“To the airport,” he responded.
“But this isn’t the way to the airport.”
“It is to the private airport where my personal jet awaits.”
Pretty soon we were buckling up for takeoff, and I could see that he had done his homework when the stewardess brought over a bottle of my favorite champagne, Cristal Rose. While I listened to this handsome man talking, I sipped the Cristal, looked out the window, and thought, I could get used to this. I began to apply all of the advice that Sharon and Tanya spoke to me about. I remained focused and kept my “eye on the prize.”
When we were landing, I could see snowcapped mountains, and it was clear that we weren’t in Florida anymore. He told me to go to the back of the cabin, where the stewardess opened a closet filled with ski clothes for me. All of the clothes were the right size, too. He looked at me in the different outfits and chose what he wanted me to wear. When I exited the plane, I took on a whole new role—the role of David’s girlfriend.
We spent the next three days together and David became my first regular. Soon after, a date with another man was arranged through the agency. Then, another and another. I ended up having four regulars who treated me very well. One was in his twenties, one in his thirties, and the other two were close to fifty. There was skiing in Aspen. Scuba diving in Saint Barts. Yachting down the Intercoastal in Florida. Over the next months, I embarked on some of the most exciting dates of my life.
Not every one was a fantasy date, though. There was one in particular where I arrived and I checked my date’s ID and was surprised to find that his name did not match the one that was given to the agency prior. I immediately handed back his ID, excused myself, and departed. As I walked away, he said that he had never used this service before and felt they might lie to him about my description. He explained that he had used his friend’s ID and everything was okay. That sounded all well and good, but I left anyway. On another date, the man checked out, but I had no connection with him whatsoever. He was wealthy but old, unattractive, and boring. No money in the world was worth me wasting my time like that.
It was clear that the men who used the agency wanted a woman who wasn’t going to play all the games young girls do. They didn’t want a clingy, needy, obsessive woman who wouldn’t want to let them go once their travel time was up. The men’s philosophy was basic: if you’re playing games, you’re not having fun. Two out of four of my men said their only goal was to have company and show me off in public on their arm. I was young and vivacious and wasn’t hurting anyone. So I didn’t mind being classified as “arm candy” one bit. They admired and never disrespected me. The other two were as gracious as the older gentlemen, but I personally felt them more as real relationships at that time.
The men and I never discussed any other relationships we might have been having. Part of the mystique is the unspoken rule not to discuss your private life or you would have just killed the mystery. For all they knew, I could have been in a very serious relationship. Maybe some of them had girlfriends. However, nobody I dated on a regular basis ever wore a wedding ring. I find it hard to believe that any of these men were married because we spent the majority of our time together in public and frequented popular places in their hometowns. These men sometimes even introduced me to their friends and colleagues as their girlfriend.
Being a call girl meshed well with my personality. I despise wasting time. I didn’t much care for commitment. And I was a free spirit. This to me was the perfect opportunity to expand on my theory, which was, why should I go out on a date just to go on a date and have it end poorly? And when the man doesn’t get what he wants, which is sex, then you end up wasting your day getting ready or taking the night off from your various bartending jobs or missing time away from your friends. Nobody wants to wake up the next morning and complain about the night before. On the other hand, when I went on a date through the call service, it went exactly as I wanted it to. I knew what to expect and I had control over how it would end. I was sent limousines, flowers, outfits, and shoes, and I got paid for my time on top of it.
What I was doing was not illegal. On the other hand, soliciting sex is—better known as prostitution. And no one ever called me a prostitute until most recently, but I am not and I wasn’t! I will no longer allow people’s ignorance to continue, and that is why I am clearing this up. I was not paid to go up to men’s hotel rooms. I was paid to establish relationships. I never got into trouble for being a girlfriend to anyone who needed a companion to go out with them in public. I can only imagine how scary it could be to be called to somebody’s hotel room, and I am not judging those who have done it. But I don’t know about that kind of situation because I was never involved in one.
Tanya told me that once I decided to be intimate with a client, I should understand that this is something the client would always expect from that moment on. I needed to make sure that before I opened the door to that possibility, the person was someone I wanted to be with. I took her advice into consideration before I ended up having physical relationships with the two younger men. It’s simply that I was attracted to them and they were attracted to me, which seemed pretty normal as far as relationships go. In fact, once we got to that stage, we were already in the phase of our relationships where most people would be intimate with each other anyway. One of the two men genuinely developed feelings for me and asked me to be exclusive. However, I wasn’t on the same page as him, and I was worried about my own feelings getting involved. I had already been deeply hurt by Billy, and that’s when things began to get complicated. And it was at this point that this relationship as well as my career as a call girl would come to an end.
I spent six months working for Sharon and made a lot of money and developed some really great connections. I learned a lot about business from many of these successful men. I wasn’t ashamed of working as a call girl then, and I am not ashamed that I ever did it. I think it’s really different from what people generally imagine it to be. My job was to keep men company by going out with them. I was dropped off by security, treated very well, and picked up by security. I got to travel first-class and I was treated to expensive meals and champagne and shopping. Some might call this the best date they have ever had.
A turning point in my life occurred when I was twenty-four. I met a man named Jorge, who was more than twenty years older than me and was involved in and high up in a dark world, which at the time I knew nothing about.
When we first met at September’s in the champagne room, what initially attracted me to this older South American gentleman was that he smelled incredible. His scent was trumped only by the way he behaved—he was a complete gentleman. When I poured him some wine, he would touch my hand to indicate his glass was full enough instead of telling me to stop. The way he touched my hand was more intoxicating than the wine: a lot can be communicated by such a simple act.
Our attraction was mutual right from the start. Jorge had something that I immediately wanted more of. From his scent to his manners to his intelligence, something was clearly special about him. He was deep and thoughtful and not loud at all. He never raised his voice once when speaking to me. (I am not saying that he never raised his voice to others, but I was never around when he did.) He was confident and in control of his environment at all times, and I found this alluring. Women were always throwing themselves at Jorge, and those very women were the ones he couldn’t seem to stand. He never even made eye contact with women who attempted to flirt with him and get his attention. Instead, he would look directly into my eyes. Jorge didn’t like to see women acting as if they were easy or sleazy. He liked a woman to act like a lady. I think he liked a woman he could teach as well, and I think he saw that in me.
From the moment Jorge and I met, we were inseparable. In a nonpossessive way he wanted to make sure I was okay every waking moment of the day. Jorge took me out to many fabulous restaurants in the Miami area, and after dinner we went out dancing at popular Latino clubs. He used to love to watch me dance. Howe
ver, when I was with him, men were not allowed to touch me when I went out onto the dance floor. Jorge made sure of that. Other people would stand around me and he would watch as I danced safely. I enjoyed dancing in a safe little bubble. It made me feel secure and important, like a princess. That was what Jorge called me: his princess. He certainly treated me like one. He never disrespected me and never made me cry or feel belittled or stupid because I didn’t know something. He took an interest in what I enjoyed doing and quickly learned that one of my passions was horseback riding. Jorge would often take me riding, even though he didn’t ride himself; he made a lot of effort to ensure my happiness.
Jorge was a businessman, who would only occasionally crack a smile. Because he had a dimple on one side of his face, his smile was kind of crooked, which I thought was cute and endearing. He didn’t show that smile to anyone other than me, and it made me feel that I was really adored by him. I know he really loved me as I did him.
I kept working at September’s for a while longer after meeting Jorge, but shortly thereafter there was no need to continue. Jorge was not comfortable with my working there and he was happy to support me. He wanted me all to himself and felt that he could concentrate better on his business that way. I was present for some of his business meetings—often the only woman at the table—but I never asked questions (besides, his associates usually didn’t speak English; they spoke Spanish, which I don’t understand all that well). Despite the language barrier, I learned a lot of life lessons from being there. I am smart enough always to keep my mouth shut, especially when I’m under verbal attack. Being around Jorge taught me that.
When people say, “Do you know who I know?” I laugh to myself and think, No, I don’t. I don’t even think you know who you know! Nobody I was ever around who was part of Jorge’s world ever talked about whom they knew. Nobody whom I have been around in the past forty-seven years of my life who was really connected ever had to brag about whom they knew. It was just understood. In that world, you don’t have to name-drop. These guys don’t threaten people. There is no reason to—they are all doers, not talkers.
It didn’t matter to me what business Jorge was in, I just loved him and felt safe when I was with him. He could have been selling vacuums for all I cared. Our relationship did not merely consist of partying and doing superficial things together; we had a relationship of substance. Jorge and I had a baby together, but unfortunately the baby did not survive. As anyone would agree, it is difficult to lose a child. I think it was especially difficult for me because I was adopted; it would have been my first chance at a real family. But it wasn’t meant to be. It was another one of those lessons that I had to learn the hard and painful way. Now I understand that this was a part of my journey, and today I am so grateful for my two beautiful daughters and I know my son will always be watching from above.
Another great lesson Jorge taught me was to observe what is going on around me at all times and have presence of mind—always. The day I was arrested, I was clearly not paying attention to the vital life lessons that Jorge had taught me.
On June 23, 1986, I returned from modeling at a photo shoot hopeful to see my boyfriend, but to no avail. When I walked into the place where I was eventually arrested, to my surprise I saw one of my neighbors, who appeared to be beaten up and high on cocaine.
One night at a club a few months prior, I had introduced my neighbor to a few acquaintances of mine. In the hot Miami nights, everybody is friends with everybody, so I introduced them as my friends. It wasn’t meant to be an introduction for business purposes, but it unfortunately ended up that way, and now I was caught right in the middle. My neighbor was obviously involved in a drug deal gone bad, and to assess the damage, I tried to get some answers out of him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“They stole the shit, man. The Jamaicans stole it, all of it!” he said.
“What shit? What Jamaicans? And what are you talking about?”
“The coke.”
“What?! Please tell me you paid these people. If they don’t get their money, they are not going to be happy.” “That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s why you got the shit kicked out of you, too. This is not good. I introduced you to them and now it looks like you’ve robbed them. Are you a fucking idiot? Don’t tell me you robbed these people.”
He didn’t answer.
I tried to quickly piece the story together. From what I gathered, my neighbor had been given drugs to deliver. He was to collect $24,000 for the goods and bring the money back to the supplier. However, he claimed to have been robbed by some Jamaicans along the way. The whole story didn’t add up. I wasn’t buying it and, more important, neither was anyone else. The bottom line is that, with these people, you don’t take what isn’t yours.
My neighbor appeared to have been roughed up. However, he didn’t seem to have been kidnapped. He wasn’t tied up or restrained in any way; on the contrary, he was sitting comfortably in an easy chair snorting coke. I determined from the fast-food wrappers strewn all over the place that he wasn’t being starved, either. It didn’t appear that anybody was keeping him there against his will. I assumed he didn’t ask if he could leave because that would be sure to piss off his new enemies.
I knew that the reason he probably was able to walk out with the drugs in the first place without paying for them was because he had claimed to be an acquaintance of mine. He had clearly used me and used my name. Yes, I had introduced him to those guys, but what they did from that point on should have been none of my business. However, because he had screwed them over, it became my business.
My neighbor tried to dupe them and made me look really bad. If I left, the guys he’d stolen from would probably have thought that I was involved. The more I think about it over the years, the more I believe that he was hoping they would blame me and hurt me for his misdeeds. What a coward! But what he didn’t count on was that I had already built trust with them, so while I had introduced them to a bad business partner, I wasn’t going to take the fall for his stupid actions.
After I’d pieced together the info I got out of him, his father called. I had a brief conversation with him about the $24,000 debt that his son owed and that needed to be paid in full immediately. I believe that phone conversation was taped by the authorities, making me an accessory.
Moments later, I heard some loud sounds of complete chaos outside the house. Voices over megaphones began shouting orders: “Come out with your hands up!”
I immediately began to panic. I had no idea who was issuing the orders or why. I didn’t even know if they were talking to me. The house phone rang and I answered reluctantly. A voice on the other end of the line told me to come outside.
I could feel every fiber of my being tremble as my heart beat out of my chest. I could hear it pounding in my ears.
“Just come out of the house and everything will be okay,” said a man who turned out to be a federal agent.
I eventually came out of the house, still shocked and totally unaware of what was happening. However, I was positive that it was not a good situation and I had no idea how to handle it. After all, I thought things like this only existed in the movies.
I went out the front door, and unlike what I had seen in the movies, the feds didn’t tackle me to the ground. Instead, they matter-of-factly asked me to put my hands where they could see them. In my fear and confusion I did just that, and everything else they asked me to do, while shaking uncontrollably. The federal agents asked if any weapons were in the house, and I answered, “No, not that I’m aware of.” They asked if I had any weapons on me, despite the fact that I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and clearly couldn’t have concealed anything bigger than a toothpick. However, I didn’t want to point out the obvious (I wanted the authorities to see the little girl in me who was genuinely afraid), so I simply said no. They searched me and quickly found out that I was telling the truth. Then they read me my rights and handcuffed me, and I was
put in the back of a police car.
As I sat in the back of the car with one of the FBI agents, a SWAT team and various federal agents systematically went in and out of the house, carrying boxes of stuff, and I saw a lot of smoke drifting out of the house. I didn’t know what they were doing or what any of it meant. As I watched, several questions ran through my mind: What are they going to ask me? What is this about? How am I going to answer their questions? I wished there were someone I could call and ask what the hell I was supposed to do. However, I wasn’t so confused that I didn’t know something major was going on, although I suspected what it might be about. One thing was for sure: I didn’t know the true gravity of the situation, which would unfold in the days to come.
Time seemed to be standing still, and the events taking place appeared to be happening in slow motion. I felt as if I were in a bad dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a dream at all.
I was finally taken down to the local FBI headquarters, where they interrogated me for the better part of three days. I was put into a cell for the nights and removed in the mornings for more shitty food and endless questioning.
Eventually I was transported to a Florida penitentiary where I would await my arraignment. I made the three-hour trip accompanied by FBI agents in their car. They told me that I was being driven by them, instead of my going on the prison bus, because it was safer for me since I was a high-profile arrest. I never fully understood what they meant by that.
Going through the prison gates and seeing the buses pull up filled with prisoners was a wake-up call that I will always remember. Once I was inside, they made me strip naked for a body search, and they were not delicate about it. As I walked handcuffed through the prison, I saw myself on the news on a television. It was a shattering sight.
I was put into cell block C. Thirty cells were in the block, with two women in each cell. Many of the women were gang members. I could immediately tell I didn’t belong there— inmates were there doing major time for serious crimes. We were in a state penitentiary, and the feeling was in the air that nobody was going anywhere, ever. I was slated to be there for three weeks pending an arraignment in front of a judge.
The Naked Truth: The Real Story Behind the Real Housewife of New Jersey--In Her Own Words Page 6