When he saw me, he smiled. Then he extended his right hand and we shook, although it was a trifle awkward, what with my hands being cuffed and everything. He said, in a tone of respect, “I gotta tell you, you were one wily adversary. I must’ve knocked on a hundred doors and not a single person would cooperate against you.” He shook his head, still awestruck at the loyalty the Strattonites had for me. Then he added, “I thought you’d like to know that.”
I shrugged and said, “Yeah, well, the gravy train has a way of doing that to people, you know?”
He turned the corners of his mouth down and nodded. “Definitely so.”
Just then the Duchess came running in. She had tears in her eyes, yet she still looked gorgeous. Even at my very arrest, I couldn’t help but take a peek at her legs, especially since I wasn’t sure when I’d see them again.
As they led me away in handcuffs, the Duchess gave me a tiny peck on the cheek and told me not to worry. I nodded and told her that I loved her and that I always would. And then I was gone, just like that. Going where I hadn’t the slightest idea, but I figured I would end up somewhere in Manhattan and then tomorrow I would be arraigned in front of a federal judge.
In retrospect, I remember feeling somewhat relieved—that the chaos and insanity would finally be behind me. I would do my time and then walk away a sober young man—a father of two and a husband to a kindhearted woman, who stood by me through thick and thin.
Everything would be okay.
EPILOGUE
THE BETRAYERS
Indeed, it would have been nice if the Duchess and I had lived happily ever after—if I could have done my time, and then walked out of prison into her kind, loving embrace. But, no, unlike a fairy tale, this part of the story doesn’t have a happy ending.
The judge had set my bail at $10 million, and it was then, on the very courthouse steps, that the Duchess dropped the D-bomb on me.
With icy coldness, she said, “I don’t love you anymore. This whole marriage has been a lie.” Then she spun on her heel and called her divorce lawyer on her cell phone.
I tried reasoning with her, of course, but it was no use. Through tiny, bogus snuffles, she added, “Love is like a statue: you can chip away at it for only so long before there’s nothing left.”
Yes, that might be true, I thought, if it weren’t for the fact that you waited until I got indicted to come to that conclusion, you backstabbing, gold-digging bitch!
Whatever. We separated a few weeks later, and I went into exile at our fabulous beach house in Southampton. It was a rather fine place to watch the walls of reality come crashing down on me—listening to the breaking waves of the Atlantic Ocean and watching the breathtaking sunsets over Shinnecock Bay, while my life came apart at the seams.
Meanwhile, on the legalfront, things were going even worse. It was on my fourth day out of jail when the U.S. attorney called my lawyer and told him that unless I pleaded guilty and became a government witness he was going to indict the Duchess too. And while he didn’t get specific on the charges, my best guess was that she was going to be indicted for conspiracy to spend obscene amounts of money. What else was she guilty of, after all?
Either way, the world was upside down. How could I, the one at the very top of the food chain, rat out those beneath me? Did giving up a multitude of smaller fish offset the fact that I was the biggest fish in town? Was it a matter of simple mathematics: that fifty guppies added up to a single whale?
Cooperating meant that I would have to wear a wire; that I would have to testify at trials and take the witness stand against my friends. I would have to spill my very guts, and disclose every last drop of financial wrongdoing from the last decade. It was a terrible thought. An absolutely horrendous thought. But what choice did I have? If I didn’t cooperate they would indict the Duchess and take her away in handcuffs.
An indicted Duchess in handcuffs.I found that notion rather pleasing, at first. She would probably reconsider divorcing me if we were both under indictment, wouldn’t she? (We would be like birds of a feather, flocking together.) And she would be a much less desirable catch to another man if she had to report to a probation officer each month. No two ways about it.
But, no, I could never let that happen. She was the mother of my children, and that was the beginning and the end of it.
My lawyer cushioned the blow by explaining that everyone cooperated in a case like mine—that if I went to trial and lost I would get thirty years. And while I could have gotten six or seven years with a straight guilty plea, that would’ve left the Duchess exposed, which was entirely unacceptable.
So I cooperated.
Danny was also indicted; and he also cooperated, as did the boys from Biltmore and Monroe Parker. Danny ended up serving twenty months, while the rest of the boys got probation. The Depraved Chinaman was indicted next. He cooperated, too, and was sentenced to eight years. Then came Steve Madden, the Cutthroat Cobbler, and Elliot Lavigne, the World-Class Degenerate, both of whom pleaded guilty. Elliot got three years; Steve, three and a half. And, finally, came Dennis Gaito, the Jersey Chef. He went to trial and was found guilty. Alas, the judge gave him ten years.
Andy Greene, aka Wigwam, got away with it; and Kenny Greene, aka the Blockhead, alsogot away with it, although he couldn’t seem to keep his hand out of the cookie jar. He was indicted many years later, a stock-fraud case having nothing to do with Stratton. Like the rest of the clan, he also cooperated, and he served one year.
Along the way, the Duchess and I fell in love again; the only problem was that it was with other people. I went as far as getting engaged, but broke it off at the last second. She, however, got married, and remains married to this day. She lives in California, just a few miles from me. After a few rocky years, the Duchess and I finally buried the hatchet. We get along terrific now—partly because she happens to be a great lady, and partly because her new husband happens to be a great man. We share custody of the kids, and I see them almost every day.
Ironically, it would be more than five years from the time I was indicted until I actually went to jail—serving twenty-two months in a federal prison camp. What I would have never guessed, though—not in a million years, in fact—was that those last five years would be as insane as the ones before them.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Countless thanks to my literary agent, Joel Gotler, who after reading three pages of a very rough manuscript told me to drop everything I was doing and become a full-time writer. He’s been a coach, an advisor, a psychiatrist, and, above all, a true friend. Without him, this book would have never been written. (So, if your name is in it, blame him, not me!)
I’d also like to thank my publisher, Irwyn Applebaum, who believed in me from the very beginning. It was his vote of confidence that made the difference.
Immeasurable thanks to my editor, Danielle Perez, who did the work of three editors—turning a 1,200-page manuscript into a 500-page book. She’s an amazing lady, with a style and grace all her own. Over the last nine months her favorite nine words to me were: “I’d hate to see what your liver looks like!”
Many thanks to Alexandra Milchan, my one-woman army. If every author were lucky enough to have an Alexandra Milchan, there would be a lot less starving authors in the world. She’s tough, kind, brilliant, and as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. She’s definitely her father’s daughter.
And many thanks to my good friends Scott Lambert, Kris Mesner, Johnnie Marine, Michael Peragine, Kira Randazzo, Marc Glazier, Faye Greene, Beth Gotler, John Macaluso, and to all the waiters and waitresses at the restaurants and coffeehouses I wrote this book in—the girls at Chaya and Skybar and Coffee Bean, and Joe at Il Boccaccio.