The Wolf of Wall Street (24 page)

Just then it occurred to me that Todd must’ve told all this to Carolyn over the telephone. And if he was still in jail, then he must’ve used the phone from—
Shit!
Todd was smarter than that! Why would he risk using a phone that was almost certainly tapped—to call his own house, nonetheless?

“When did you last speak to Todd?” I asked, praying there was some explanation.

“I not speak to him. His lawyer call me and tell me this. Todd call him and tell him to get bail money, and then Todd say I must leave to Switzerland tonight, before this become problem. So I book ticket for Tahad’s parents and Dina and me. Rich will sign for Todd and I will give him bail money.”

Christ almighty! This was an awful lot to take in. At least Todd had had enough common sense not to talk on the phone. And insofar as his conversation with his lawyer went, that would be privileged. Yet the most ironic part was that in the middle of the whole thing—while he was sitting in jail—Todd was still trying to get my money overseas. I didn’t know whether to be appreciative of his unwavering commitment to my cause or angry over how reckless he was. I ran the whole thing through my mind, trying to put it all into perspective. The truth was that the police probably thought they’d stumbled onto a drug deal. Todd was the seller, which was why he had a briefcase full of cash, and whoever had been driving the Rolls-Royce was the buyer. I wondered if they had gotten Danny’s license plate? If they had, wouldn’t they have already picked him up? But on what grounds would they arrest him? In truth, they had nothing on Danny. All they had was a briefcase full of cash, nothing more. The main issue was the gun, but that could be dealt with. A good lawyer could most certainly get Todd off with probation and maybe a hefty fine. I would pay the fine—or Danny would pay the fine—and that would be that.

I said to the Bombshell, “Okay, you should go. Todd gave you all the specifics, right? You know who to go see?”

“Yes. I will see Jean Jacques Saurel. I have phone number and I know street very well. It is in shopping area.”

“All right, Carolyn; be careful. Tell the same to Todd’s parents and to Dina. And, also, call Todd’s lawyer and tell him to let Todd know that you spoke to me and that he has nothing to worry about. Tell him that everything will be taken care of. And stress the word
everything,
Carolyn. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Don’t worry, Jordan. Tahad love you. He would never say one word, no matter what. I promise you this with all my heart. He will sooner kill himself before he hurt you.”

Those very words made me smile inwardly, even though I knew Todd was incapable of loving any soul on earth, especially himself. Yet Todd’s very persona, the persona of the Jewish Mafioso, made it highly unlikely that he would roll over on me unless he was facing many years in jail.

Having worked things out in my mind, I wished the Bombshell a bon voyage and hung up the phone. As I headed back to the yacht, the only remaining question was whether or not I should call Danny and give him the bad news. Or perhaps it would be wiser to wait until he wasn’t so stoned. Although, now that after the initial wave of panic had subsided, it wasn’t such bad news, after all. It certainly wasn’t good news, but it was more of an unexpected complication than anything else.

Still, there was no denying that those Quaaludes were going to be Danny’s downfall. He had a serious problem with them, and perhaps it was time that he sought help.

BOOK III

CHAPTER 21

FORM OVER SUBSTANCE

January 1994

I
n the weeks following the parking-lot debacle, it became clear that the shopping center’s surveillance cameras hadn’t gotten a clear picture of Danny’s license plate. But, according to Todd, the police were offering him a deal if he would tell them who’d been driving the Rolls-Royce. Todd, of course, had told them to eat shit and die, although I was somewhat suspicious that he was exaggerating a bit—laying a foundation for economic extortion. Either way, I had assured him that he would be taken care of, and in return he had agreed to spare Danny’s life.

With that, the rest of 1993 passed without incident—which is to say that
Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional
continued unabated—and came to a bountiful close with the public offering of Steve Madden Shoes. The stock had leveled off at just over $8, and between my ratholes, bridge units, and proprietary trading commissions I had made over $20 million.

Over Christmas and New Year’s, we took a two-week vacation in the Caribbean aboard the yacht
Nadine
. The Duchess and I partied like rock stars, and I had managed to fall asleep in just about every five-star restaurant between St. Bart’s and St. Martin. I also managed to spear myself while scuba diving on Quaaludes, but it was only a flesh wound, and other than that I had made it through the trip mostly unscathed.

But vacation was over, and it was back to business now. It was a Tuesday, the first week in January, and I was sitting in the office of Ira Lee Sorkin, Stratton Oakmont’s gray-haired, mop-topped chief outside legal counsel. Like all prominent white-collar attorneys, Ike had once worked for the bad guys—or the good guys, depending on whom you asked, which is to say that Ike had once been a regulator. In his case, he had been Section Chief of the SEC’s New York Regional Office.

At this particular moment he was leaning back in his fabulous black-leather throne, with his palms up in the air, saying, “You should be jumping for joy right now, Jordan! Two years ago the SEC sued you for twenty-two million bucks and was trying to shut down the firm; now they’re willing to settle for three million bucks and let the firm off with a slap on the wrist. It’s a complete victory. Nothing less.”

I smiled dutifully at my blowhard of a lawyer, although deep down I felt conflicted. It was an awful lot to take in my first day back from Christmas vacation. I mean, why should I be so quick to settle, when the SEC hadn’t found even one smoking gun against me? They had filed their suit more than two years ago, alleging stock manipulation and high-pressure sales tactics. But they had little evidence to support those claims, especially the stock manipulation, which was the more serious of the two.

The SEC had subpoenaed fourteen Strattonites, twelve of whom had placed their right hands on a stack of bibles and lied right through their teeth. Only two Strattonites had panicked and actually told the truth—admitting to using high-pressure sales tactics and such. And as a way of saying, “Thank you for your honesty!” the SEC had tossed them out of the securities industry. (After all, they had admitted wrongdoing under oath.) And what terrible fate had befallen the twelve who’d lied? Ah, such poetic justice! Every last one of them had walked away completely unscathed and was still working at Stratton Oakmont to this very day—smiling and dialing and ripping their clients’ eyeballs out.

Still, in spite of my wonderful string of successes at fending off the bozos, Ira Lee Sorkin, a former bozo himself, was still recommending that I settle my case and put all this behind me. But I found myself struggling with his logic, inasmuch as “putting all this behind me” didn’t just mean paying a $3 million fine and agreeing not to violate any more securities laws in the future; it also meant that I would have to accept a lifetime bar from the securities industry and leave Stratton Oakmont forever—with some additional language, I was certain, that if I were to somehow die and then figure out a way to resurrect myself, I would still be barred.

I was about to offer up my two cents when Sorkin the Great could remain silent no longer. “The long and short of it, Jordan, is that you and I made an excellent team, and we beat the SEC at their own game.” He nodded at the wisdom of his own words. “We wore the bastards out. The three million you can make back in a month, and it’s even tax-deductible. So it’s time to move on with your life. It’s time to walk off into the sunset and enjoy your wife and daughter.” And with that, Sorkin the Great smiled an enormous boiling smile and nodded some more.

I smiled noncommittally. “Do Danny or Kenny’s lawyers know about this?”

He flashed me a conspirator’s smile. “This is strictly on the Q.T., Jordan; none of the other lawyers knows anything. Legally, of course, I represent Stratton, so my loyalty is to the firm. But right now you
are
the firm, so my loyalty is to you. Anyway, I figured that given the circumstances of the offer, you might want a few days to think it over. But that’s all we have, my friend, a few days. Maybe a week at most.”

When we were first sued, we had each retained separate legal counsel to avoid potential conflicts. At the time I had considered it a serious waste of money; now I was glad we had. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m sure their offer isn’t going away anytime soon, Ike. Like you said, we wore them out. In fact, I don’t think there’s anyone left at the SEC who even knows anything about my case.” I was tempted to explain to him why I was so certain of that (my bug in the conference room), but I decided not to.

Ike the Spike threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes up in his head. “Why do you wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, huh? The SEC’s New York office has had huge turnover in the last six months, and morale is low. But that’s only by coincidence, and it won’t last forever. I’m talking to you like a friend now, Jordan, not your lawyer. You gotta settle this case once and for all, before a new set of investigators steps in and takes another crack at it. Eventually one of them might find something; then all bets are off.”

I nodded slowly and said, “It was smart of you to keep this between us. If news leaks out before I have a chance to address the troops, they might panic. But I’ll tell you that the thought of taking a lifetime bar doesn’t exactly thrill me, Ike. I mean—
to never set foot in the boardroom again!
I don’t even know what to say about that. That boardroom is my lifeblood. It’s my sanity, and it’s also my insanity. It’s like the good, the bad, and the ugly all rolled up into one.

“Anyway, the real problem isn’t gonna be with me; it’s gonna be with Kenny. How am I gonna convince him to take a lifetime bar when Danny’s staying behind? Kenny listens to me, but I’m not sure he’ll listen if I tell him to walk away while Danny’s allowed to stay. Kenny’s making ten million dollars a year; he may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s still smart enough to know that he’s never gonna make this kinda money again.”

Ike shrugged and said, “So let Kenny stay behind and have Danny take the bar. The SEC couldn’t care less which of them stays and which of them goes. As long as
you’re
gone, they’re happy. All they want is to make a nice fat press release saying the Wolf of Wall Street is out of their hair, and then they’ll be at peace. Would it be easier to convince Danny to leave?”

“That’s not an option, Ike. Kenny’s a fucking moron. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy and everything, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s incapable of running the firm. Tell me how this would play out if we agreed to settle.”

Ike paused, as if to gather his thoughts. After a few seconds he said, “Assuming you can convince Kenny, then both of you would sell your stock to Danny and then sign court orders permanently barring you from the brokerage business. The money for your fines can come directly out of the firm, so you won’t have to take a dime out of your pocket. They’ll want an independent auditor to come down to the firm and do a review and then make some recommendations. But that’ll be no big deal; I can handle that with your compliance department. And that’s it, my friend. It’s very straightforward.”

Ike added, “But I think you’re putting too much stock in Danny. He’s definitely sharper than Kenny, but he’s stoned half the time. I know you enjoy your partying too, but you’re always in good shape during business hours. Besides, for better or worse, there’s only one Jordan Belfort in the world. And the regulators know that too—especially Marty Kupperberg, who’s running the New York office right now. That’s why he wants you out. He might despise everything you stand for, but he still respects what you’ve accomplished. In fact, I’ll tell you a funny story: A couple of months ago, I was down at an SEC conference in Florida, and Richard Walker—who’s the number-two man down in Washington right now—was saying that they need a whole new set of securities laws to deal with someone like Jordan Belfort. It got quite a chuckle from the audience, and he really hadn’t said it in that derogatory a fashion, if you know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, yeah, Ike, I’m real proud of that; real proud, indeed! In fact, why don’t you go call my mother and tell her what Richard Walker said? I’m sure she’ll be very thrilled at the awesome respect her son inspires among the nation’s top securities cop. Believe it or not, Ike, there was a time not that long ago when I was a nice Jewish boy from a nice Jewish family. Seriously. I was the kid who used to shovel driveways after snowstorms to make extra money. It’s hard to imagine that less than five years ago I was able to walk into a restaurant without people looking at me funny.”

I began shaking my head in amazement. “I mean—Jesus!—how the fuck did I let this whole thing spiral so far out of control? This wasn’t what I intended when I started Stratton! I swear to God, Ike!” With that, I rose from my chair and stared out the plate-glass window at the Empire State Building. It wasn’t all that long ago when I’d first gone to Wall Street as a stockbroker trainee, was it? I had taken the express bus—
the express bus!
—and had only had seven dollars left in my pocket. Seven fucking dollars! I could still remember the feeling of looking at all those other people and wondering if they felt as bitter as I did about having to take a bus to Manhattan to eke out a living. I remembered feeling bad for the older people—that they had to sit on those hard plastic seats and smell the diesel fumes. I remembered swearing I would never let myself end up that way, that somehow I would become rich and live life on my own terms.

I remembered getting off the bus and staring up at all those skyscrapers and feeling intimidated at the very power of the city, even though I had grown up just a few miles outside Manhattan.

I turned and faced Ike, and with nostalgia in my voice I said, “You know, Ike, I never wanted it to end up this way. I tell you the truth: I had good intentions when I started Stratton. I know that doesn’t mean a lot right now, but, still…that really was the case five years ago.” I shook my head once more and said, “I guess the road to hell
is
paved with good intentions, just like they say. I’ll tell you a funny story, though: Do you remember my first wife, Denise?”

Ike nodded. “She was a kind, beautiful lady, as is Nadine.”

“Yes. She was kind and beautiful, and she still is. In the beginning, when I started Stratton, she had this classic line. She said, ‘Jordan, why can’t you get a normal job making a million dollars a year?’ I thought it was pretty funny at the time, but now I know what she was talking about. You know, Stratton’s like a cult, Ike; that’s where the real power is. All those kids look to me for every little thing. That was what was driving Denise crazy. In a way, they deified me and tried turning me into something I wasn’t. I know that now, but back then it wasn’t so clear. I found the power intoxicating. Impossible to refuse.

“Anyway, I always swore to myself that if it ever came down to it, I would fall on my sword and sacrifice myself for the sake of the troops.” I shrugged my shoulders and smiled weakly. “Of course I always knew that was somewhat of a romantic notion, but that was how I’d always envisioned it.

“So I feel like if I throw in the towel right now and take the money and run, then I’m fucking over everyone; I’m leaving the brokers high and dry. I mean, the easiest thing for me would be to do what you said: take a lifetime bar and go off into the sunset with my wife and daughter. God knows I have enough money for ten lifetimes. But then I’d be fucking over all those kids. And I swore to every last one of them that I’d fight this thing to the bitter end. So how do I just pick up now and hightail it out of town—just because the SEC is giving me an exit ramp? I’m the captain of the ship, Ike, and the captain is supposed to be the last one off the boat, no?”

Ike shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he replied emphatically. “You can’t compare your SEC case to an adventure at sea. The simple fact is that by taking the bar you ensure the survival of Stratton. No matter how effective we are at foiling the SEC’s investigation, we can’t delay this thing forever. There’s a trial date in less than six months, and you’re not gonna find a jury of your peers very sympathetic to your cause. And there’re thousands of jobs at stake, as well as countless families who depend on Stratton for their financial existence. By taking the bar you secure everybody’s future, including your own.”

I took a moment to consider Ike’s wisdom, which was only partially true. In point of fact, the SEC’s offer wasn’t really that much of a surprise to me. After all, Al Abrams had predicted it. It had been at one of our countless breakfast meetings at the Seville Diner. Al said, “If you play your cards right, you’ll wear the SEC down until there’s no one left in the office who knows anything about your case. The turnover there is mind-boggling, especially when they get caught up in an investigation that’s not going well.

“But never forget,” he added, “that just because they settle, it doesn’t mean it’s over. There’s nothing to stop them from coming right back at you with a new case the day after you settle the old one. So you need to get it in writing that there’re no new cases pending. And even then there’s still the NASD to contend with…and then the individual states…and then, God forbid, the U.S. Attorney’s Office and the FBI…although chances are they would’ve already gotten involved if they were planning to.”