c.keyed."

Through laughter, I said, "You get arrested?"

He shook his head. "Not exactly. See, now his girlfriend was screaming at the top of her lungs: 'OhmyG.o.d! OhmyG.o.d! You killed him! You're a maniac!' And she jumps out of the car and runs over to the police station to get a cop. A few minutes later, Kenton Rhodes is just coming to, and his girlfriend is running back with a cop, who happens to be my good friend Pete Orlando. So she runs over to the driver's side and helps Kenton Rhodes out of the car and brushes all the gla.s.s off him, and then the two of them start barking away at Pete Orlando, demanding that he arrest me.

"Annette comes running out, screaming, 'He ripped up a ticket, Pete, and he threw it on the floor! He's a G.o.dd.a.m.n litterbug and he parked in a fire zone!' to which Pete walks around the back of the car and starts shaking his head gravely. Then he turns to Kenton Rhodes and says, 'You're parked in a fire zone; move your car right now or I'm having it towed.' So Kenton Rhodes starts muttering under his breath, cursing out Pete Orlando as he gets in his car and slams the door shut. Then he turns on the ignition and puts the car in gear and starts backing up a few feet, at which point Pete holds up his hand and yells, 'Stop! Get out of the car, sir!' So Kenton Rhodes stops the car and gets out and says, 'What now?' and Pete says, 'I smell alcohol on your breath; you're gonna have to take a sobriety test.' And now Kenton Rhodes starts muttering at Pete: 'You don't know who the f.u.c.k I am!' and all the rest of that c.r.a.p-and he was still muttering curses a minute later when Pete Orlando arrested him for drunk driving and slapped the cuffs on him."

The three of us cackled for what had to be at least a minute; it was my first sober belly laugh in almost ten years. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed so hard. The story had a message, of course-that back then George was newly sober, which is to say he wasn't really sober at all. He might've stopped drinking, but he was still acting like a drunk.

Finally, George regained his composure and said, "Anyway, you're a smart guy, so I think you got the point."

I nodded. "Yeah, that wanting to kill my interventionist is not the act of a sober man."

"Exactly," he said. "It's okay to think about it, to talk about it, to even make jokes about it. But to actually act on it-that's the point where the question of sobriety raises itself." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I've been sober for more than twenty years now, and I still go to meetings every day-not just so I won't drink alcohol but because, for me, sobriety means a lot more than not getting drunk. When I go to meetings and I see newcomers like you, it reminds me of how close I am to the edge and how easy it would be to slip off. It serves as a daily reminder not to pick up a drink. And when I see the old-timers there, people with thirty-plus years-even more sobriety than myself-it reminds me of how wonderful this program is and how many lives it's saved."

I nodded in understanding and said, "I wasn't really gonna kill my interventionist, anyway. I just needed to hear myself talk about it a bit, to vent." I shrugged and shook my head. "I guess when you look back at it now, you must be shocked that you actually did something like that to Kenton Rhodes. With twenty years sober, now you'd just turn the other cheek at an a.s.shole like that, right?"

George gave me a look of pure incredulity. "You f.u.c.king kidding me? It wouldn't matter if I had a hundred years sober. I'd still knock that b.a.s.t.a.r.d out just the same!" And we broke down hysterically once more, and we kept laughing and laughing, all the way through that wonderful summer of 1997, my first summer of sobriety.

In fact, I kept right on laughing-as did the d.u.c.h.ess-as we grew closer to George and Annette, and our old friends, one by one, faded into the woodwork. In fact, by the time I was celebrating my first year of sobriety, I had lost touch with almost everyone. The Bealls were still around, as were some of Nadine's old friends, but people like Elliot Lavigne and Danny Porush and Rob Lorusso and Todd and Carolyn Garret could no longer be in my life.

Of course, people like Wigwam, and Bonnie and Ross, and some of my other childhood friends still showed up for an occasional dinner party and whatnot-but things would never be the same. The gravy train had officially stopped running, and the drugs, which had been the glue, were no longer there to hold us together. The Wolf of Wall Street had died that night in Boca Raton, Florida, overdosing in the kitchen of Dave and Laurie Beall. And what little of the Wolf still remained was extinguished when I met George B., who set me on a path of true sobriety.

Exempt from that, of course, was Alan Lipsky, my oldest and dearest dearest friend, who'd been there long before any of this happened, long before I'd ever had that wild notion of bringing my own version of Wall Street out to Long Island-creating chaos and insanity among an entire generation of Long Islanders. It was sometime in the fall of 1997 when Alan came to me, saying that he couldn't take it anymore, that he was sick and tired of losing his clients' money and that he'd rather do nothing than keep Monroe Parker open. I couldn't have agreed more, and Monroe Parker closed shortly thereafter. A few months later Biltmore followed suit, and the era of the Strattonite finally came to a close. friend, who'd been there long before any of this happened, long before I'd ever had that wild notion of bringing my own version of Wall Street out to Long Island-creating chaos and insanity among an entire generation of Long Islanders. It was sometime in the fall of 1997 when Alan came to me, saying that he couldn't take it anymore, that he was sick and tired of losing his clients' money and that he'd rather do nothing than keep Monroe Parker open. I couldn't have agreed more, and Monroe Parker closed shortly thereafter. A few months later Biltmore followed suit, and the era of the Strattonite finally came to a close.

It was around the same time when I finally settled my lawsuit with Steve Madden. I ended up settling for a little over $5 million, a far cry from what the stock was actually worth. Nevertheless, as part of the settlement Steve was forced to sell my stock to a mutual fund, so neither of us got the full benefit. I would always look at Steve Madden as the one that got away, although, all in all, I still made over $20 million on the deal-no paltry sum, even by my outrageous standards.

Meanwhile, the d.u.c.h.ess and I had settled into a quieter, more modest lifestyle, slowly reducing the menagerie to a more reasonable level, which is to say, twelve in help. The first to go were Maria and Ignacio. Next came the Roccos, whom I'd always liked but no longer considered necessary. After all, without cocaine and Quaaludes fueling my paranoia, it seemed somewhat ridiculous to have a private security force working in a crimeless neighborhood. Bo had taken the dismissal in stride, telling me that he was just happy I'd made it through this whole thing alive. And while he never actually said it, I was pretty sure he felt guilty about things, although I don't think he was aware of how desperate my drug addiction had become. After all, the d.u.c.h.ess and I had done a pretty good job of hiding it, hadn't we? Or perhaps everyone knew exactly what was going on but figured as long as the goose kept laying his golden eggs, who cared if he killed himself?

Of course, Gwynne and Janet stayed on, and the subject of them being my chief enablers (outside the d.u.c.h.ess) was never brought up. Sometimes it's easier to let sleeping dogs lie. Janet was an expert at burying the past, and Gwynne being a Southerner-well, to bury the past was the Southern way. Whatever the case, I loved both of them, and I knew they both loved me. The simple fact is that drug addiction is a f.u.c.ked-up disease, and the lines of good judgment become very murky in the trenches, especially when you're living Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional. Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional.

And speaking of chief enablers, there was, of course, the luscious d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I guess she turned out all right in the end, didn't she? She was the only one who'd stood up to me, the only one who had cared enough to put her foot down and say, "Enough is enough!"

But as the first anniversary of my sobriety came and went, I began to notice changes in her. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of that gorgeous face when she wasn't aware I was looking, and I would see a faraway look in her eye, a sort of sh.e.l.l-shocked look, peppered with a hint of sadness. I often wondered what she was thinking at those moments, how many unspoken grudges she still held against me, not just for that despicable moment on the stairs but for everything-for all the cheating and philandering and falling asleep in restaurants and wild emotional swings that went hand in hand with my addiction. I asked George about that-what he thought she might be thinking and if there was anything I could do about it.

With a hint of sadness in his voice, he told me that this whole affair hadn't played itself out yet, that it was inconceivable that Nadine and I could've gone through what we had and then just sweep things under the rug. In fact, in all the years he'd been sober he'd never heard of anything like this; the d.u.c.h.ess and I had broken new ground in terms of dysfunctional relations.h.i.+ps. He likened Nadine to Mount Vesuvius-a dormant volcano that one day was sure to explode. Just when and with how much ferocity he wasn't quite sure, but he recommended that the two of us go into therapy, which we didn't. Instead, we buried the past and moved on.

Sometimes I would find the d.u.c.h.ess crying-sitting alone in her maternity showroom with tears streaming down her cheeks. When I'd ask her what was wrong, she would tell me that she couldn't understand why all this had to happen. Why had I turned away from her and lost myself in drugs? Why had I treated her so badly during those years? And why was I such a good husband now? In a way, it only made it worse, she'd said, and with each act of kindness I now showed her, she felt that much more resentful that it couldn't have been that way all those years. But then we would make love, and all would be well again, until the next time I found her crying.

Nonetheless, we still had our children, Chandler and Carter, and we found solace in them. Carter had just celebrated his third birthday. He was more gorgeous than ever now, with his platinum-blond hair and world-cla.s.s eyelashes. He was a child of G.o.d, watched over since that terrible day in North Sh.o.r.e Hospital when they'd told us that he would grow up without his faculties. How ironic it was that since that day he hadn't had so much as a runny nose. The hole in his heart was almost closed now, and it had never given him a day's problems.

And what of Chandler? What of my little thumbkin, the former baby genius, who had kissed away her daddy's boo-boo? Well, as always, she was still a daddy's girl. Somewhere along the way she had earned the nickname "the CIA," because she spent a good part of her day listening to everyone's conversations and gathering intelligence. She had just turned five, and she was wise beyond her years. She was quite a little salesperson, using the subtle power of suggestion to exert her very will over me, which, admittedly, wasn't all that difficult.

Sometimes I would look at her while she was asleep-wondering what she would remember about all this, about all the chaos and insanity that had surrounded her first four years, those all-important formative years. The d.u.c.h.ess and I had always tried to s.h.i.+eld her from things, but children are notoriously keen observers. Every so often, in fact, something would trigger Channy and she would bring up what had happened on the stairs that day-and then she would tell me how happy she was that I had gone to Atlant-ica so Mommy and Daddy could be happy again. I found myself crying inwardly at those moments, but she'd change the subject just as quickly, to something entirely innocuous, as if the memory hadn't touched her viscerally. One day I would have some explaining to do, and not just about what had happened on the stairs that day but about everything. But there was time for that-lots of time-and at this point it seemed prudent to allow her to enjoy the blissful ignorance of childhood, at least for a while longer.

At this particular moment, Channy and I were standing in the kitchen in Old Brookville, and she was pulling on my jeans and saying, "I want to go to Blockbuster to get the new Rugrats Rugrats video! You promised!" video! You promised!"

In truth, I hadn't promised anything, but that made me respect her even more. After all, my five-year-old daughter was a.s.suming the sale on me-making her case from a position of strength, not weakness. It was 7:30 p.m. "Okay," I said, "let's go right now, before Mommy gets home. Come on, thumbkin!" I extended my arms toward her and she jumped into them, wrapped her tiny arms around my neck, and giggled deliciously.

"Let's go, Daddy! Hurry up!"

I smiled at my perfect daughter and took a deep, sober breath, relis.h.i.+ng her very scent, which was glorious. Chandler was beautiful, inside and out, and I had no doubt that she would grow strong, one day making her mark on this world. She just had that look about her, a certain sparkle in her eye that I'd noticed the very moment she was born.

We decided to take my little Mercedes, which was her favorite, and we put the top down so we could enjoy the beautiful summer evening. It was a few days before Labor Day, and the weather was gorgeous. It was one of those clear, windless nights, and I could smell the first hints of fall. Unlike that fateful day sixteen months ago, I seat-belted my precious daughter into the front pa.s.senger seat and made it out of the driveway without smas.h.i.+ng into anything.

As we pa.s.sed through the stone pillars at the edge of the estate, I noticed a car parked outside my property. It was a gray four-door sedan, maybe an Oldsmobile. As I drove past it, a middle-aged white man with a narrow skull and short gray hair parted to the side stuck his head out the driver's side window and said, "Excuse me, is this Cryder Lane?"

I hit the brake. Cryder Lane? I thought. What was he talking about? There was no Cryder Lane in Old Brookville or, for that matter, anywhere in Locust Valley. I looked over at Channy and felt a twinge of panic. In that very instant I wished I still had the Roccos watching over me. There was something odd and disturbing about this encounter.

I shook my head and said, "No, this is Pin Oak Court. I don't know any Cryder Lane." At that moment I noticed there were three other people sitting in the car, and my heart immediately took off at a gallop...f.u.c.k-they were here to kidnap Channy!... I reached over, placed my arm across Chandler's chest, and looked her in the eyes and said, "Hold on, sweetie!" I reached over, placed my arm across Chandler's chest, and looked her in the eyes and said, "Hold on, sweetie!"

As I stepped on the accelerator, the rear door of the Oldsmobile swung open and a woman popped out. She smiled, then waved at me and said, "It's okay, Jordan. We're not here to hurt you. Please don't pull away." She smiled again.

I put my foot back on the brake. "What do you want?" I asked curtly.

"We're from the FBI," she said. She pulled a black leather billfold from her pocket and flipped it open. I looked...and, sure enough, those three ugly letters were staring me in the face: F-B-I. They were big block letters, in light blue, and there was some official-looking writing above and below them. A moment later the man with the narrow skull flashed his credentials too.

I smiled and said ironically, "I guess you guys aren't here to borrow a cup of sugar, right?"

They both shook their heads no. Just then the other two agents emerged from the pa.s.senger side of the Oldsmobile and flashed their credentials as well. The kind-looking woman offered me a sad smile and said, "I think you should turn around and bring your daughter back inside the house. We need to talk to you."

"No problem," I said. "And thanks, by the way. I appreciate what you're doing."

The woman nodded, accepting my grat.i.tude for having the decency to not make a scene in front of my daughter. I asked, "Where's Agent Coleman? I'm dying to meet the guy after all these years."

The woman smiled again. "I'm sure the feeling is mutual. He'll be along shortly."

I nodded in resignation. It was time to break the bad news to Chandler: There would be no Rugrats Rugrats this evening. In fact, I had a sneaky suspicion there would be some other changes around the house, none of which she would be too fond of-starting with the temporary absence of Daddy. this evening. In fact, I had a sneaky suspicion there would be some other changes around the house, none of which she would be too fond of-starting with the temporary absence of Daddy.

I looked at Channy and said, "We can't go to Blockbuster, sweetie. I have to talk to these people for a while."

She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Then she started screaming: "No! You promised me! You're breaking your word! I want to go to Blockbuster! You promised me!"

As I drove back to the house she kept screaming-and then she continued to scream as we made our way into the kitchen and I pa.s.sed her to Gwynne. I said to Gwynne, "Call Nadine on her cell phone; tell her the FBI is here and I'm getting arrested."

Gwynne nodded without speaking and took Chandler upstairs. The moment Chandler was out of sight, the kind female FBI agent said, "You're under arrest for securities fraud, money laundering, and..."

Blah, blah, blah, I thought, as she slapped the cuffs on me and recited my crimes against man and G.o.d and everyone else. Her words blew right past me, though, like a gust of wind. They were entirely meaningless to me, or at least not worth listening to. After all, I knew what I'd done and I knew that I deserved whatever was coming to me. Besides, there would be ample time to go over the arrest warrant with my lawyer. I thought, as she slapped the cuffs on me and recited my crimes against man and G.o.d and everyone else. Her words blew right past me, though, like a gust of wind. They were entirely meaningless to me, or at least not worth listening to. After all, I knew what I'd done and I knew that I deserved whatever was coming to me. Besides, there would be ample time to go over the arrest warrant with my lawyer.

Within minutes, there were no less than twenty FBI agents in my house-dressed in full regalia with guns, bulletproof vests, extra ammo, and whatnot. It was somewhat ironic, I thought, that they would dress this way, as if they were serving some sort of high-risk warrant.

A few minutes later, Special Agent Gregory Coleman finally reared his head. And I was shocked. He looked like a kid, no older than me. He was about my height and he had short brown hair, very dark eyes, even features, and an entirely average build.

When he saw me, he smiled. Then he extended his right hand and we shook, although it was a trifle awkward, what with my hands being cuffed and everything. He said, in a tone of respect, "I gotta tell you, you were one wily adversary. I must've knocked on a hundred doors and not a single person would cooperate against you." He shook his head, still awestruck at the loyalty the Strattonites had for me. Then he added, "I thought you'd like to know that."

I shrugged and said, "Yeah, well, the gravy train has a way of doing that to people, you know?"

He turned the corners of his mouth down and nodded. "Definitely so."

Just then the d.u.c.h.ess came running in. She had tears in her eyes, yet she still looked gorgeous. Even at my very arrest, I couldn't help but take a peek at her legs, especially since I wasn't sure when I'd see them again.

As they led me away in handcuffs, the d.u.c.h.ess gave me a tiny peck on the cheek and told me not to worry. I nodded and told her that I loved her and that I always would. And then I was gone, just like that. Going where I hadn't the slightest idea, but I figured I would end up somewhere in Manhattan and then tomorrow I would be arraigned in front of a federal judge.

In retrospect, I remember feeling somewhat relieved-that the chaos and insanity would finally be behind me. I would do my time and then walk away a sober young man-a father of two and a husband to a kindhearted woman, who stood by me through thick and thin.

Everything would be okay.

EPILOGUE

THE BETRAYERS

Indeed, it would have been nice if the d.u.c.h.ess and I had lived happily ever after-if I could have done my time, and then walked out of prison into her kind, loving embrace. But, no, unlike a fairy tale, this part of the story doesn't have a happy ending.

The judge had set my bail at $10 million, and it was then, on the very courthouse steps, that the d.u.c.h.ess dropped the D-bomb on me.

With icy coldness, she said, "I don't love you anymore. This whole marriage has been a lie." Then she spun on her heel and called her divorce lawyer on her cell phone.

I tried reasoning with her, of course, but it was no use. Through tiny, bogus snuffles, she added, "Love is like a statue: you can chip away at it for only so long before there's nothing left."

Yes, that might be true, I thought, if it weren't for the fact that you waited until I got indicted to come to that conclusion, you backstabbing, gold-digging b.i.t.c.h you backstabbing, gold-digging b.i.t.c.h!

Whatever. We separated a few weeks later, and I went into exile at our fabulous beach house in Southampton. It was a rather fine place to watch the walls of reality come cras.h.i.+ng down on me-listening to the breaking waves of the Atlantic Ocean and watching the breathtaking sunsets over s.h.i.+nnec.o.c.k Bay, while my life came apart at the seams.

Meanwhile, on the legal legal front, things were going even worse. It was on my fourth day out of jail when the U.S. attorney called my lawyer and told him that unless I pleaded guilty and became a government witness he was going to indict the d.u.c.h.ess too. And while he didn't get specific on the charges, my best guess was that she was going to be indicted for conspiracy to spend obscene amounts of money. What else was she guilty of, after all? front, things were going even worse. It was on my fourth day out of jail when the U.S. attorney called my lawyer and told him that unless I pleaded guilty and became a government witness he was going to indict the d.u.c.h.ess too. And while he didn't get specific on the charges, my best guess was that she was going to be indicted for conspiracy to spend obscene amounts of money. What else was she guilty of, after all?

Either way, the world was upside down. How could I, the one at the very top of the food chain, rat out those beneath me? Did giving up a mult.i.tude of smaller fish offset the fact that I was the biggest fish in town? Was it a matter of simple mathematics: that fifty guppies added up to a single whale?

Cooperating meant that I would have to wear a wire; that I would have to testify at trials and take the witness stand against my friends. I would have to spill my very guts, and disclose every last drop of financial wrongdoing from the last decade. It was a terrible thought. An absolutely horrendous thought. But what choice did I have? If I didn't cooperate they would indict the d.u.c.h.ess and take her away in handcuffs.

An indicted d.u.c.h.ess in handcuffs. I found that notion rather pleasing, at first. She would probably reconsider divorcing me if we were both under indictment, wouldn't she? (We would be like birds of a feather, flocking together.) And she would be a much less desirable catch to another man if she had to report to a probation officer each month. No two ways about it. I found that notion rather pleasing, at first. She would probably reconsider divorcing me if we were both under indictment, wouldn't she? (We would be like birds of a feather, flocking together.) And she would be a much less desirable catch to another man if she had to report to a probation officer each month. No two ways about it.

But, no, I could never let that happen. She was the mother of my children, and that was the beginning and the end of it.

My lawyer cus.h.i.+oned the blow by explaining that everyone cooperated in a case like mine-that if I went to trial and lost I would get thirty years. And while I could have gotten six or seven years with a straight guilty plea, that would've left the d.u.c.h.ess exposed, which was entirely unacceptable.

So I cooperated.