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

CHAPTER 24

THE FATE GOD STRIKES BACK

he next seven days were gut-wrenching.

Upon hanging up with Magnum, I called Pat Mancini, who, not surprisingly, had just received a phone call from the Bastard, asking if he'd given me authorization to travel to Atlantic City. Pat, of course, told him that he hadn't, to which the Bastard suggested that he inform Judge Gleeson of my bail violation.

Pat told him that he would think about it.

Thankfully he told me that he wouldn't; in fact, he actually felt bad for me, he said. Yes, I was definitely a schmuck for taking a helicopter to Atlantic City, but in a way I had been set up for the fall. “There's only so long a man can stay under house arrest before he fucks up,” Pat explained. “It's like the old saying: You leave a man just enough rope to hang himself.”

Before he hung up the phone, he said something that I knew I would be hearing a lot for a few weeks, namely: “For a smart guy, Jordan, you do some pretty stupid things!” Then he hung up on me.

I passed the rest of the weekend in a state of relative calm. Then, on Monday morning, all hell broke loose.

It started when Mancini called Magnum to say that he had received a scathing letter from the Bastard, demanding that Pat write a letter to Gleeson, informing him of my trip to Atlantic City. And, just for good measure, the Bastard wrote that all the high points of my trip—the young girl, the bag of cash, the chopper-must be included in the letter to Gleeson, lest Pat be accused of painting a misleading picture for the judge.

Magnum placed an emergency phone call to Joel—to beg him to rescind the letter to Mancini—only to get a recorded message that went something like: “Hi, this is Joel Cohen, and I'm no longer with the U.S. Attorney's Office. I will be on vacation for the next two weeks…”

Yes, the Bastard had vanished, and this was his revenge.

He had wanted to revoke my bail over the Dave Beall incident but had been overruled. So this was payback, and it was a bitch!

Magnum, however, was not ready to go down without a fight, so he hopped on the subway and went down to the U.S. Attorney's Office to meet with Alonso, who agreed to call Mancini and tell him that he could handle this “in house.” My restrictions would be tightened for a few months, and then ultimately Alonso would make a motion before Gleeson to have my ankle bracelet removed—getting me out of Mancini's hair once and for all.

Sure, Mancini said, that would be wonderful. The only problem was that he had just hit the send button on the e-mail, and right now, at this very moment, Judge Gleeson was probably reading the letter, which did indeed include all the dirty details. When Magnum informed me of this, I dropped the phone, ran to the toilet, and vomited. Then I ran back to the phone and asked Magnum what this meant—which is to say, was my goose cooked for sure now?

He told me that it wasn't; there was still a fifty-fifty shot that Gleeson would read the letter and take no action. After all, the letter had not been accompanied by a request for a hearing. With a little bit of luck, Gleeson would just shake his head in disbelief, lose a bit of respect for me, and then move on with his day.

No such luck.

On Thursday morning, at 8:30 a.m. sharp, I heard a very disturbing sound: the phone ringing.

Oh, Jesus! I thought. I looked to my left, and there was KGB. As always, she was sleeping soundly, her blond Soviet head poking out from beneath the white silk comforter.

It was Magnum. His first few words were lost on me, but his next few words weren't: “Unfortunately, I just received a fax from Gleeson, and he's ordered a hearing.”

“When?” I asked, in a state far beyond panic.

“Tomorrow morning, ten a.m.”

I stole a glance at KGB. Well, it was nice knowing you! I thought.

“I guess I'm dead fucking meat,” I said rather calmly.

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “I think there's still a way out of this. The key is that we need to approach Gleeson as a united front. I already spoke to both Mancini and Alonso. Mancini will be there too, tomorrow, and he promised he'd stand up for you. He's gonna say that it was a misunderstanding and that, in his mind, you can still be trusted to live up to your bail restrictions.”

“And what about Alonso? What's he gonna say?”

“Like I told you, when it comes to AUSAs, Dan Alonso is about as good as they get. So, in spite of him never meeting you before, he's willing to stand up for you too. I'm meeting with him later today, and we're going to work out a package that we can sell to Gleeson. There'll be some severe restrictions for a while—no travel, in your house by six p.m., no more late nights in the city—but it's much better than going to jail right now, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” I replied. “And what are the chances of Gleeson going along with this?”

“Close to a hundred percent,” Magnum said confidently. “It's very rare that a judge goes against the recommendation of the U.S. attorney. And the fact that Mancini's on board pretty much seals the deal.”

Excellent, I thought. There was no reason to worry.

The United States Courthouse at 225 Cadman Plaza was enveloped by an irreducible despair. No one, it seemed, really wanted to be there—from the lawyers, to the defendants, to the clerks, to the marshals, to the court reporters, to the people who swept the building's six sprawling floors, to the judges themselves. Everyone looked either bored, desperate, or on the verge of tears. And while you might find an occasional smile from someone who had just been acquitted of a criminal charge, for every broad smile there was a frown. After all, for every winner there was a loser.

Except in my case.

It was Friday morning, a few minutes before ten, and my lawyers and I were standing in a long, broad hallway outside Judge Gleeson's courtroom. Save a few wooden benches against the walls, the hallway was completely bare. The benches looked about as comfortable as the linoleum floor. Between the benches were four soundproof doors, two on each side, and each leading into a separate courtroom.

Just then Magnum looked down at the top of my head and said, “Look, here comes Alonso now,” and he pointed to a tall, slender figure walking toward us. At first glance he looked more like a movie star than an assistant United States attorney. Tall, lean, good-looking, immaculately groomed, and possessing a surprisingly warm smile, he was everything the Bastard wasn't—namely, a picture of grace and gentility. He looked like the actor George Hamilton, without the tan.

“So you're Jordan Belfort,” said Dan Alonso, extending his hand for a shake. “You don't look capable of causing so much commotion!”

I smiled and shook his hand warmly, wondering if he was making some vague reference to my height. After all, he was every bit of six foot two, and Magnum's head was nearly scraping the twelve-foot-high cement ceiling. I took a step toward the Yale-man, for height-protection, and I said, “Well, looks can be deceiving, right?”

Alonso nodded and shook my hand firmly.

Magnum said, “I promise you, Alonso, this is the end of the commotion. Jordan has lost his desire to fly around in helicopters with bags of money. Right, Jordan?”

And don't forget about the underage girl, I thought. “Forever,” I said confidently. “I will never step foot in Atlantic City again. In fact, I have no desire to ever step foot in New Jersey again!”

“Who does?” reasoned the Yale-man.

Magnum said to Alonso, “I think this would be a good time to go through the particulars. I've already spoken to Jordan about his new restrictions, and he's totally fine with them. Right, Jordan?”

“Yeah,” I said unenthusiastically. “I'm actually looking forward to them.”

Alonso said, “Just behave yourself for a few months and we can go back in front of Gleeson and make a motion to have you taken off house arrest. I think that's the safest bet for all of us.”

I compressed my lips and nodded humbly, but silently I was thinking: Alonso is the fucking best, and may the Bastard burn in fucking hell, with a pitchfork up his ass! “Thank you,” I said meekly.

“No problem,” said Alonso. Then he looked at Magnum and said, “I'd just as soon not bring up the Dave Beall issue today. We'll set up another hearing for that.”

Magnum nodded, and then looked down at me and said, “Dan has been nice enough to reduce the obstruction-of-justice charge to lying to a federal officer.”

Alonso, sarcastically: “You can thank your lawyers for that one. They've been pounding me so hard over the last few days— especially you, Nick—that I just didn't want to hear their voices anymore.”

“Just doing my job,” said the Yale-man.

I smiled at Magnum and the Yale-man. I said to Alonso, “I appreciate it, but, above all, I know my kids will appreciate it one day.”

Alonso nodded in understanding. “All right, well, let's go inside and get it over with.” He took one step, then stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to us and said, “I sincerely hope Gleeson doesn't ask too many questions today, ‘cause, for the life of me, I haven't the slightest idea what really happened here. This whole thing got dumped on my lap at the last second, and I really hate to go to court not knowing all the details. I mean, why the fuck would you go to Atlantic City in the first place? You were under house arrest, for Chrissake!”

I nodded sheepishly. “Well, I think I was just—”

Alonso cut me off with a raised hand. “No, don't tell me. I'd rather not know. There's no upside in it.” He shook his head. “Anyway, for a smart guy you do some pretty stupid things, you know?”

I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I've heard that before.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not surprised. Come on, let's go.”

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” bellowed a kind-looking middle-aged woman wearing a nondescript maroon pantsuit. “The United States Court for the Eastern District of New York is now in session,” she continued, in a surprisingly deep voice. “All rise for the presiding judge, the Honorable John Gleeson.”

Like a magician, Judge Gleeson, in black robes, emerged from behind a wood-paneled door that led from his chambers into the courtroom. Without saying a word, he calmly walked up a short flight of stairs and took a seat behind a vast wooden desk that sat upon a wooden stage fit for the Phantom of the Opera himself.

To the judge's left, a court reporter took her seat in anticipation of memorializing the day's proceedings. Behind her stood a very stocky man, who was wearing a loose-fitting blue sport jacket with a giant bulge under his left armpit. He was just standing there, his arms crossed beneath his massive chest, waiting for someone to fuck with the judge. Then he would strike with the speed of a cobra.

The rest of us—including my pretrial services officer, Patrick Mancini, who at six-three, two-thirty could have played tight end for the Rams—were all standing behind the defense table. That was a good sign, I figured, because there was no one standing behind the prosecutor's table. (We're all on the same side here!) In fact, even the audience's sole spectator, a young black woman in her early twenties, whom I'd pegged as an aspiring lawyer or a reporter, looked to be on my side. She was sitting in the spectator section, holding a spiral notebook and a pen.

Magnum put his hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me into my seat. Now the kind woman who'd announced the judge's presence began muttering something to the court reporter, something about the entire United States of America being against me, Jordan Belfort. I had never really looked at it that way before, even at my sentencing, which had occurred in secret, inside Judge Gleeson's chambers.

Judge Gleeson looked rather nice, actually. Even in those flowing black robes, I could still tell that he had a kind heart. He struck me as the sort of guy who would carve a Thanksgiving turkey for his family. He was very young for a federal judge, no older than forty-five, and he had a reputation for brilliance. Hopefully he was in a good mood.

Suddenly Magnum motioned for me to stand, so I did.

“Okay,” Judge Gleeson said softly. “Now, what's going on here?”

Alonso said, “If it pleases the court, Your Honor, I'd like to speak.”

Judge Gleeson nodded.

“Thank you,” said Alonso. “Okay, Your Honor, well, we've come to an agreement with the defendant's counsel on this matter, as well as with Mr. Mancini. The agreement consists of tightening the defendant's house-arrest restrictions to very onerous terms. The defendant will only be able to travel to work and back, and he must be home by six p.m., without exception. And on weekends, he will be on twenty-four-hour lockdown.” With that Alonso nodded once, pleased with my new conditions.

“Oh, really?” snapped Judge Gleeson. “Well, I have questions.”

And that was it; it was over before it started.

Gleeson had questions and Alonso didn't have answers, because he had just taken over the case. And even if he did have answers, it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because, as Magnum had said, this was just the sort of thing to raise Gleeson's ire—the very brazenness of it!

Suddenly I realized that Alonso was babbling something about a helicopter… a bag of cash… then an unidentified female (and, obviously, every last soul in the courtroom, especially Gleeson, knew exactly what kind of female this was), and then he started saying, “… but I really don't know all the facts here, Your Honor, because I just—”

Gleeson cut him off in a menacing voice: “Are you telling me that you've come into my courtroom unprepared, that you don't know the first thing about this case?”

I snuck a peek at Alonso, who looked like he'd just taken a bullet. The way I figured it, he had two options: The first was to blame it all on the Bastard, and the second was just to say that he was sorry and that it wouldn't happen again. Alonso said, “I'm very sorry, Your Honor, it won't happen again.”

Now it was Mancini's turn. “Mr. Mancini?” said the angry judge.

Pat fumbled through some notes and began spewing out random facts, then a few contradictions, and he ended by saying, “… uh, but in spite of all that, I still think Mr. Belfort can be trusted to live up to his new release conditions.” He shrugged, as if to say, “But that's just one man's opinion. Don't hold me to it.”

Gleeson didn't berate him. In fact, he didn't say a single word to him; he just stared at Mancini for a few seconds too long, his eyes emitting what appeared to be an incredible shrinking ray, and I watched in fascination as Mancini, the tight end, seemed to grow smaller and smaller, until he was a midget.

Satisfied with that, Gleeson turned off his shrinking ray and then looked at his old buddy Magnum. “Does the defense counsel have anything to add here?”

Magnum stood up to his full height and said, in a very confident tone, “Yes, Your Honor…” and then he went about giving a highly accurate account of what happened. His words came out smoothly, confidently, and altogether logically—which was a total fucking disaster for me, because this was not one of those situations where the truth shall set you free, especially when Magnum got to the part about the helicopter malfunction being the primary cause of me not getting back before curfew. That was when Gleeson pounced.

“So, what you're saying, Counselor, is that your client's excuse is that he thought he'd get away with it?”

“Uh, not exactly,” said Magnum—and Jesus Christ! I thought. How the fuck could a judge who'd never broken a single law in his entire life sift through all the bullshit so quickly? What were the chances?

Now Magnum began trying to defend me again, spewing out more half-truths and some rather bold predictions (considering my track record) about my future conduct under house arrest. But I couldn't listen anymore. I knew where this was going, and I knew where /was going. And it wasn't home.

Finally there were a few moments of silence. I fought the urge to turn around and sneak a peek at my favorite spectator. She thought she would be sitting through a boring hearing, and now she was about to see a guy who had put up $10 million in bail have it revoked!

Gleeson started talking, and I knew that he was speaking English words, but for some reason I couldn't understand them. He sounded like the muffled teacher from the Charlie Brown cartoons. I felt dizzy, ready to puke. The room seemed to be slowly revolving, like a merry-go-round.

Then I heard Gleeson say, “No… no… I don't like this… get to the bottom of this… blatant disregard… helicopter… where… did he get cash…” Then suddenly more Charlie Brown: “Weep, womp… Womp, weep… Weep, womp…” and then: “I hereby remand the defendant to custody.” Next thing I knew, Magnum was saying, “Give me your watch and your money, and your belt too.”

I had only a few seconds of freedom left, and my mind immediately jumped to the kids. I was supposed to pick them up this afternoon. Such sadness. I had let them down again. As I removed my watch, I said to Magnum in an urgent tone, “You gotta call Nadine right now and tell her what happened. Tell her that I don't know when I'll be able to call, but to kiss the kids for me and tell them that I love them. And that I'll always love them.”

“I'll take care of it right away,” he said. “I'm sorry this happened.”

“Not as sorry as me,” I said softly. “Is there any way out of this?”

He shook his head. “Not now; we need to let Gleeson calm down for a while. A long while.”

“How long is a long while?” I asked.

“At least a few months, probably longer.”

In no time flat, the man with the bulge under his jacket was standing next to me. Rather kindly, he said, “Would you mind coming with me, sir?”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, with a nervous smile.

“I'm afraid not,” he replied, and he put his beefy hand on my shoulder and gently guided me in the direction of a secret door at the front of the courtroom.

I took a few steps, then turned to Magnum and said, “Oh, shit! You gotta call Yulia! She's at the Four Seasons Hotel. I told her I'd be back in an hour.”

“I'll take care of it,” he said calmly. “As soon as I'm done with Nadine.”

“The room's under my name,” I screamed over my shoulder.

And then I was gone—walking through a door and finding myself in a little-known area of 225 Cadman Plaza, consisting of holding cells, fluorescent lights, and desperate people. The area didn't have a name, but I had been here once before and nearly frozen to death. Now I was back.

As usual, I had no one to blame but myself.