At this particular moment, I was sitting on a club chair in my living room, staring out at the Atlantic Ocean and trying to make sense of it all. It was almost noon, and Patrick Mancini hadn't called yet, which meant that he never would. In short: I had gotten away with it.
Then the phone rang.
Oh, Jesus!I thought. I'm busted! As fast as lightning, I began racking my brain for a cover story. There had to be some explanation … I was kidnapped… I had been visiting my brother in Montclair, New Jersey, and lost my way… I was scoping out locations for my next meeting with the Chef… Yes!
The phone kept ringing.
I picked up the cordless. “Yeah?” I said, in the tone of the resigned and doomed.
“It's your attorney,” said my attorney. “Are you alone?”
With righteousness: “I swear to GodI never touched that girl, Greg! You can call her yourself and ask her!” I suddenly realized that I didn't even have Kiley's phone number. In fact, I didn't even know her last name! She was just Kiley— the child.
“What are you talking about?” asked Magnum. “What girl?”
“Forget it,” I muttered. “I was just fucking around. What's going on?”
“I got a very disturbing phone call from Joel Cohen this morning.”
My mouth immediately went dry. “About what?”
“He says you may have violated your cooperation agreement. He wants to meet with you first thing tomorrow morning.”
I felt a wave of panic rising up my brain stem, accompanied by despair. If I hadn't been sitting, I would've fallen over. Remain calm, I thought. You've done nothing. Nothing!“That's impossible!” I said confidently. “Did he say how?”
“Not specifically, but I got the impression that he thinks you alerted someone to your cooperation. Any idea what he's talking about?”
Alerted.That was a strange word to use. What did it mean in this context? To alert, to let someone know that I was cooperating? Yes, my cooperation was supposed to be secret, but there were still some people who'd had to know, like my estranged wife, for one, and my parents… and George… but no one else; not even Bo had been alerted— alerted!Had I told any of my friends? No. The Blow-Job Queen? No. Any of the naughty Natashas? No, not one. I hadn't told a single soul, in fact. So I was in the clear.
Feeling very confident, I said, “No, I don't, Greg. I haven't alerted anybody. I promise you that. Joel is barking up the wrong tree here.”
“That's fine,” he said calmly. “You have nothing to worry about, then. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. We'll clear it up first thing tomorrow.”
“I'm sure it is,” I said quickly. “Where does he want to meet?”
“Downtown, at FBI headquarters. I won't be there, though. I have to go out of town on a deposition. But have no fear; Nick will be with you.”
“That's fine,” I said. “Nick is a good man.” And, besides, I thought, when you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.
Thank God.
CHAPTER 18
THE UNTHINKABLE
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 toorobustly, 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 Matrixnamed 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 guiltyto 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, moneylaundering.” He slid the document to my side of the conference table. “Are you familiarwith this document, Mr.Belfort?”
I stared at it for a moment and heard Agent Smith say, “Why don't you have Mr. De Feisexamine 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. Belfortsay 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 youtell 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.