by Rebecca Kade
One morning a few months shy of Isabella’s seventh birthday, Mike called up and said, “My dad’s flying in tomorrow morning. I was wondering if I could take Isabella to breakfast with him.” I thought the rare visit with her grandfather would be good for Isabella. “Sure,” I said.
“Also, I got tickets for Beauty and the Beast tonight,” he added. “Can I take her to Beauty and the Beast? That way I’ll have her till tomorrow morning.” I said, “Of course.”
I put Isabella in a beautiful dress and shoes and gave her a little sleepover bag with her pj’s and toothbrush in it.
“Have fun, bunny!” I said with a hug as a friend of his picked her up. That’s when I should have known something was wrong. He couldn’t even face me, knowing what he was about to do.
I was glad for her that night, and after work the next day was anxious to hear how she had enjoyed it. Mike was supposed to bring her back by six o’clock. When I didn’t hear from him by seven, I became concerned and called him. I called and called his cell; I called his landline. There was no response.
At first I feared the worst: that a stranger had somehow gotten hold of her and taken her. But Mike’s silence was mystifying.
I jumped into a taxi and went over to his building. He didn’t have a doorman, so I buzzed his apartment for what seemed like hours. Again no response. That’s when I realized it was Mike who had taken my daughter. I started sobbing right there in the lobby.
It was all premeditated. Mike had planned the kidnapping days in advance, creating the ruse of a visit with her grandfather and a Broadway show.
I went back to my apartment and called the police. I reported that my daughter had been kidnapped by her father. I wanted them to go over and just get her. But they said the only thing they could do was to file a warrant for his arrest and an order for him to produce Isabella in court.
I wasn’t certain where my child was for eleven days. Mike wouldn’t answer me. The police couldn’t help me. Was she with him? Was she distraught and begging to go home? How would she sleep without her favorite things? Without me reading to her from her children’s Bible? How would she fall asleep without our lullaby that we sang together each night?
I felt as if I was going absolutely out of my mind. Mike was ten steps ahead of me. He’d gotten lawyered up and had filed in family court for temporary full custody of the child to whom he’d only occasionally paid attention for six years.
In New York, if a person tells the court they believe it is in the best interest of the child, the court gives the child to them, whether the claim is true or false, until a hearing can be held. I simply had no choice but to wait for my day in court. The court informed me that at some point I would be served papers detailing the accusations Mike had made to win that temporary order. Again I waited for those papers so I could know what I was up against. Why was I such a terrible mother that he tore Isabella away from me?
Mike kept Isabella for weeks without letting me see her. The only thing he would tell me was that she was physically safe.
I continued to go work in the Financial District every day, going through the motions like an automaton, and each night I would go into Isabella’s room and lie on her bed and pray. I prayed that God would somehow send her my love and that she would be able to feel it, wherever she was. I thought about all of those people out there who had missing loved ones; I honestly do not know how they get through an entire hour, much less a day. I was devastated. How could it be? How could this possibly be real? I was so worried about Isabella. I was worried about what she was thinking and how she was feeling. Was she scared? What was he telling her? How was he explaining to her that she could not see the one person on whom she had most counted in her life: her mother?
I showed up to the family court building on Lafayette Street. It was the first time I had seen Mike since he took Isabella. I don’t think there will ever be words to describe the emotion I felt that day. I felt so small, yet my rage was bigger than that building. I thought for sure, as soon as we got in front of a judge, Mike’s claim would all be dismissed. The judge told me that Mike was taking Isabella away from me. Just like that. Mike told me, “You will never have her again.”
Oh, yes I will, I thought. You don’t know who you’re messing with. I realized I had to get a new lawyer—the best in the business—but how was I going to pay for it?
Mike had his wife’s best friend testify that I popped Vicodin and left pills around the house while the friend babysat for me once. I was speechless: How was I supposed to defend myself in front of a person who would say these things in court despite hardly knowing me?
Mike also maintained that an old friend I had in the house was a danger to Isabella. The judge told me that she wouldn’t entertain my request for custody “until you are no longer in a position where your current paramour is living with you.”
That “current paramour” wasn’t a lover at all. When the custody hearing began in August 2005, I had an old friend—I’ll call him Bruce—who had been convicted of and served time for a terrible assault on a woman. He’d served his time and now had nowhere to go. I pitied him. He told me he hadn’t committed the crime, and I believed him. I let him stay with us till he got on his feet. Clearly, this was not my smartest move in life. And I do regret it.
Later, one of Mike’s exes confided to me that what he really wanted was to stop having to pay me child support. It would be easier on his wallet if his new wife looked after Isabella, supplemented by a cheap nanny who ultimately ended up watching Isabella most of the time, as he was always out nights or away on tour. I do in fact believe that not having to pay child support was Mike’s real motivation for going to court, because I did immediately oust Bruce from my house—he was out of there within forty-eight hours—yet Mike still pursued full custody.
One day, in among the bills in my mailbox was a square envelope with a child’s lettering on the front: it was Isabella’s writing. Inside was a picture she drew of herself crying. Across the top were the words “Mommy, come get me!” There would be more; somehow, the nanny was willing to secretly mail them to me.
Even Mike had to see how miserable she was. He decided I could see her, but what he did next—or what his lawyer convinced the judge to do—was incredibly cruel. They allowed me to see Isabella, but only on supervised visits. I actually had to pay someone to chaperone me as I spent time with my own daughter. She sat near us and listened to every word. This would happen in our own home or in the park—I had to get her permission to take my own daughter to the park! It was ridiculous and demeaning. Isabella was so young; she didn’t know why this third person was there. She just knew she was coming home to be with her mother and her beloved dog, Sally.
They would allow me only two-hour visits twice a week. Isabella and I had to make every single second count. Even getting to and from her dad’s place took time. So we’d sing in the cab. We’d do a lot of baking. I gave her a lot of books. Reading was still one of her favorite things to do. She was just happy to curl up with a book and Sally at her feet.
But then it would be time for her to go, and the supervisor would take her from me. These were heartbreaking moments, but I tried to be strong and cheerful for Isabella.
Eventually, Mike decided it was in Isabella’s interest to give me more time with her. I got to have her every other weekend and on Wednesdays for dinner.
Even then, the visits had to be overseen by someone we knew. If I took Isabella to a restaurant, her father would have to be sitting at a table nearby—not with us but with his wife or a friend, listening in on our conversations. It was absolutely humiliating, and all about control.
Mike was always claiming that I was being too emotional with Isabella. How could I not be emotional when I missed her so much? After a while I learned to become stoic. I would then go home and hyperventilate, trying in vain to quell my anxiety. I’d breathe in and out of a paper bag. It just hurt so badly. I began to wonder if this was what my life—what Isabella’s li
fe—was going to be like until she was grown. I understand that children are resilient, but she was deeply unhappy.
The judge ordered all of us to have a forensic psychiatric evaluation. This is common in family court: an objective party evaluates family members individually, then observes how a child interacts with her mother, her father, and anyone else who would be in her life on a daily basis. Mike had married hurriedly, right before he filed for custody. Within a year the marriage was over. He was gone most of the time, and Isabella was left with nannies overnight. Surely the judge would see this for what it was and end this entire fiasco. Surely common sense would prevail.
In a thirty-page report, an independent forensic psychiatric evaluator concluded that Isabella preferred to be with her mother and did not seem to have a connection with her father. He recommended that the child be returned to me. The judge ruled that the report, from her handpicked evaluator, was not admissible and would remain sealed. No one was to receive a copy, and it could never leave the courtroom. I was floored. She actually said that the evaluator must have not understood his job. I knew right then that I was screwed and that this was a setup. I was going to go out and get so much money that I would be able to fight this all the way to the Supreme Court if I had to.
EIGHT
incalls and outcalls
The huge legal bills appearing in my mailbox terrified me, so I worked for Kristin whenever I could. Isabella wasn’t allowed to be at my apartment, so that made it easy for me to work for Kristin. For a while I was working at my day job until five, and then at night I’d work for Kristin until four or five in the morning. Then I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep and get to the office by eight thirty a.m. The next day I’d do it all over again. Court appearances had started to eat up my vacation days, and I was on thin ice at work.
I was very tired, and my work during the day suffered. Finally my boss fired me. But by then I was making so much money at Kristin’s that it more than made up for that paycheck. The money was far better than anything else available to a girl who had not finished college, but still, Kristin took half of everything I earned. And beauty costs money: I had to make sure my hair was always touched up at the roots, that I was tanned and manicured and waxed properly, that my clothes were pressed. It was expensive, but I was able to pay rent and the ever-looming legal bills.
From Kristin I learned how the escort business worked. She had me doing both incalls and outcalls. With incalls we worked at the madam’s locations—the media revels in calling them brothels—and we literally worked eight-hour shifts, like secretaries and cashiers do. It’s typically at least a two-bedroom apartment, and there is usually another girl there with you for company and some security. The madam has a booker, who is careful to stagger the appointments so that clients who do business together or are in the same social circle are spared the embarrassment of bumping into one another coming or going, or in the event that they want to take a shower.
When you are on incall, you are expected to stay in the apartment the entire shift without leaving, to calm the suspicions of the neighbors. Chances are their eyebrows are already raised by the gentlemen coming and going at all hours, not to mention the loud moans and shouts of orgasm and the sound of headboards knocking against the walls. Kristin just asked us to keep it down as much as possible to reduce the risk for all of us. You can see how well that worked.
Incall is like a factory: you work as much as you can, and see as many people as you can. The price per hour is lower, but you can make thousands and thousands of dollars in one day without ever leaving the apartment. Kristin’s apartment at the Corinthian was a two-bedroom, so she could have two clients in at a time. There would usually be two girls there, and sometimes other girls would stop by to chat and keep the others company. It also provided a bit of security, especially at night. There was no security man or bodyguard at all. If some big guy got rough, you were out of luck. I did the same for the others. We’d sit in the living room and chat until the client arrived.
I did more outcalls, where I went to the client. Outcall can be either to the client’s home, a hotel room, or even to a yacht or a private jet. In town, we might meet at a bar and go out to dinner, a party, or a concert. The money is much more per hour, and—depending on the girl and how she is ranked by the madam on sex-for-sale websites like eros-ny.com and backpage.com—a girl can make a lot doing very little and actually have a great time. Outcalls were expected to be stretched out as long as possible because they are hundreds more per hour.
When I met a client at a hotel, the only security I had was the phone call Kristin would make to ask the front desk for the guest in his stated room number to see if he was really who he said he was. It could have been Jack the Ripper posing as John Doe for all I knew.
I quickly learned how to be discreet in upscale hotels like the Waldorf Astoria and the Pierre. Going to these places in the beginning, I felt it was obvious who I was and what I was doing there. I’m sure the doormen and concierge in particular saw us coming a mile away. In my five-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos and form-fitting Marc Jacobs sheath, it was clear I wasn’t a delegate to the actuaries convention. I didn’t look like a hooker, but usually a woman dressed that alluringly does not come back to her hotel room alone.
Discretion was crucial for me, so I decided that the best approach was not to duck and run but rather to engage with them and look them straight in the eye with a “Good evening.” I always wanted to look assured and as if I knew where I was going, even if I had no clue where the elevators were. It was all about projecting confidence, pretending that I belonged in that world.
Upon arriving at the client’s room, I’d introduce myself with my nom de guerre. Kristin had told me not to give my real name and not to ask theirs, but most of the time they’d give their real name anyway. If they were famous, obviously I’d recognize them. And I’d hope that, whatever the booker told the client, I was playing the right part.
We all had to give Kristin a schedule, which gave windows of when we would be available to be called at a moment’s notice. I might get a text saying Be at the Waldorf in 20 minutes and I’d have to be ready.
And just because you did your job, it didn’t mean you were done for the night. You could be called to do another. Outcall money was amazing if we were on the good side of the booker, Lucy, or Kristin herself.
As a high-priced call girl, it actually helps to be a decent conversationalist. These are sophisticated men. They don’t want bimbos. There are some men who want the bimbo type, but they are not willing to pay big money for it. Yes, they want sex, but they don’t want to feel as if they are slumming it. They want companionship. If you follow what’s happening in the world and are cultured, well, the sky’s the limit.
Why do these men pay so much for sex? The short answer is that they want a woman who will do things sexually that their wives aren’t doing. Some want things like bondage or rougher sex but are afraid to ask their wives.
But the wives of these men aren’t doing something else that is the relationship killer: making them feel special. This was a common complaint. I tried to make men feel that there was nothing more important to me at that moment than what they were saying. They work hard, I told myself. They deserve it. I’ve learned a tremendous amount about the economy, investing, politics, and the law from my clients. These are the men who were raised to rule, or who got on top of their industry by sheer brains and determination. The only other way I would have met men at this level would have been if I were a CEO myself. And, yes, I’ll admit that I was aware that the attention I paid them paid me back in spades. More than once I counted the cash I was given twice because I couldn’t believe how huge the “tip” was. Sometimes it was more than the fee. And Kristin didn’t get a cut of that.
Also, men love a fresh face, and when you are the new girl, you make a ton of money.
When business in New York was good, Kristin would make forays into other territories, and she’d have the girls test out
different markets. She had already set up the Philadelphia site, but we went to Boston and Washington, D.C., for her. We’d go from city to city, and clients would get an online “lookbook” so they could choose which girls they wanted and when.
It’s amazing how each city has its own sexual vibe. New York has so many high flyers in finance, entertainment, and the media, many of whom have built themselves up from humble origins. They’re men who’ve had to make a lot of hard decisions in life in order to get where they are, and although many have an air of entitlement, they seemed to respect and appreciate us. It was in New York where we also had our encounters with visitors: European aristocrats, Asian billionaires, Middle Eastern royalty.
But in Philadelphia, where Kristin kept an apartment at 1600 Walnut Street, within walking distance of Rittenhouse Square Park, our clients were more down to earth. Conversations flowed more easily. Clients were mostly from the real estate and finance world, but they did not have the New York arrogance. They even dressed more casually. Sometimes I questioned whether they could afford me. In Philly a man will linger over a beer with a girl and talk sports. It was refreshing. Same with Boston: Boston men are “chill”—and absolute sports fanatics. Wear a Red Sox cap and a thong, and they go crazy.