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

CHAPTER 18

THE UNTHINKABLE

ith my shoulders squared, my chin held high, and the overstarched Yale-man walking beside me, I entered the debriefing room and prepared for the worst. Immediately, three things struck me as odd—starting with the fact that all four of my captors had shown up for the day's festivities, namely the Bastard, OCD, the Mormon, and, alas, the Wicked Witch of the East, whom I hadn't seen in close to a year. All four were sitting on one side of the debriefing table, waiting for the Yale-man and me to take seats across from them.

The second oddity was that everyone was dressed formally, including OCD, who seldom was. My male captors still had their suit jackets on, ties knotted to the top. Court attire. The Yale-man and I also wore suits, as did the Witch, who sported a black-on-black polyester power suit, which, like the rest of her wardrobe, was in desperate need of alterations.

And the third oddity—the most disturbing oddity of all—was that as we went about exchanging opening pleasantries, I noticed a conspicuous absence of them. The Bastard shook my hand limply and said nothing. The Mormon shook my hand firmly and said, “How's it going, guy,” using the sort of glum tone that a college coach would use before he cut a player from his team and revoked his scholarship. OCD shook my hand robustly—a bit too robustly, in fact, as if he were a kind Roman general, sending one of his soldiers into a gladiator pit filled with lions. And the Witch wouldn't even shake my hand.

Then we took seats.

“Okay,” snapped the Bastard, “let's get down to cases, then,” he calmly said, “Michele…” and he extended his hand toward her, palm upward. The Witch nodded once and handed him a thick legal file she was holding. Then she placed her tiny hands on the desktop and began twirling her thumbs at warp speed.

I felt my heart skip a beat.

With great care, the Bastard laid the file down in front of him. Then he stared at it. It was closed, held that way by a light-brown thread that was looped around a thin cardboard disc the size of a dime. And the Bastard just kept staring.

I looked over to the Yale-man, confused. He rolled his eyes and shrugged, as if to say, “It's just theatrics. It means nothing.” I nodded in understanding and looked back at the Bastard, who was still staring at the file—theatrically.

Finally, doing a near-perfect imitation of the spooky, stone-faced government agent from The Matrix named Agent Smith, the Bastard slowly unwound the light-brown thread at a perfectly even rate and in perfectly even circles. When he was finished, he slowly opened the file and stared at a document on top of the stack.

Still looking down, he said in the spooky tone of Agent Smith:

“Mr. Belfort: You've pled guilty to just about every type of securities fraud we have a law for.” True, I thought. “Stock manipulation. Sales-practice violations. Free-riding. 10B-5 violations. Currency violations”—he slowly looked up—”and, of course, money laundering.” He slid the document to my side of the conference table. “Are you familiar with this document, Mr. Belfort?”

I stared at it for a moment and heard Agent Smith say, “Why don't you have Mr. De Feis examine it for you—so there's no mistake.”

Eager to please, the Yale-man leaned over and studied the document for a moment. “It's your plea agreement,” he whispered in my ear.

No shit, Sherlock! It says it right here on top!

The Yale-man came to my rescue: “It's his plea agreement, Joel.”

“I'd like to hear Mr. Belfort say that,” snapped Agent Smith.

“It's my plea agreement,” I said tonelessly.

Agent Smith nodded once, then looked back down at the file and began staring again. After a good ten seconds, he grabbed a second document from the top of the stack and slid it over to me. Then he looked up. “And do you know what this document is, Mr. Belfort?”

I studied it for a moment. “It's my cooperation agreement.”

He nodded. “That's right. And on the bottom of page one, you'll see a sentence highlighted in yellow. Will you please read that out loud.”

“The defendant agrees to be truthful and honest at all times.”

The Yale-man seemed to be running out of patience: “What's your point, Joel? Are you saying that he hasn't been truthful and honest?”

The Bastard leaned back in his seat and smiled thinly. “Maybe, Nick.” Then he looked at me and said, “Why don't you tell us, Jordan? Have you been truthful and honest?”

“Of course I have!” I replied quickly. “Why wouldn't I be?” I looked around the room and all four of my captors were staring at me, expressionless.

The Witch: “You're saying you never tried to deceive us, not even once.”

I shook my head no, confident there was no way they could have already found out about Atlantic City. After all, it had just happened last night. Okay—two nights ago, I thought. But, either way, I had always been truthful besides that… unless—Dave Beall! The note! No! It couldn't be! Not in a million years! I pushed the thought out of my mind. Don't jump to conclusions. He would never rat me out. No upside for him. And I had protected him. Saved him. Alerted him. Alert! Alert!

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” said OCD, crossing his arms beneath his chest.

“No!” I replied forcefully. Then, not as forceful: “I mean, of course not. I just wasn't sure what you wanted me to say about… uh, honesty.” I looked at my captors one by one, my eyes settling on the Bastard. “And then, uh, truthfulness,” I felt compelled to add, although I had no idea why.

He seemed to smell blood. “Let me get more specific,” he said patiently. “Have you ever told anybody that you were cooperating?”

A knife through the heart! Must bluff it out! “Yes,” I said confidently.

“Who?”

“My parents, for one. Or two, you might say.” I smiled at my joke. “Is that a crime?”

The Bastard didn't smile. “No,” he replied, “that's not a crime. Who else?”

“Uhhh”—my mouth was going dry—”I told my wife, of course”— my lips seemed to be vibrating—”because I had to tell her. I mean, I had to tell her for a lot of reasons. She had to sign off on the forfeitures, for starters”—suddenly, a brainstorm!—”and maybe she slipped it to one of her friends, by accident.” As in Laurie Beall, if you catch my drift, who then told Dave Beall, which makes all of this one giant misunderstanding. “I mean, I don't know; I never stressed to her to keep it quiet. Maybe I should've. Is that a problem?”

The Bastard shook his head. “No. I think your wife is smart enough to know what's at stake here. Anyone else you told?”

Remain calm! “George,” I said confidently.

The Bastard looked at OCD, who said, “It's his sponsor from AA.” Then OCD shook his head back and forth, as if to say, “George is clean.”

Finally, the Yale-man stepped in. “Can we cut to the chase here, Joel? It's obvious you think Jordan told someone he was cooperating; so why don't you just tell us who it is? Then we can get to the bottom of it.”

The Bastard shrugged, ignoring the Yale-man's words with such callous indifference that it seemed he wasn't even giving him credit for going to Yale. Then he flashed me a hideous smile and said, “Have you ever passed anyone a note, Jordan?”

Good Lord! Worst fears confirmed! Can't think. Must stall for time. And deny. “You mean, have I ever passed anyone a note—ever? Like, uh, since public school or since, uh, when do you mean? Since college?”

“Since you started cooperating,” said OCD, saving me from my own nonsense.

“No,” I shot back. “Or, well, maybe, actually. I mean, I have to think about that, because it's, uh, an important question.” I paused for a moment, desperate to flee. How many FBI agents were in the building? Too many. But this might be my only chance! OCD might slap the cuffs on me at any moment, in this debriefing room. The Bastard would snap his fingers and point to my wrists and OCD would whip the cuffs out so fast my head would spin! But could they do that without a judge? Maybe. Probably. Definitely! I needed to speak to the Yale-man. But, no—if I asked for privacy they'd know I was guilty. Bad choice. Must bluff it out. Deny! Deny! Deny!

I blundered on: “Well, there was a time in New Jersey, when I was with Gaito and Brennan, if that's what you mean. After we played golf I wrote the name of a stock on a scorecard, and I passed it to Dennis. But it's on the tape. You can check it.”

“This is a waste of time,” sputtered the Witch. “We know you're lying to us. We could never use you as a witness.”

“Which means no 5K letter,” added the Bastard.

The Witch: “And according to my calculations, you're facing upward of thirty-five years.”

Now the Bastard: “But if you come clean with us right now, maybe there's a chance. Maybe.” He looked at me stone-faced. “I'll ask you one last time, and that's it. Have you—ever—passed— someone—a—note?”

The Yale-man to the rescue: “I want to speak to my client in private before this goes any further.” He grabbed my arm. “Come on; let's go outside for a second and have a talk.”

My moronic response: “No, it's all right, Nick.” I shook his arm off me. “I have nothing to hide. I haven't done anything wrong here. I swear to God. I haven't passed anyone a note, and I'm willing to take a lie-detector test.” Yes, I could pass a lie detector. Sharon Stone had done it in Basic Instinct… although she wasn't lying. But, still… they still might not know! It could be a fishing expedition! Not a shred of proof.… or.… did I take the note or did Dave take it? Not certain. But don't come clean. Can't come clean! To come clean is to die. Besides, maybe they don't even know it's Dave? If they knew for sure they would just come out and say it. They're trying to bluff a confession! No two ways about it!

The Bastard's last words: “Okay, then, so you never passed anyone a note. Fair enough,” and with that, he shrugged his shoulders and closed the file. Then he said to the Yale-man: “I'm sorry, Nick. I can't use your client as a witness; he's not credible. If he lies to us here, he'll lie in front of a jury.”

On cue, the Witch rose from her chair—only to be stopped by the booming voice of OCD, who shouted, “This is all crap!” He glowered at the Witch. “Sit down a second, Michele!” Then he glowered at me. “Listen,” he said in a tone he'd never used with me before. “I know exactly what happened. You went out for dinner with Dave Beall, and you slipped him a note saying, Don't incriminate yourself! I'm wired! Then you left the restaurant and lied to my face, telling me that you did the best you could.” He paused and shook his head, but it wasn't in disgust. He was disappointed in me. I was his star cooperator and I had let him down, perhaps even embarrassed him.

There were a few moments of silence, then he said, “I've always been straight with you, since day one, and I'm telling you right now—with no bullshit—that if you don't tell the truth about this, Joel's going to break your cooperation agreement and you're gonna spend the next thirty years in jail. And if you do come clean, he still might break it and you'll still grow old in jail.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I've never lied to you before, and I'm not lying to you now. You have to come clean or there's no chance.”

The Yale-man nearly jumped out of his chair. “Okay!” he said, in a voice just below a scream. “I want five minutes with my client—alone! And I want it right now.” Then he softened his tone a bit. “Will everybody please wait out in the hallway while I confer with my client!”

“Of course,” said the Bastard. “Take as long as you'd like, Nick.” On the way out, OCD locked eyes with me, and he nodded slowly. Do the right thing, said his eyes. And then he was gone.

“So I assume you did this,” stated my attorney.

I looked around the debriefing room, at the bare windowless walls, at the cheap government-issue desk, at the cheap black armchairs, and at the empty pitcher of water off to the side, and I found myself wondering if the room was bugged.

I looked at the Yale-man and mouthed the words: “Is it safe to talk?”

The Yale-man stared at me, incredulous. After a few seconds, he said, “Yes, Jordan, it's safe to talk. Everything we say is privileged.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Well, I guess you've never been to the movies before. It's the oldest trick in the book: The cops leave the room and wait for a confession. Then they run back inside and say, ‘Gotcha!’”

The Yale-man cocked his head to one side, the way you do when you're looking at someone who's just lost their mind. Then he said, “This room is not bugged. I worked in the U.S. Attorney's Office for many years, doing just what Joel does, so you can trust me on this. Now, did you pass Dave Beall a note?”

Deny! Deny! Deny! “What if I did?” I asked aggressively. “I mean, I'm not saying I did, but since they think I did, what if I did?”

“Then we have a serious problem,” he replied. “Joel could break your cooperation agreement—which means you'd be sentenced without a 5K letter.”

Remain calm! It's your word against his! “That's bullshit, Nick! How can they prove I passed Dave Beall a note? I mean, I'm saying I didn't do it, and they're saying I did. And even if Dave is cooperating, who's to say he's not the one who's lying?” I shook my head righteously. “I mean, really! They can't hold back my 5K letter without having proof, right?”

The Yale-man shrugged. “It's not so cut-and-dry. If they think you're lying they can still withhold it, although I doubt that's what's going on here.”

“What do you mean?”

“My guess is that they do have proof, or at least they think they have proof; they wouldn't be coming on so strong otherwise.” He paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. After a few seconds, he said, “Okay, let's just assume for a second that you did pass him the note. Where would you have been when you passed it to him?”

Unbelievable! I thought. Even now, at the very moment of my doom, I couldn't help but marvel at the twisted nature of the U.S. legal system. The simple fact was that if I came clean with my attorney—telling him that I did pass Dave Beall the note—then he could no longer represent me if I continued to lie. So, instead, we had to speak in “hypothetical terms,” so my attorney could try to find out where I was most vulnerable. Then he would help me mold the best bullshit story possible that was consistent with the known facts.

“I would have probably been in a restaurant,” I replied.

“And why would you say that?”

“Because that's where the meeting in question took place.”

He nodded. “Okay, and what was the name of the restaurant?”

“Caracalla. It's on Long Island, in Syosset.”

“And was the restaurant crowded?”

I knew what he was getting at. “No, there were only a handful of people there, and none of them was an FBI agent. I'm certain of it.”

The Yale-man nodded in agreement. “You're probably right about that. You've been cooperating for a while now, so I'm sure Coleman trusts you.” He paused for a moment, while his last few words hung in the air like mustard gas. Yes, I had betrayed OCD's trust. He had always been straight with me and I had fucked him over royally! But, still, I had acted like a man. I had maintained my self-respect. And this is what happens!

The Yale-man continued: “Okay, so for argument's sake, let's just assume that you did pass him the note but that no one saw you. Would anything have been said on tape that would sound incriminating—meaning, would Dave Beall have reacted to the note? You understand what I'm saying?”

“Yeah, I do”—and what do you think, I'm stupid? I didn't just pass him the note without warning!-“but I'm sure that that's not it. I mean, if I was gonna take a risk like that, I would have been very careful about it. I would have looked around the restaurant to make sure no one was watching, and then I would have sent him a signal—like maybe putting my finger to my lips or something like that. Anyway, there's nothing on that tape out of the ordinary, except that Dave didn't incriminate himself. But that's not so unusual, is it? I mean, I've had four or five meetings with Gaito and he hasn't incriminated himself. So it's really my word against Dave's, no?”

“I hear what you're saying,” reasoned the Yale-man, “but there's something not adding up here.” He paused for a moment. Then: “Let me ask you this: If you had passed him a note, would you have taken it back afterward or would he have kept it as a souvenir?”

I let out a great sigh. “I'm not sure, Nick. I mean, I probably would have assumed that he would just throw the note out, but I'm not really sure.” I paused and shook my head ironically. It was unbelievable! I had protected my friend, and as a way of saying thank you he ratted me out! Magnum had been right all along, and so had OCD. I was a fool, and now I was about to lose my life over it. I said, “Let me ask you a question, Nick: What's gonna happen here if I don't get a 5K letter? I mean, will I really end up doing thirty years?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Maybe even more. Joel will hit you with other charges on top of what you've already pled guilty to: You've got obstruction of justice, lying to a federal officer, and a few others too. But we cannot let that happen. We need to do everything possible to stop this from going beyond this room.” He put his hand on my shoulder, the way a friend would. “I need to know right now—as your lawyer: Did you pass Dave Beall a note?”

I nodded sadly. “Yeah, Nick, I did. I passed him the note, and it said exactly what Coleman said it did.” I chuckled softly. “You know, it's hard to believe that I went out on a limb for a friend and this is what I get in return.”

The Yale-man nodded. “Can I ask you why you did it?”

I shrugged. “Why, does it matter?”

With surprise: “Of course it matters! If you were trying to protect Dave Beall because he was holding money for you or you were in the process of breaking the law with him, then this is not going to end well. But if it was simply a crisis of conscience, and you had nothing to gain other than holding on to some mistaken notion of self-respect, then there might be a way out of this. So which is it? Are you hiding something else or was it just because he's your friend?”

“The latter,” I said confidently, feeling like the boy who cried Wolf. “I swear to God about that, Nick”—shit! I had already done that today, and then lied! “I mean, this time I really swear to God! I had nothing to gain here other than to help a friend. That's it. I went to that meeting with every intention of getting Dave to talk, but then something happened when I sat at the table. I don't know—I just kinda looked at him and saw everything that Stratton could've been. I felt like it was my fault for corrupting him in the first place. I ignited his greed with those stupid meetings I used to give and all that sort of shit. And, unlike the other people I cooperated against, Dave was a friend, or at least I thought he was. Now I know that there are no friends—and that there is no loyalty—and that it's every man for himself!” I shook my head angrily. “Now I'm probably going to jail for the rest of my fucking life because of it!” I paused for a moment, trying to rein in my anger. “And what about my kids?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Chandler and Carter. Oh, God—what did I do?”

The Yale-man put his hand on my shoulder again and patted it a few times. “Okay,” he said. “Now we gotta pick up the pieces. We gotta clean this mess up.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Well, for starters, you gotta come clean with them immediately. We can't let this drag on past today.”

“Yeah? Well, Joel hates my guts, Nick. The second I admit to this, he's going to break my cooperation agreement. I know it.” I paused for a moment, thinking of the short-term ramifications. “I have to see my kids again. I need to one more time before this goes down. Just to kiss them good-bye and tell them that I love them.”

“I understand,” he said sympathetically. “And I'm sure that if I go outside and tell Joel that you have something to say to him, he'll agree not to take any immediate action; he'll at least think about it overnight.”

“And then what happens? What would you have done in this situation?”

He chuckled at that. “What would I have done?”

I looked at him dead serious. “Yeah—what would you have done? Would you break my cooperation agreement right on the spot, or would you give me a slap on the wrist?”

“There's no way I would break your agreement,” he answered quickly. “The consequences are too severe; and I would say that ninety percent of the AUSAs would agree with me.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, Joel doesn't fall into that ninety percent, but that doesn't mean he'll break your agreement. It's just that most of the AUSAs aren't as hard-nosed as Joel.

“But to answer your question, what I'd probably do is give you a stern warning—or, at worst, make you plead guilty to another charge, something like lying to a federal officer or maybe obstruction of justice. My goal would be to teach you a lesson and also to send a message to the jury that you've been punished for what you did.”

“What jury? I've already pleaded guilty.”

He shook his head. “I'm not talking about your jury; I'm talking about the jury you'll end up testifying against. Understand: This is all going to come out under cross-examination. That's why everyone is so pissed right now! I'm sure they know that your motives weren't evil. You were just trying to help a friend.

“Anyway, give me permission and I'll go out there right now and tell them that you're ready to come clean. Then Greg and I will roll up our sleeves and go to work for you, and we're going to pull out all the stops on this one. Once Greg finds out what happened, I'm sure he'll be back here tonight; then first thing tomorrow we'll be down at the U.S. Attorney's Office pleading your case. And we'll go right to the top if we have to. We have an excellent relationship with the chief of the criminal division, and, ultimately, that's who Joel has to go to to sign off on this. In the meantime, I would suggest you speak to Coleman and ask him to put in a good word for you. I know you guys have a good relationship; I've heard from more than one source that he genuinely likes you and that he respects you.”

“Yeah,” I said gravely, “maybe that used to be true, but it's not true anymore. I totally betrayed the guy.” I shook my head in embarrassment. “I mean, I don't even know how I'm going to face him again.” I bit my lower lip at the thought. “He must be really hating my guts right now.”

“Nehhh,” said the Yale-man, with a hint of a smile. “He doesn't hate you. In fact, I'm sure he understands exactly what happened here. You know, you're not the first cooperator to do this sort of thing; it happens more often than you think. But at least your heart was in the right place. I mean, Coleman would never admit it, but he probably respects you even more now.” He winked at me. “And so do I. So, that leaves us with Joel: We need to do everything we can to make sure he doesn't shut down your cooperation. Then we can move forward with our lives.”

I nodded, feeling very lucky that I had chosen De Feis O'Connell & Rose as my law firm. Not only were they first-rate lawyers but they were also friends, which was a commodity that I was quickly running out of. Of course, there was still a better than fifty-fifty chance that the Bastard would break my cooperation agreement or at least try to, but with Nick and Greg in my corner— and, if I was lucky, OCD—I still had a fighting chance.

Five minutes later, my captors were back inside the debriefing room, and I was spilling my very guts; thirty minutes later I was done. I had told them everything.

The Bastard took it well, or at least he seemed to. He showed little emotion—telling Nick afterward that he would be in touch with him in a few days. The Witch, to my surprise, stayed out of it, as did the Mormon.

And then there was OCD, who had been unusually quiet.

At first that troubled me—no, it devastated me, because I assumed that any goodwill I had built up with him had been permanently destroyed. After all, I had completely betrayed his trust. I had looked him in the eye and lied to him, and not just when I first handed him the tape but also right here in the debriefing room when he confronted me. So, yes, he had every right to lose my phone number and to chalk the whole thing up to experience.

But I had been wrong; he was just saving his thoughts for when the two of us were alone. That happened about ten minutes later, after he had escorted the Yale-man and me up the service elevator, through the lobby with its endless sea of dark-faced grim-faced semi-illegal aliens, and then out onto the street. It was then that the Yale-man turned left and headed for the subway, and OCD and I turned right and headed for the parking lot.

We were somewhere around Broadway, with 26 Federal Plaza rising up behind us and Broadway in front of us, when OCD stopped dead in his tracks and slapped me on the biceps and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? Did you lose your mind or something?”

I stopped dead in my tracks too. “Yeah,” I replied sheepishly. “I did.”

OCD attacked: “Yeah—well, you're in some deep shit right now! Do you have any idea of the uphill battle you're facing with Joel? Christ! You don't get it! You're playing with your life here!” He compressed his lips and shook his head. “I can't believe it! And after what you've done, now I gotta go to bat for you and plead your fucking case to Joel, and to my boss, and to Joel's boss, and to everyone else around here!

“And do you have any idea how much fucking paperwork I gotta do because of this shit?” He shook his head angrily. “Unbelievable!” he muttered. “What did I tell you that night when you were all upset about wiring up against Beall? Come on, you're the one with the photographic memory! So, tell me, genius: What did I say to you?”

With my tail between my legs: “You said that if the shoe were on the other foot he would do the same thing to me. And you were right. I don't know what to say.” I paused, trying to find the right words. “Would you like to know why I did it?”

“No,” he answered flatly. “Don't waste your breath. I already know why you did it. That's why I'm out here talking to you and you're not sitting in jail already.” He shook his head some more. “Anyway, it's your mess, and now I gotta try to clean it up. I want to thank you for that.”

I didn't quite know what to say, so I said, “Well, what are friends for?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “you—my friend. Christ! Who needs enemies when I have cooperators like you?” More head-shaking now. “Anyway, listen to me very closely: I can't promise you how this is gonna turn out, but I'll do everything in my power to try to salvage your life. In return, I want you to step up your cooperation to new levels. You've done a good job so far, but only good. You could do better—much, much better. I know what you're capable of and so does Joel, and that's the biggest thing you got in your corner. Now—you know who the targets are, my friend. So I want you to go home tonight and rack your brain on how to reach out to them. This way, while I'm busy pleading with Joel to spare your life, I can tell him that you're prepared to take your cooperation to a whole new level. You understand?”

“Yeah. Clearly,” I said. “You were right all along: There's no loyalty in this world. And everyone rats.” And with that we shook hands and parted ways.

How odd it was that when I sat down with George that very evening, and I asked him to place a phone call to Elliot Lavigne to see if he would send me a bit of the money he owed me in my hour of need, George hung up the phone a minute later, astonished.

“According to your friend Elliot,” George said tonelessly, “you don't need money in jail. Then he told me to wish you well and to go fuck myself. Then he hung up on me.”

Fair enough, I thought. There were a few people in this world I'd committed crimes with who thought they had gotten away with it. Well, they were in for a rude awakening.