“Joel's correct,” added Magnum. “They'll dredge up anything and everything. And the way the prosecution counters that is by disclosing your misdeeds to the jury before the defense even gets a chance. In other words, weair your dirty laundry proactively, as if it's no great secret, entirely irrelevant to the proceedings.”
“Exactly,” chirped the Bastard. “We leave the defense nowhere to go.”
Now OCD chimed in: “What we can'tafford are surprises. That serves none of our purposes. We need to know the most intimate details about your life—anything and everything you've done for as long as you can remember.”
And now the Witch said, “And that includes not only your drug use but also your fondness for prostitutes, both of which have been duly noted in the press,” to which the Bastard added, “And both of which are certain to be exploited by a good defense attorney.”
After a few moments of awkward silence, I said, “That's all fine and good, but I was under the impression”—I resisted the urge to stare directly into Magnum's eyes and shoot death rays at him— “that people rarely go to trial in these cases, that they usually plea-bargain. Or, if not that, cooperate.”
The Bastard shrugged. “For the most part, that's true, but I wouldn't count on it. In the end, there's always one holdout, someone who takes it all the way to trial.”
Everyone nodded in unison, including Magnum, who was now in the process of revising history. Well, fuck it! I thought. It was time for the chips to fall where they may. “You know,” I said casually, “I might be only thirty-six years old, but I've had a very full life. This could take a very long time.”
OCD smiled wryly. “I've been trying to make sense of your life for the last five years,” he said. “I, personally, have as much time as it takes.”
“Yeah, let's hear it,” added the Bastard.
“It's your only hope of getting a reduced sentence,” snapped the Witch.
I ignored the Witch and looked at the Bastard and said, “Fine; since you've already brought up the subject of Bayside, let's start there. It's as good a place to start as any, considering that's where most of the early Strattonites came from.” I paused, thinking back for a moment. “And even the ones who didn't actually come from Bayside ended up moving there after the firm got started.”
“Everyone moved to Bayside?” the Bastard asked skeptically.
“Not everyone,” I replied, “but mosteveryone. You see, moving to Bayside was a way of proving your loyalty to the firm, a way of showing that you were truly a Strattonite. I know it sounds slightly absurd—that moving to a certain neighborhood could make that much of a statement—but that was how it was back then. We were like the Mafia, always looking to keep outsiders out.” I shrugged my shoulders. “When you worked at Stratton, you socialized only with other Strattonites, and that's what living in Bayside was all about. You were blocking out outsiders, proving that you were part of the cult.”
“You're saying Stratton was a cult?” sputtered the Witch.
“Yes,” I said calmly. “That's exactlywhat I'm saying, Michele. Why do you think it was so hard to penetrate?” Now I looked at OCD. “How many doors you think you knocked on over the years—just a ballpark?”
“At least fifty,” he replied. “Probably more.”
“And every last one of them was slammed in your face, right?”
“Pretty much,” he said wearily. “No one would talk to me.”
“A big part of that was that everyone was making so much money, no one wanted to upset the applecart.” I paused, letting my words sink in. “But it was more than that: What was at the very coreof it was protecting the Stratton way of life. That's what everyone was doing: protecting the Life.”
“Define ‘the Life,’” said the Bastard, with a hint of sarcasm.
I shrugged. “Well, among other things, it meant driving the fanciest car, eating at the hottest restaurants, giving the biggest tips, wearing the finest clothes.” I shook my head in amazement. “I mean, we did everythingtogether. We spent every waking moment together. And not just at work, but at home too.” I looked at the Witch, staring into her black-as-night eyes. “That's why Stratton was a cult, Michele. It was all for one and one for all, and lots for oneself, of course. And there were no outsiders around—ever.” I looked around the room. “Understand?”
Everyone, including the Witch, nodded.
The Bastard said, “What you're saying makes sense, but I thought most of your early recruits came from Long Island, from Jericho and Syosset.”
“About half of them did,” I replied quickly. “And there's a reason for that, but we're jumping ahead here. It would be best to take things in order.”
“Please,” said the Bastard. “This is very productive.”
I nodded, gathering my thoughts. “So back to Bayside, then. It's rather ironic, considering that when I was a teenager I swore I'd leave Bayside as soon as I struck it rich. I was about fifteen when I first realized there was a different kind of life out there—a better life, I thought at that time—meaning, a life of wealth and affluence. Remember, I didn't grow up with money, so extravagances like mansions, yachts, private jets—things that people now associate me with—were all completely foreign to me then. Bayside was strictly middle class, especially the part I was raised in.” I smiled nostalgically. “It happened to be a wonderful place to grow up. There wasn't an ounce of crime there, and everyone knew everyone. Everyone had moved there from the Bronx or from other parts of Queens, from neighborhoods that had… you know… turned.My parents moved there from the South Bronx, from a place that's a real shithole now—and you're not writing any of this down, Joel.”
“Anything I write down, I have to turn over to the defense, whoever that ultimately might be.” The Bastard smiled conspiratorially. “So, in my particular case, less is more. Anyway, just keep talking; I have an excellent memory.”
I nodded. “All right. Well, my parents moved to Bayside to spare me the heartache of growing up in the Bronx. We lived in a six-story apartment building in one of those planned communities that were springing up like hotcakes back then. And it was beautiful; there were grassy fields to play ball on, playgrounds, concrete walking paths, trees for tree houses, bushes for hide-and-seek. But, most importantly, there were hundreds of kids, which meant there were lots of future Strattonites to recruit from. And they were all getting good educations”—I paused, reconsidering my words— “although the education part was sort of a double-edged sword.”
“Why is that?” asked OCD, who seemed to be getting a kick out of me.
“Well,” I said, “by the time we hit our teens we were educated enough to know how littlewe actually had. In other words, we knew that, yeah, maybe we weren't starving like the kids in Africa, but there was definitely more out there.” I paused for effect. “That's how everyone in my neighborhood thought. There was a sense of unlimited hope—or a sense of entitlement, you might call it—that one day we would all strike it rich and move out to Long Island, where the real money was, where people lived in houses and drove Cadillacs and Mercedes.”
“Alan Lipsky grew up in the same apartment building as you, didn't he?” asked OCD.
“Yes,” I said, “on the same floor. And Andy Greene, who you probably know as Wigwam, lived only a few blocks away. Although no one called him Wigwam back then; he didn't actually go bald until the eleventh grade.” I shrugged. “He didn't get his first toupee until he was in his junior year of college. That's when he became Wigwam.” I shrugged again, wondering if Andy Greene would be sitting in this very room in the not-too-distant future. After all, he had been the head of Stratton's Corporate Finance Department, responsible for finding deals to take public and getting them cleared at the SEC. He was a good man, although he would be devastated if he had to go to jail and was forced to take his toupee off—despite the fact that he had the worst toupee this side of the former Iron Curtain.