Catching the Wolf of Wall Street: More Incredible True Stories of Fortunes, Schemes, Parties, and Prison

CHAPTER 4

A LOVE-HATE RELATIONSHIP

ater that evening, a few minutes before midnight, I was lying beneath my white silk comforter, alone with my thoughts. I felt completely lost, like a man without a country, a man without purpose. And I also felt like a man who had been set adrift into a vast ocean of white Chinese silk. Oh, yes, the Duchess had decorated this room to the nines—in fact, the whole house had been decorated to the nines, but especially this room, which was now fit for a king, and as such a mockery of the fallen Wolf.

What was I now? How far had I fallen? I was under house arrest and being dumped by a gold-digging Duchess: a British Brooklynite who had the face of an angel, the temper of Mount Vesuvius, and the loyalty of a starving hyena.

I took a deep breath and tried to grab hold of myself. Christ, I was a wreck! I sat up and looked around the room. I was stark naked, totally exposed. I crossed my arms, as if embarrassed. I squinted. Jesus, it was dark in here. The only light was coming from that flat-panel TV screen suspended on the wall, above the limestone fireplace. The volume was on mute, so the room was eerily silent. I could hear the sound of my own shallow breathing, as well as the thump thump thump of my own broken heart.

And just where was my dear heartbreaking wife? Well, that was still somewhat of a mystery to me. Supposedly she was in Manhattan, out with the girls. At least that's what the note said-some nonsense about having to attend her friend Gigi's thirtieth birthday party, which I distinctly remembered celebrating three months ago, in June. Or maybe I was just paranoid and the back-stabbing Duchess could still be trusted.

I had found the note lying on the kitchen counter, beneath a $1,400 Winnie the Pooh ceramic cookie jar (a collector's item of some sort, bought at auction), with the words Dear and Love conspicuously absent from the salutation and the closing. It was like a note between two strangers—one named Jordan, the other Nadine—neither of whom loved or respected the other. Just reading it had sent my spirits plunging even lower.

On a more positive note, however, since leaving Magnum's office I had pretty much come to terms with my cooperation, or at least I'd rationalized it to the point of palatability. Yes, I would provide the government with whatever info they wanted, but I would be clever about it—providing it in such a way as to protect my friends. When necessary, I would feign ignorance; when plausible, I would feign memory lapses; and, most importantly, when I reached a crossroads or found myself at a fork in the road, I would steer the government down the trail that led away from my friends. Hopefully, with a little bit of luck, the people I cared about most would cooperate too, and I would be spared having to betray them.

Meanwhile, the Duchess would be thrilled I was cooperating. One of her chief gripes was that I had put her at risk, and now I could tell her that risk was no longer a possibility. Of course, I would omit the fact that I actually had put her at risk. I was no fool, after all, so what was the point of giving her fresh ammo against me? It would be much more productive to focus on the positive aspects of my cooperation: namely, that I wouldn't have to do even a day in jail and that even after I paid my fine we—we!—would still have enough money left over for the rest of our lives. And while those were small exaggerations—actually, the last one was a fucking whopper—it would be many years before the Duchess found out. So I would worry about it then.

Just then I heard the sound of gravel kicking up in the driveway. The backstabbing Duchess was finally home, ready to inflict more emotional pain on me. A few moments later I heard the front door slam and then some very angry-sounding footsteps ascending the sumptuous spiral stairs. The footsteps didn't seem to belong to a hundred-twelve-pound blond-headed Duchess; they seemed to belong to an agitated water buffalo. I laid flat on my back and braced myself for the torture.

The door swung open and in walked the Duchess, wearing a light-blue wrangler's ensemble. Jesus! Despite the fact that the Duchess had taken a limousine home, she looked like she'd just arrived by stagecoach from the Western frontier. All she was missing was a cowboy hat and a pair of six-shooters. As she moseyed her way over to her side of the bed, I took a moment to regard her. She was wearing a long, stonewashed denim skirt with tiny white cowgirl ruffles on the bottom and a fabulous slit that ran up the front. I wasn't much of an expert on women's skirts, but I had a sneaky suspicion that few women on the Ponderosa could have afforded this one. She wore a short-sleeve light-blue cotton blouse, very low cut in the front and very tight in the waist, accentuating the natural V of her body as well as her surgically enhanced C-cups.

Without saying a word, the Western Duchess reached beneath a burnt-apricot-colored lamp shade on the end table and flicked on the light. I rolled onto my right side and stared at her. She really knew how to put herself together. I couldn't begrudge her that even now.

I looked down… ahhh, the cowboy boots! Those were familiar. They were tan and white, with cherry-red toe caps and sterling-silver tips. I had bought them for her last year, in a fit of euphoria, while I was on a golf trip in Texas. They had set me back $13,000. At the time they'd seemed liked a bargain. Now I wondered.

Just then she cocked her blond head to the right and removed a sterling-silver earring and placed it on the end table with great care. Then she cocked her head to the left and removed the left earring and placed it beside the other. I forced a smile and resisted the urge to say, “Eh, baby, how was prospecting tonight? Find any precious ore?” With great love and tenderness in my voice, I said, “Hey, sweetie. How was Gigi's party?”

“Okay,” she said, with a surprising pleasantness. “Nothing special,” and she turned to face me and nearly lost her balance, at which point I realized that the wrangling Duchess had more to drink this evening than just sarsaparilla. In fact, she was stone-cold drunk.

“Are you okay?” I asked, holding back a smile and getting ready to catch her if she fell. “You need any help, sweetie?”

She shook her head no. With a bit of a wobble, she sat down on the edge of the mattress. Then, all at once, faster than you would know it, she swung her cowboy boots onto the bed, rolled onto her side, and plopped her left elbow down beside me. She rested her left cheek in the palm of her hand and looked into my eyes and smiled. She said, “How'd it go with your lawyer today?”

Very interesting, I thought, making a mental note to thank the Mexican genius who'd invented tequila, as well as the bartender who had been gracious enough to serve the Duchess one too many this evening. This was the closest the Duchess had come to me in almost a week. And she looked rather beautiful right now, in the burnt-apricot glow of the lamp shade. Those big blue eyes of hers, which were now glassier than a mirror, were gorgeous. I took a deep breath to relish her scent, which was an interesting mixture of Angel perfume and premium-grade tequila. I felt a pleasant tingling sensation—a rush of fire in the loins! Perhaps, I thought, perhaps tonight. I felt an uncontrollable urge to jump her bones right now, before she sobered up and started to torture me again. But I resisted the urge and said, “Really good, sweetie. Actually, I have some terrific news for you.”

“Oh, yeah? Whuz that?” she asked, and she began rubbing my cheek with the palm of her hand. Then she ran her fingers through my hair with great tenderness.

I couldn't believe it! The Duchess had finally come to her senses! She was going to make love to me this very fucking instant and then everything would be okay again. It had always been that way with us. Things could be bad for a while, but not much longer than that. In the end, we would always make love and then all would be forgotten.

Should I jump her right now? I wondered. How would she react? Would she be angry with me or would she respect me? I was a man, after all, and the Duchess understood such things. She was wise to the ways of the world, especially when it came to men, and even more especially when it came to their manipulation…

… although to jump her now would not be the prudent thing to do. First I needed to put a good spin—no, a great spin—on my legal problems. I needed her to feel entirely confident that my gold mine was about to open once more for unfettered ore extraction.

I took a deep breath, coagulating all the loose ends of my bullshit story, and I went for broke. “First of all,” I said, with great confidence, “I know you were worried about all that crap Coleman spewed at you, and I just wanted you to know that none of that— not even one drop of it—was ever a possibility.” And that would be lie number one. “You and I both know that you never did anything wrong”—and that would be lie number two, considering she actually had witnessed me counting money, as Joel Cohen had alleged—”and, of course, the government knows that too. Coleman just said that to scare you and to make things difficult for me. That's it.”

She nodded slowly. “I know that,” she replied. “I mean, it bothered me when he first said it, but I never actually believed it.”

You didn't? Hmmm, okay, then! Ignorance is definitely bliss. I nodded in agreement and soldiered on: “Yeah, of course I know. It was all bullshit, Nae”—and here comes lie number three—”the whole damn lot of it. But, either way, it's all a moot point now. You see, Joel Cohen called Greg today; in fact, he called him right while I was sitting in the room, and he told him that what he really wanted—what he was really looking for—was for me to cooperate. That's it.” I shrugged. “Apparently, I know so much about what's going on in the stock market that I could save the government years of heartache, not to mention countless dollars.” Hmmm, I really liked the way that sounded. It made me sound smart, vital, important, altruistic, a necessary participant in the fight against greed and corruption on Wall Street; not like the cooperating rat I was about to become! I decided to milk that line of thinking for all it was worth. “Anyway, Joel said that if I did cooperate, if I was willing to help the government make sense of everything, I probably wouldn't have to spend even a day in jail. That's how valuable the knowledge I have is.” I nodded a single time, wondering if I had shot myself in the foot by using the word probably, so I added, “I mean, I already spent three days in jail, which is long enough, don't you think?” I smiled innocently.

She nodded slowly but remained silent. I noticed a tear running down her cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. A good sign, I thought. Wiping away a woman's tears brought you one step closer to her heart and, for that matter, her loins. It was a biological phenomenon. When a strong man wiped away a woman's tears, she could refuse him nothing.

Emboldened by the Duchess's tears, I continued with relish: “But it gets even better, Nae. You see, if I cooperate, I won't get sentenced for four or five years, and any fine I might”—might— “have to pay wouldn't be due until then. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's gonna be a pretty hefty fine, but it's not something that's gonna wipe us”—us—“out. We'll still be very rich when it's all over.” And there goes the biggest lie of all, the whopper, which was lie number four.

In fact, if the government were to leave me with a million dollars, as Magnum had indicated, the Duchess and I would be broke in three months. But I had rationalized that too, which was why I now added, “But however much money they leave us”—us—“with, it's not like I'm gonna retire or anything. I mean, in a few months from now, once all this commotion dies down, I'm gonna start trading stocks again.” I paused, not quite liking the way that sounded. “I mean honestly, of course. I'm talking big stocks, not small stocks. I'm not going back to all the craziness and everything.” I found myself desperately searching for an exit ramp. “Anyway, I could probably make five or ten million a year just trading for my own account, totally legitimately, without any risk.”

I studied her face for a moment. She seemed to be sobering up a bit. Hmmm, I wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but I sensed a window of opportunity slamming shut. It was time to stop selling the future and to go for the close. I said confidently, “That's it, Nae. That's the whole ball of wax. I know it sounds too good to be true, but that's the way it is. I guess I should just count my lucky stars that the government is so desperate for the information I have.” Now I paused, and I shook my head gravely. “Anyway, the only thing I was really upset about was that I might have to give them information about my friends.” I smiled and shrugged, as if to say, “There's a silver lining here!” Then I said, “But, according to Mag—I mean, Greg, all my friends are going to cooperate too.” I shrugged again. “So in the end that won't really be a factor.” I edged myself closer to her and began running my fingers through her hair.

She smiled and said, “Well, that's really good news, honey. I'm really happy for you.”

You? Did she just say you?. Shit—that was bad! She should be happy for us, not just me! I was about to correct her when she added, “And I wouldn't be too worried about your friends. Other than Alan Lipsky, every last one of them would sell you down the river in two seconds flat. There's no loyalty on Wall Street. You always told me that, right?”

I nodded but didn't say a word. In fact, I had heard enough and spoken enough. Once more, the Duchess and I were back on the same page, which is to say, it was time to attack. I reached over and grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close to me. Then I grabbed her by her cute Western tie and yanked her head toward me.

And then I kissed her.

It was a slow wet kiss, an altogether loving kiss, which ended quicker than I'd hoped, when she pulled away and said, “Stop it! I'm still mad at you.”

It was time to take charge. “I need you,” I groaned, reaching my hand up the slit of her dress, heading for the Promised Land. By the time I reached the top of her thigh, the heat was so terrific I was ready to come on the sheets.

So I pounced, throwing my full weight on top of her. I began kissing her ferociously. She tried to wriggle free, but she was no match for me. “Stop!” she whined, with a hint of a giggle. “Stop it!”

I hung on the giggle and pulled up her denim skirt, revealing her pretty pink vulva with its tiny Mohawk of blond peach fuzz. Ahh, I had always marveled at what a terrific vagina the Duchess had! It was the most delectable vagina I'd ever seen, and considering I'd slept with almost a thousand hookers, my opinion counted for something. But all that hooker business was in the past now. All I wanted was the Duchess—now and forever!

I slowed my tempo a bit, and I looked her in the eyes and said, “I love you, Nae. I love you so much.” My eyes began welling up with tears. “I've always loved you, from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” I smiled at her warmly. “I missed you so much this week. I can't even begin to tell you how empty I've felt.” I pushed her hair back with my hand and went for the close: “Make love to me, baby. Make love to me right now, nice and slow.”

“Fuck you!” she sputtered. “I fucking hate you! You wanna fuck me? Fine—then go ahead and fuck me! Fuck me hard, because I fucking hate you. I hate your guts, you selfish little prick! You don't give a shit how I feel. All you care about is yourself.” She started grinding into me with contempt, purposely keeping out of tempo with me. It was as if she was trying to let me know that, in spite of me being inside her, she still wasn't mine.

I was shocked. And I was devastated. But, most of all, I was upset that she had called me little—a little prick, to be exact. The Duchess knew I was self-conscious about my height!

But I refused to get angry. Instead, I grabbed her cheeks and nailed her with a kiss, holding my lips to hers as I desperately tried to get some rhythm going. But it was difficult. She was moving her blond head from side to side, like an infant refusing a spoonful of applesauce, and she was swerving her hips in an exaggerated circular motion.

With a bit of anger slipping out around the edges, I snapped, “Hold still, Nadine! What's wrong with you!”

Her poisonous response: “Fuck you! I hate you—I fucking hate you!” She grabbed my cheeks and said, with venom: “Look in my eyes, Jordan. Look in my eyes right now.”

I looked. She continued: “Don't ever forget what went down with this marriage; don't you ever fucking forget.” Her blue eyes were like glassy death rays. “This is the last time I'm ever gonna fuck you. This is it; you can mark my words. You're never gonna have me again, so you better enjoy it while it lasts.” And she started grinding into me with deep, rhythmic thrusts, as if she were trying to make me come, right on the spot.

Jesus Christ! I thought. She'd turned the corner on her tequila high! She couldn't possibly mean what she was saying, could she? How could such a beautiful face spew out such venom? It made no sense. I knew the right thing to do would be to climb off her, to not give her the satisfaction of making me come while she was telling me how much she hated me… but she looked absolutely gorgeous in the burnt-apricot glow of the lamp shade. So fuck it! I thought. It was impossible to figure women out, and if she was genuinely serious about this being my last time, I better make it count or at least make myself come quickly, before she changed her mind and said that the last time was the last time… and with a single deep thrust I tried my best to hit the base of her cervix and… bang!… just like that I came inside her. I screamed, “I love you, Nae!” to which she screamed, “I fucking hate you, you asshole!” and then I collapsed on top of her.

And there we lay for what seemed like a very long time, which turned out to be around five seconds, at which point she pushed me off and started crying hysterically. Her body was shaking volcanically, as she said through terrible, gut-wrenching sobs, “Oh, my God! What did I do? What did I do?” She kept repeating those same four words, as I lay next to her, frozen in horror.

I tried to put my arm around her, but she pushed it away.

Then came more sobs, and then she said something that I would never forget for the rest of my life. “It was blood money!” she sobbed. “It was all blood money!” She could barely get the words out through her sobs. “I knew it all along, and I did nothing. People lost money and I spent it. Oh, God—what did I do?”

All at once I found myself growing intensely angry. It was her reference to blood money, the thought that everything we shared-including my own success—was somehow tainted. It was as if our entire marriage had been a farce, as if nothing around me was real and genuine. I was a man of parts, the sum of which didn't equal a whole. I was surrounded by wealth and beauty and ostentation, yet I felt poor and ugly and hopelessly embarrassed. I longed for simpler days. I longed for a simpler life. I longed for a simpler wife.

Making no effort to hide my displeasure, I went right back at her. “Blood money,” I sputtered. “Give me a fucking break, Nadine! I work on Wall Street; I'm not a fucking mobster.” I shook my head in disgust. “Yeah—I cut a few corners, just like everybody else, so get a fucking grip!”

Through terrible sobs, from deep in the breadbasket: “Oh, God, you corrupted everyone—even my own mother! And I… I… just stood there and… and watched… and… and… spent… the… the… blood… mon… ney!” She was sobbing so uncontrollably that her words were coming out one at a time.

“Your mother?” I screamed. “You know how good I've been to your mother? When I met her she was getting thrown out of her fucking apartment for not paying her fucking rent! And I took care of your idiot brother and your idiot fucking father, and your sister and you and everybody else, God damn it! And this is what I get in return?” I paused, trying to collect myself. I was crying too now, although I was so angry my own tears were lost on me. “I can't fucking believe this,” I screamed. “I can't fucking believe this! How the fuck could you do this now? You're my wife, Nadine. How could you do this now?”

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.” She was shaking like a leaf. “I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to,” and she rolled off the bed, onto the $120,000 Edward Fields carpet, and she curled up in the fetal position and continued to cry uncontrollably.

And that was that.

I knew right then and there that I had lost my wife forever. Whatever bond the Duchess and I had once shared had now been severed. Whether or not I would ever get to make love to her again was still a matter of question, and, in truth, I couldn't have cared less. After all, I was facing much bigger problems than where to get my rocks off.

In fact, just down the hall were our two young children, the innocent victims in all this, who were about to wake up to one of the cruelest realities of life:

Nothing lasts forever.