The Wolf of Wall Street

“But whose name is it in?”

“Patricia Mellor’s, of course. There is no finer nominee than a dead person, my friend. No one at either of the new banks has seen Patricia Mellor, and the money is in the accounts of your bearer corporations, to which you hold the certificates.” The Master Forger shrugged, as if to say, “None of this is a big deal in the world of master forgery.” Then he said, “The only reason I moved the money out of Union Banc is because Saurel has fallen out of favor there. Better safe than sorry, I figured.”

Master Forger! Master Forger! He had turned out to be everything I’d hoped for. Yes, the Master Forger was worth his considerable weight in gold, or close to it. Still, he had managed to turn death into…life! And that was just how Aunt Patricia would have wanted it. Her name would live on forever in the seedy underbelly of the Swiss banking system. In essence, the Master Forger had immortalized her. Dying the way she had…so fast…she had never gotten the chance to say good-bye. Oh, but I’d be willing to bet that one of her final thoughts was a tiny worry that her unexpected passing would cause her favorite nephew-in-law a problem.

The Master Forger leaned forward and picked up two more chocolate-covered strawberries, numbers twenty-three and twenty-four, and started chomping. I said, “You know, Roland, I was very fond of Saurel when I first met him, but I’m having second thoughts now. He speaks to Kaminsky all the time, and it makes me uncomfortable. I’d just as soon not do any more business with Union Banc, if that’s okay with you.”

“I will always abide by your decisions,” replied the Master Forger, “and in this case I think your decision is a wise one. But, either way, you need not worry about Jean Jacques Saurel. In spite of him being French, he still lives in Switzerland, and the United States government has no power over him. He will not betray you.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I replied, “but it’s not a matter of trust. I just don’t like people knowing my business, especially a guy like Kaminsky.” I smiled, trying to make light of the whole thing. “Anyway, I’ve been trying to reach Saurel for over a week now, but his office says he’s away on business.”

The Master Forger nodded. “Yes, he is in the United States, I believe. Seeing clients.”

“Really? I had no idea.” For some odd reason, I found that troubling, although I couldn’t have explained why.

Matter-of-factly, Roland said, “Yes, he has many clients there. I know a few, but not most of them.”

I nodded, dismissing my premonition as nothing more than worthless paranoia. Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside his front door, holding a doggie bag of Swiss delicacies. The Master Forger and I exchanged a warm hug. “Au revoir!” I said, which was French for until I return.

In retrospect, good-bye would have been much more appropriate.

I finally walked through the door of our Westhampton Beach house on Friday morning, a little after ten. All I wanted was to go upstairs and hold Chandler in my arms and then make love to the Duchess and go to sleep. But I never got the chance. I was home for less than thirty seconds when the phone rang.

It was Gary Deluca. “I’m really sorry to bother you,” said the Drizzler, “but I’ve been trying to reach you for over a day. I thought you’d want to know that Gary Kaminsky got indicted yesterday morning. He’s sitting in a Miami jail, being held without bail.”

“Really?” I replied casually. I was in that state of extreme weariness where you can’t fully fathom the consequences of what you’re hearing, or at least not immediately. “What did he get indicted for?”

“Money laundering,” Deluca said tonelessly. “Does the name Jean Jacques Saurel ring a bell?”

That one got me—woke me right the f**k up! “Maybe…I think I met him when I was in Switzerland that time. Why?”

“Because he got indicted too,” said the Bearer of Bad News. “He’s sitting in jail with Kaminsky; he’s also being held without bail.”

CHAPTER 29

DESPERATE MEASURES

As I sat in my kitchen, plowing through the indictment, I found the whole thing mind-boggling. How many Swiss bankers were there? There had to be at least ten thousand of them in Geneva alone, and I had to choose the one who’d been dumb enough to get himself arrested on U.S. soil. What were the chances of that? Even more ironic was that he’d gotten himself indicted on a completely unrelated charge, something having to do with laundering drug money through offshore boat racing.

Meanwhile, it didn’t take the Duchess long to realize that something was terribly wrong, simply because I hadn’t pounced on her the moment I’d walked through the door. But without even trying, I knew I couldn’t get it up. I had resisted letting the word impotent enter my thoughts, because it had so many negative connotations to a true man of power, which I still considered myself to be, in spite of falling victim to the reckless behavior of my Swiss banker. So I preferred to think of myself as being a limp dick or a spaghetti dick, which was far more palatable than the heinous I word.

Either way, my penis had sought refuge inside my lower abdomen—shrinking to the size of a number-two pencil eraser—so I told the Duchess that I was sick and jet-lagged.

Later that evening I went into my bedroom closet and picked out my jail outfit. I chose a pair of faded Levi’s, a simple gray T-shirt with long sleeves (just in case it got cold inside the jail cell), and some old beat-up Reebok sneakers, which would reduce the chances of any seven-foot black men named Bubba or Jamal taking them from me. I had seen this happen in the movies, and they always took your sneakers before they raped you.

On Monday morning I decided not to go to the office—figuring it was more dignified to get arrested in the comfort of my own home rather than in the gloomy groin of Woodside, Queens. No, I would not allow them to arrest me at Steve Madden Shoes, where the Cobbler would view it as a perfect opportunity to f**k me out of stock options. The Maddenites would have to read about it on the front page of The New York Times, like the rest of the Free World. I would not give them the pleasure of seeing me taken away in handcuffs; that pleasure I would reserve for the Duchess.

Then something very odd happened—namely, nothing. There were no subpoenas issued, no unannounced visits from Agent Coleman, and no FBI raids at Stratton Oakmont. By Wednesday afternoon I found myself wondering what the f**k was going on. I’d been hiding out in Westhampton since Friday, pretending to be sick with a horrible case of diarrhea, which was basically true. Still, it now appeared that I was hiding for no good reason—perhaps I wasn’t on the verge of being arrested!

By Thursday, the silence was overpowering and I decided to risk a phone call to Gregory O’Connell, the lawyer whom Bo had recommended. He seemed like the perfect person to gather intelligence from, since he had been the one who reached out to the Eastern District and spoke to Sean O’Shea six months ago.

Obviously, I wouldn’t come clean with Greg O’Connell. After all, he was a lawyer, and no lawyer could be fully trusted, especially a criminal one, who couldn’t legally represent you if he became aware that you were actually guilty. It was an outlandish concept, of course, and everyone knew that defense lawyers made their livings defending the guilty. But part of the game was an unspoken understanding between a crook and his lawyer, wherein the crook would swear innocence to his lawyer and the lawyer would help the crook mold his bullshit story into a criminal defense that was consistent with the loose ends of his bullshit story.

So when I spoke to Greg O’Connell I lied through my teeth, explaining how I’d gotten caught up in someone else’s problem. I told him that my wife’s family in Britain shared the same banker as some corrupt offshore boat-racers, which was, of course, a complete coincidence. As I went about running this first version of my bullshit story to my future lawyer—telling him all about the lovely Aunt Patricia, still alive and kicking, because I felt it made my case stronger—I started seeing thin rays of hope.

My story was entirely believable, I thought, until Gregory O’Connell said in a somewhat skeptical tone: “Where did a sixty-five-year-old retired schoolteacher come up with the three million in cash to get the account started?”

Hmmm… a slight hole in my story; probably not a good sign, I thought. Nothing to do but play dumb. “How am I supposed to know?” I asked matter-of-factly. Yes, my tone had been just right. The Wolf could be a cool character when he had to be, even now, under the most dire circumstances. “Listen, Greg, Patricia—may she rest in peace—was always going on about how her ex-husband was the first test pilot for the Harrier jump jet. I bet the KGB would have paid a bloody fortune for some hard intel on that project; so maybe he was taking cash from the KGB? As I recall, it was pretty cutting-edge stuff back then. Very hush-hush.” Christ! What the f**k was I rambling about?

“Well, I’ll make a few calls and get a quick heads-up,” said my kind attorney. “I’m just confused about one thing, Jordan. Can you clarify whether your aunt Patricia is alive or dead? You just said she should rest in peace, but a couple of minutes ago you told me she lived in London. It would be helpful if I knew which of the two was accurate.”

I had clearly dropped the ball on that one. I would have to be more careful in the future about Patricia’s life status. No choice now but to bluff it out: “Well, that depends on which one bodes better for my situation. What makes my case stronger: life or death?”

“Welllllllllllllll, it would be nice if she could come forward and say the money was hers, or, if not that, at least sign an affidavit attesting to that fact. So I would have to say that it would be better if she were alive.”

“Then she’s very much alive!” I shot back confidently, thinking of the Master Forger and his ability to create all sorts of fine documents. “But she likes her privacy, so you’re gonna have to settle for an affidavit. I think she’s in seclusion for a while, anyway.”

Nothing but silence now. After a good ten seconds my lawyer finally said, “Okay, then! I think I’ve got a pretty clear picture here. I’ll be back to you in a few hours.”

An hour later I did receive a call back from Greg O’Connell, who said, “There’s nothing new going on with your case. In fact, Sean O’Shea is leaving the office in a couple a weeks—joining the ranks of us humble defense attorneys—so he was unusually forthcoming with me. He said your whole case is still being driven by this Coleman character. No one in the U.S. Attorney’s Office is interested in it. And as far as this Swiss banker goes, there’s nothing going on with him in relation to your case, at least not now.” He then spent a few more minutes assuring me that I was pretty much in the clear.

Upon hanging up, I dropped those first two hedge words, pretty and much, and held on to the last three, in the clear, like a dog with a bone. I still needed to speak to the Master Forger, though, to gauge the full extent of the damage. If he were sitting in a U.S. jail, like Saurel—or if he were in a Swiss jail, pending extradition to the United States—then I was still in deep shit. But if he wasn’t—if he was in the clear too, still able to practice the little-known art of master forgery—then perhaps everything might work out for me.