Jordan Belfort - Catching the Wolf of Wall Street

“How long?” she asked quickly.

I squeezed her and Carter close. “About two years, honey.”

I saw the first tears welling up in her eyes. “No!” she said urgently. “You can’t go away again. You just moved here! Don’t leave us!”

Fighting back tears, I said, “Listen to me, honey—I want both of you to listen to me closely: A long time ago, back when I was in the stock market, I did some things that were very wrong, things that I’m not very proud of now, and there were a lot of people who lost money because of it. And now, all these years later, I have to make up for what I did, which means I have to go to jail for a while and—”

She collapsed in my arms. “Oh, no, Daddy, no… please…” She began to cry hysterically.

I had tears in my eyes. “It’s okay, Channy. It’s—” and now Carter collapsed in my arms and started to cry hysterically. “Oh, Daddy, don’t go! Please…”

I squeezed him closer, as he sobbed on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said, rubbing his back. “It’s gonna be okay, buddy.” Then, to Channy: “It’s all right, sweetie. Trust me, the time is gonna fly by!”

Now the Duchess popped out of her armchair. She ran over and sat on the edge of the couch and hugged the kids too. “It’s okay, guys. It’s… it’s gonna be fine.” I looked at the Duchess and she was crying too, her words coming out through tiny snuffles. So now I started crying, at which point John popped out of his own armchair. He sat on the edge of the coffee table and wrapped his arms around the kids too, trying to console them. He wasn’t crying yet, but he looked on the verge of it.

There was nothing to do now but let the kids cry. I think we all knew that, and I think even the kids knew it. There were a certain number of tears that needed to be shed before they could try to make sense of it all or at least accept it.

Finally, after a few minutes of rubbing their backs and stroking their hair and telling them about visiting days and how we would still be able to talk on the phone and write each other letters, they began to calm down. Then I went about trying to explain to them how all this happened—how I’d started Stratton at a very young age and how it quickly spiraled out of control. Then I said:

“Now, a lot of it had to do with the drugs, which made me do things that I would never normally do. And it’s very important that you learn from that—from Daddy’s mistakes—because, when you’re older, you might find yourself in a situation where people are using drugs and they’re telling you how cool they are and how great they make you feel, and all that sort of stuff. In fact, they might even try to pressure you to use them yourself, which would be the worst thing of all.” I shook my head gravely. “And if that happens, I want you to think of Daddy, and all the problems drugs caused for him, and how they almost killed him once. Then you’ll know not to do them yourself, okay?”

They both nodded and said yes.

“Good, because it’s very important to me that you understand that, and it’s going to make my time away from you much easier knowing that you do.” I paused for a moment, realizing that I owed them more of an explanation than your basic insanity plea centered on drug abuse. I said, “Now, there were other reasons I made mistakes too, guys, and while they might not be as bad as drugs, they were still pretty bad. You see, what happened with Daddy was that I didn’t grow up with a lot of money, like you guys have”—I motioned to the plate-glass window, with its breathtaking view of the Pacific—”and I really wanted to be rich. So I cut a few corners along the way, which made me get rich very quickly. Do you know what that means, to cut a few corners?”

Carter shook his head no. Chandler said, “You stole money?”

I was flabbergasted. I looked at the Duchess; she had her lips compressed, as if trying to fight down a giggle. I looked at John, who shrugged as if to say, “She’s your daughter!” Now I looked at Chandler.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I actually stole money, Channy, because it wasn’t really like that. Here, let me give you an example: Let’s just suppose your friend called you and told you that there was this really great toy she wanted to buy, and she asked you to chip in with her for it. And then let’s just say you did, because she made the toy sound really fun—like it was the best toy in the world. But then you found out later that the toy didn’t cost as much as she said, and she used the money you gave her to buy candy for herself, which she didn’t even split with you.” I shook my head gravely. “You see what I mean? Wouldn’t that be bad?”

Chandler nodded accusingly. “She stole from me!”

“Yeah,” added Carter. “She stole!”

Unbelievable! I thought. Yeah, maybe I’d stolen, but at least I had done it with a bit of panache! I mean, I hadn’t used a gun or anything! But how was I supposed to explain high-pressure sales tactics and stock manipulation to my children?

Now the Duchess chimed in: “Well, it’s a bit like stealing, but the difference is that when you’re as old as your daddy and me, you’re supposed to know better than to send your money to strangers to buy toys, you know? Like you’re supposed to take responsibility for your own actions. You understand?”

“Yes,” they said in unison, although I wasn’t so sure they did. Either way, I was still glad that the Duchess had made the effort.

There were a few more tears that evening, but the worst of it was over.

Having no other choice, the kids quickly resigned themselves to the fact that they would be seeing me only on visiting days for a while. In the end, my only consolation that night was that I got to fall asleep just the way I had wanted, with Chandler and Carter in my arms. And, of course, I had kept my promise to my little girl and moved to California.

What’s with all these mullets?

That wasn’t the first thought I had upon entering the brick administration building of the Taft Correctional Institution, but it was close to the first. My first thought was that the building looked rather benign. The reception area was open and airy, with a very high ceiling, a few too many American flags, and a small seating area with upholstered chairs off to one side. Two uniformed guards, one of each gender, sat behind a large Formica reception desk, looking bored more than anything.

Oddly enough, they both sported mullets.

The male’s mullet was comprised of reddish-brown hair that had the consistency of a tumbleweed. It was very high on top, rising up a good three inches above his swarthy skull, and very tight on the sides. Yet, in the back, the mullet was as fine as corn silk and went down a few inches past the light-gray shirt collar of his guard’s uniform. The female’s mullet was of similar construction, although her hair was pineapple blonde and much longer in the back.

I had done a bit of intelligence-gathering over the prior week and was told by someone “in the know” (meaning, an erstwhile guest) that I should show up wearing gray sweats, a white T-shirt, and white tennis sneakers. Anything else would be confiscated and shipped back to my family in a box. The only exception was a tennis racquet, which I would be allowed to bring in. He strongly recommended I do this, because the racquets offered by the rec department were of dubious quality.

It was for that very reason that at precisely eleven a.m. on Friday, January 2, 2004, I entered the administration building wearing a gray sweat suit and carrying a brand-new Head tennis racquet under my right arm. “I’m Jordan Belfort,” I said to the two intake mullets. “I’m here to start serving my sentence.”