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By the time we hit the Brooklyn Bridge, my spirits had plunged lower than ever. I was ru
Yes, I thought, there were some pretty dark days up ahead; of that much I was certain. The only question was how deep did the rabbit hole go? I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself, but it was no use.
Soon enough I would be singing on Court Street.
CHAPTER 6
THE BASTARD AND THE WITCH
he New York field office of the FBI occupied the twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second floors of a glass-and-concrete tower that rose up forty-two stories above Lower Manhattan. The area, which was known as Tribeca, for “triangle below Canal Street,” was the part of town that included Wall Street, the federal courthouses, the World Trade Center, and the least respected of all government institutions: the Immigration and Naturalization Service.
I walked down a long narrow hallway in the building's subbasement, with Coleman and McCrogan on either side of me. Coleman had just finished explaining how we were in the part of the building that was used for debriefings.
I nodded dutifully and kept on walking, resisting the urge to ask him if the FBI considered the word debriefingto be synonymous with interrogation.Either way, I had no doubt that many things had gone ondown here that hadn't exactly jived with the Bill of Rights. (Probably some light torture, some sleep deprivation, and garden-variety habeas corpus violations.) But I decided to keep those stray thoughts to myself, and I just kept nodding and walking—maintaining a neutral expression—as they escorted me into a small debriefing room at the end of the hall.
Inside the room, three people were sitting in cheap black armchairs around a cheap wooden conference table. There were no windows in this room, just fluorescent lights emitting a blue tubercular glow. The walls were completely bare, painted a disturbing shade of hospital white. On one side of the table sat my trusted lawyer, Gregory J. O'Co
Across from Magnum sat a man and a woman, the former of whom I knew from the day of my arraignment, when he'd said all those kind things at my bail hearing. His name was Joel Cohen, and a little over two years ago he had teamed up with OCD to bring me to justice, succeeding where a half-dozen AUSAs before him had failed.
In essence, as sharp and as dedicated as OCD was, he had needed an equally sharp counterpart within the U.S. Attorney's Office to handle the legal end of things. OCD on his own could only investigate; he needed a bastard like Joel Cohen to prosecute me.
At this particular moment, the Bastard was leaning forward in his armchair with his bony elbows resting on the desktop. He was staring at me with narrowed eyes, licking his chops inwardly, no doubt. He wore a cheap gray suit, a cheap white dress shirt, a cheap red tie, and a sinister expression. He had a short mop of curly brown hair, a high forehead, a fleshy nose, and a pasty-faced complexion. He wasn't bad-looking, though; he just looked unkempt, as if he rolled out of bed and came straight to the office. But that was by design, I figured. Oh, yes, the Bastard was trying to make a statement—that now that we were in hisworld, the price of your suit, the reputation of your dry cleaner, and the fashion sense of your barber didn't matter a lick. It was the Bastard who had the power, and I was his prisoner—regardless of appearance. The Bastard was of average height and weight, although he had that aforementioned degenerate slouch, which made him appear shorter. I had no doubt that he held me in as much contempt as I held him. Right now, in fact, he had a look on his face that so much as said, “Welcome to my underground lair, prisoner! Let the torture begin!”
The room's third occupant was a mousy little creature named Michele Adelman. She was sitting to the Bastard's left. I had never met her before, but her reputation preceded her. Her nickname was the Wicked Witch of the East, something she'd earned due to her unca
The Witch was a squat five foot two, with a great mane of dark frizzy hair, dark beady eyes, thin maroon lips, and an abbreviated chin. I could only imagine how mousy she'd look if she picked up a block of Swiss cheese between her paws and started nibbling on it. And I could only imagine how witchlike she'd look if she straddled a broomstick and took a cruise around the debriefing room. She wore a dark blue pantsuit and a stern expression.
“Good morning!” said Magnum. “I'd like to introduce you to two people whom you're going to be spending quite a bit of time with over the next few months.” He motioned to the Witch and the Bastard, who both nodded dutifully. Then he said, “Jordan, this is Joel Cohen, whom I believe you've had the pleasure of meeting before”—I reached over and shook the Bastard's hand, wondering if he might try to slap a handcuff on me—”and this is Michele Adelman, whom I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting before,” and now I shook the Witch's hand, wondering if she might try to turn me into a newt.
“Anyway, I want everyone to know that Jordan is fully committed to his cooperation.” Magnum nodded a single time. “He plans on being both honest and forthright at all times, and I can assure that the information he has is invaluablein your fight against crime and injustice on Wall Street.” And Magnum nodded once more.
What a load of crap! I thought. I mean, really!
“That's good,” replied the Bastard, motioning for me to take a seat next to Magnum. “We all look forward to your cooperation, Jordan, and I speak for all those present when I say that we hold no ill feelings toward you”—out of the corner of my eye I could see OCD rolling his eyes, as he and the Mormon took seats on either side of the Witch and the Bastard—”and that if you do the right thing here you'll be treated fairly.”
I nodded gratefully, not believing a word he said. OCD would treat me fairly; he was a man of honor. But not the Bastard; he had it out for me. The Witch, however, I wasn't sure about it. According to Magnum, she hated all men—including OCD and the Bastard—so I would be of no special interest to her. My problem was the Bastard. Hopefully he would leave the office before I got sentenced. Then everything would be okay.
With great humility, I said, “I believe you, Joel, and like Greg said, I'm totally committed to my cooperation. Ask whatever you want, and I'll answer as best I can.”
“So did you sink your yacht for the insurance money?” snapped the Witch. “Let's hear the truth.”
I looked at the Witch and offered her a dead smile. On the table was a tall pitcher of water with six glasses next to it, one of which was half full. What would happen if I threw the glass of water on the Witch? She'd probably scream, “Help me! I'm melting! I'm melting!” But I decided to keep that thought to myself, and all I said was, “No, Michele. If I wanted to sink it for the insurance money, I wouldn't have done it with myself and my wife on it.”
“Why?” countered the Witch. “That would be the perfect alibi.”
“And it would also be a perfect way to get himself killed,” snapped OCD. “He got caught in a storm, Michele. Go read Yachtingmagazine. It's in there.”