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

CHAPTER 5

OCD AND THE MORMON

he next morning, I was back in the limousine again.

This time, however, the closet terrorist wasn't driving me through the gloomy groin of western Queens; rather, he was driving me through the rancid gullet of western Brooklyn. In fact, we were making our way through a demographic nightmare known as Sunset Park, a neighborhood so ethnically diverse-loaded with Chinese and Koreans and Malaysians and Vietnamese and Thais and Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Dominicans and Salvadorans and Guatemalans, along with a handful of remarkably dim-witted Finns, who were too slow on the uptake to realize that the rest of their Finnish brethren had fled for their lives thirty years ago, when the ethnic hordes invaded—that, staring out the side window, I felt like we were driving through the parking lot of the United Nations after a missile strike.

Yes, this part of Sunset Park was, indeed, a shithole. It was a flat swath of dirt and asphalt punctuated by dilapidated warehouses, deserted storefronts, rotting piers, and bird poop. Downtown Manhattan—where I would ultimately be heading this morning— was just a few miles to the west, on the other side of the polluted East River. From my current vantage point, in the limo's right backseat, I could see the swirling waters of the river, the towering skyline of Lower Manhattan, and the glorious arc of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, stretching to the not-so-glorious borough of Staten Island.

According to plan, at precisely nine a.m., Monsoir pulled in front of a grimy underground parking garage on the south side of a grimy two-way street. As I climbed out of the limousine, I said, “Stay put until I beep you, Monsoir,” and while I'm gone don't be blowing up any bridges, I thought. Then I slammed the door in his face and walked down a short flight of steps to the lower level of the parking garage.

I heard a familiar voice: “Jordan! Over here!”

I turned to my right, and there was Special Agent Gregory Coleman. He was standing in front of a typical government-issue car, which is to say: four doors, no dents, perhaps two years old, and made in America. In fact, it was a 1997 maroon Ford Taurus with lightly tinted windows and no siren. He was leaning against the rear passenger-side door with his arms crossed, the pose of the victorious warrior.

Standing beside him, with a kind smile on his face, was his partner-in-training, Special Agent Bill McCrogan. I had met McCrogan only once, on the night of my arrest, and for some inexplicable reason I had liked him. He seemed too kind to be an FBI agent, although I was certain that once Coleman got through with him he wouldn't be so kind anymore. McCrogan was a few inches taller than Coleman, the better part of five-ten, and he looked about thirty. He had a thick thatch of curly brown hair, broad features, and an entirely average build. Over his pale-blue eyes he wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that made him look God-fearing. A Mormon, I figured, probably from Salt Lake City or Provo, or maybe even the hills of Idaho… although who really gave a shit.

Coleman, on the other hand, looked Italian or Greek, although I had him figured as a German, because of his last name. Yes, he was probably from the hills of Bavaria. He was about the same height as me, a little over five-seven, and he weighed no more than one-sixty. He was broad in the chest, but not overly so. His features were fine and even, although they were a bit on the pointy side and seemed to ooze suspicion, especially at me. He had short brown hair, parted to the side, and there were a few strands of gray by his ears. But those must have been the result of him chasing after me for the last five years, which would be enough to make any man gray. He had smooth olive skin, an aquiline nose, a high forehead, and the most piercing brown eyes imaginable. They looked sharper than a hawk's. He was about my age, which meant that the bastard had been on my tail since he was in his late twenties! Christ—what kind of man could become so obsessed with bringing someone else to justice? I mean, really, how bad a case of OCD did this guy have? And why had he become OCD-ed with me? What a fucking shame that was.

“Welcome to Team USA!” said Agent OCD, smiling broadly and extending his right hand, the wrist of which sported a black plastic watch with a circular face and a suggested retail price somewhere below $59.99.

I shook his hand warily and searched his face for irony. But all I found was what appeared to be a genuine smile. “Thanks,” I muttered, “but I figured you'd be gloating a bit.” I shrugged. “I mean, I wouldn't blame you if you did.”

The Mormon chimed in: “Gloating? He's been miserable since the day he caught you! It was the chase he loved”—he looked at Agent OCD—”right, Greg?”

OCD rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Yeah, whatever,” and he smiled at me once more, except this smile was peppered with sadness. “Anyway, I'm glad you finally decided to join the good guys. You're doing the right thing here. You really are.”

I shrugged again. “Yeah, well I feel like a bit of a louse.”

“You're not a louse,” he shot back.

“Definitely not,” added the Mormon, with a toothy Mormon smile. “You're much worse than a louse!” And he laughed a warm Mormon laugh and then extended his God-fearing hand for a Mormon handshake.

I smiled at the kindhearted guy and shook his hand dutifully. Then I took a moment to regard my two new friends. They both wore dark blue suits, crisp white dress shirts, conservative blue neckties, and black lace-up shoes. (Typical G-man's ensemble.) They looked pretty good, actually; everything fit together nicely, and their suits had been pressed to near perfection.

Either way, my ensemble was terribly smarter than theirs. I had felt it was important to look good on my first day of ratting, so I'd chosen my outfit carefully. I was wearing a $2,200 single-breasted navy serge suit, a white oxford dress shirt with a conservative button-down collar, a solid navy crepe de chine necktie, and black lace-up shoes. But unlike their shoes, which were clodhoppers, mine were made of buttery-soft napa leather. In fact, they had been custom-made in England for $1,800. Good for me! I thought. I had them beaten hands down in the shoe department.

And in the watch department too.

Indeed. For today's festivities I was sporting my $26,000 Swiss Tabbah, with its chocolate-brown leather band and oversize white rectangular face. It was the sort of ultrafine Swiss watch that reeked of wealth to those in the know yet would come off as nothing special to people in Coleman and McCrogan's income bracket. It had been a clever move on my part, to leave the Bulgari home in its cage this morning. After all, why make my new friends jealous, or did they now have the right to grab my watch right off my fucking wrist and put it on theirs? (The spoils of war, so to speak.) Hmmm… I would have to ask Magnum about that.

The Mormon and I were still shaking hands, when he added, “In all seriousness, though, you are doing the right thing here, Jordan. Welcome to Team USA!”

“Yeah,” I replied, in a tone laced with irony. “I'm doing the only thing I can do, right?”

They both pursed their lips and nodded slowly, as if to say, “Yes, threatening to indict a man's wife leaves him few options, now, doesn't it!” Then Coleman said, “Anyway, I'm sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but we think some of your old friends might try to have you followed. So we're gonna drive you around the streets of Brooklyn for a while to shake off any tails.”

Wonderful! I thought. Agent OCD must have information he's not sharing with me—like somebody wants me dead! It had never occurred to me that I might get assassinated over this cooperation business, but now that I thought about it, it would make perfect sense to a lot of people, wouldn't it? In fact, maybe I should just assassinate myself right now and save everyone else the trouble. Of course the Duchess would be thrilled about that, wouldn't she? She would dance on my grave, chanting, “It was blood money! It was blood money!” and then she would light a ceremonial fire and set our marriage certificate ablaze.

Christ, I had to get a grip here! I needed to focus. I needed to keep that blond-headed scoundrel out of my thoughts. It was these two rat bastards I needed to focus on. I took a deep breath and said, “Who do you think might be after me?”

OCD shrugged. “I don't know. Who do you think might be after you?”

I returned his shrug. “I don't know. I guess everybody, right?” I paused for an instant, then added, “Or everybody except my wife. I mean, she couldn't give a shit where I am, or where I'm going, for that matter, as long as I'm not going near her.”

“Really?” said OCD. “Why do you say that?”

“Because she fucking hates me! That's why I say that!” And because last night she told me she would never let me stick it inside her again, I said to myself.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That surprises me.”

“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

OCD shrugged once more. “I don't know. The night you were arrested it seemed like she really loved you. In fact, I asked her if she loved you and she told me that she did.”

“It's true,” added the Mormon.

I narrowed my eyes, as if confused. “Why would you guys ask my wife that? I mean, isn't that a little off the beaten trail?”

“Welllll,” chirped OCD, “you'd be surprised what we get out of a wife if she's disgruntled. In fact, sometimes the wife will be screaming, ‘My husband has cash hidden in the basement! He cheats on his taxes!’ right as I'm escorting the husband away in handcuffs.” OCD chuckled at that. “But not your wife. She didn't say anything.”

“Not a thing,” added the Mormon. “I mean, I could be mistaken, but I think your wife still loves you.”

“I hate to break up the party,” mused Coleman, “but we need to get the show on the road. Anyway, this place smells like, uh…”

“Dog shit?” I offered.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied, opening the rear passenger door and motioning for me to climb in. “Just lay across the backseat and try to keep your head down, okay?”

I stared at OCD for a good few seconds, wondering if he was alluding to the possibility of a sniper being outside, waiting to blow my head off. But I dismissed the thought as being ridiculous; after all, if someone wanted to assassinate me, there would be more convenient times than when I was under the protection of two FBI agents.

So I climbed in with a confident shrug, and just like that we were on our way—driving through the rancid gullet of Sunset Park. We made a series of rights and lefts, along with an occasional U-turn, as they went about shaking off imaginary tails. Meanwhile, we engaged in only idle conversation, with all three of us aware that it would be inappropriate to discuss anything meaningful without my lawyer present.

To my surprise, they both seemed genuinely concerned over the breakup of my marriage, especially the impact it might have on my children. I found my spirits rising as they repeated the story of how the Duchess had professed her love for me on the night of my arrest. Furthermore, they were both convinced that once the initial shock had passed, she would want to stay married. But I knew they were wrong; they didn't know the Duchess like I did. She had decided to move on, and that was that.

By the time we hit the Brooklyn Bridge, my spirits had plunged lower than ever. I was running out of time now, quickly approaching the point of no return. FBI headquarters was less than five minutes away.

Yes, I thought, there were some pretty dark days up ahead; of that much I was certain. The only question was how deep did the rabbit hole go? I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself, but it was no use.

Soon enough I would be singing on Court Street.