Jordan Belfort - The Wolf of Wall Street

“No problem,” I said. “And thanks, by the way. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

The woman nodded, accepting my gratitude for having the decency to not make a scene in front of my daughter. I asked, “Where’s Agent Coleman? I’m dying to meet the guy after all these years.”

The woman smiled again. “I’m sure the feeling is mutual. He’ll be along shortly.”

I nodded in resignation. It was time to break the bad news to Chandler: There would be no Rugrats this evening. In fact, I had a sneaky suspicion there would be some other changes around the house, none of which she would be too fond of—starting with the temporary absence of Daddy.

I looked at Channy and said, “We can’t go to Blockbuster, sweetie. I have to talk to these people for a while.”

She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Then she started screaming: “No! You promised me! You’re breaking your word! I want to go to Blockbuster! You promised me!”

As I drove back to the house she kept screaming—and then she continued to scream as we made our way into the kitchen and I passed her to Gwynne. I said to Gwynne, “Call Nadine on her cell phone; tell her the FBI is here and I’m getting arrested.”

Gwynne nodded without speaking and took Chandler upstairs. The moment Chandler was out of sight, the kind female FBI agent said, “You’re under arrest for securities fraud, money laundering, and…”

Blah, blah, blah, I thought, as she slapped the cuffs on me and recited my crimes against man and God and everyone else. Her words blew right past me, though, like a gust of wind. They were entirely meaningless to me, or at least not worth listening to. After all, I knew what I’d done and I knew that I deserved whatever was coming to me. Besides, there would be ample time to go over the arrest warrant with my lawyer.

Within minutes, there were no less than twenty FBI agents in my house—dressed in full regalia with guns, bulletproof vests, extra ammo, and whatnot. It was somewhat ironic, I thought, that they would dress this way, as if they were serving some sort of high-risk warrant.

A few minutes later, Special Agent Gregory Coleman finally reared his head. And I was shocked. He looked like a kid, no older than me. He was about my height and he had short brown hair, very dark eyes, even features, and an entirely average build.

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.

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 legal front, 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.