Molly's Game

by Molly Bloom

  “I really just want to go home. I’ll call you from Colorado.”

  “If they arrest you, don’t say anything. Call me and I’ll come down. Remember, do not say anything.”

  “Okay,” I answered.

  I booked a flight out of Newark airport on my credit card.

  Then I told my driver to drop me off at JFK.

  If the feds were tracking me, I hoped this would throw them off. Every second felt like an eternity. I walked up to the ticketing desk. I stared nervously at the face of the airline agent as she entered my information into the system.

  My flight didn’t leave for a couple hours, so I took Lucy and my suitcase and I locked myself in a stall in one of the bathrooms. We sat and waited for hours.

  Finally it was time to board the plane. I approached my gate. This was it. If I made it past here, I would be home, at least for a moment, at least long enough to see my parents and hug them good-bye.

  The sun was coming up over New York City. I watched the island fade as a new day started and the plane ascended into the clouds. I wanted to cry, but I felt numb and dead inside. When we landed I got my bags and found my driver.

  He took the familiar route to my family home in the mountains, memories of my childhood skiing every weekend with my family playing out in my head.

  Finally we pulled into the driveway at my mom’s house. I rang the doorbell, and she answered in her robe. Her eyes flew open in surprise when she saw me. I fell into her, going limp.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” she said.”Tell me, honey, you can tell me, are you all right?”

  And then I collapsed in tears. My mom held me and I couldn’t stop sobbing.

  AFTER I TOLD MY MOM what had happened, I crawled into her bed and she stayed with me, stroking my head until I fell into a dreamless sleep. I woke up as the sun was setting. Nestled there in the woods, I felt worlds away from my poker life. I felt like I could just hide in this house forever. But I knew I couldn’t, I had to face this.

  I called my attorney; he said I was part of an investigation, and this would require an extra fee for him to work on my behalf. I logged into my bank account.

  My balance read: –9,999,999.00. I checked my other accounts, and they reflected the same negative balance.

  I called my bank,

  “I need to know why all my accounts have a negative balance.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Bloom,” the bank officer I was speaking with said awkwardly. “There is a note here to contact the United States District Attorney’s office.”

  I immediately called my lawyer, who informed me that my assets had been seized by the government. He informed me that the government wanted me to come in and “talk to them” about organized crime.

  I thought about the soulless eyes of my attacker in New York, and especially about his threat against my mother.

  “No, I won’t to do that,” I said firmly.

  “I’ll let them know,” he said.

  “What happens now?” I asked

  “Well, if you don’t cooperate, I can’t get your money back and there is a possibility they could indict you.”

  “But we analyzed the laws,” I said, referring to the research I’d had him do on the federal statutes around poker. His professional opinion, as well as my L.A. attorney’s, had been that I was not violating federal law—so the fact that I could be federally indicted was mind-boggling.

  “The government does this sometimes, they try to squeeze people for information,” my attorney informed me.

  I had no money, no answers, and no desire to go into a witness protection program.

  I had arrived in New York just a few years prior in a flash and a fury, and I left in silence and alone.

  My phone stopped ringing, the girls went away. I sold my poker table and Shuffle Master, I gave up my apartment. I paid movers to pack a life into boxes and store it somewhere in Queens.

  I MOVED HOME. I tried to learn how to live quietly, in nature. There were so many unanswered questions. The fear of the unknown was a constant underlying presence in my life. I had good days and bad days. Sometimes I felt an incredible sense of relief and sometimes I was so depressed I couldn’t get out of my bed.

  I remembered an old pro I had met in the poker room at the Bellagio. At the time I was trying to land a huge whale and I was keeping my eye on him while pretending to watch Eugene play.

  He sat to my left; he had just gotten a bad beat. He turned to me with wise eyes and announced, “Poker will break your heart, young lady.”

  “Oh,” I said, smiling. “I don’t play.”

  “We all play,” he replied. “Poker is the game of life.”

  He was right. Poker had broken my heart.

  I learned to live through it, though. I went for hikes, I read, and I wrote.

  My brother and I went for a seven-day trek through Peru, ending at Machu Picchu. There, I sat atop a hill and marveled at the astounding masterpiece around me—the legacy that this great civilization had left behind. I thought about the game. When I was holding court in those decadent penthouses, I felt like I was at the top of the world, but it was a material world. There was so much excitement and drama around me. All the kings of that world sat together, playing with their empires. When the last card was dealt, when the table was put away, after the maids came through, there was no evidence of the rivalries, no vestiges of glory, no great monuments to victory. There was just silence, as if it had never happened at all.

  Epilogue

  I spent two years putting the pieces of my life back together. Six months after the feds raided my game, they arrested Alex, and a few of the other Russians. They allegedly were running a huge scam, they had defrauded the insurance companies out of $600 million. My attorney said that was almost certainly why the feds had gotten involved. I knew that the powerful network I had spent years building and the relationships I had cultivated were no longer viable. Not only had word spread within the poker community, but there had been a lot of press stemming from the Bradley Ruderman indictment and a subsequent lawsuit in which every player who took a check from Brad in the poker game was getting sued. Many of those players were celebrities, and with a little digging, reporters exposed the games, the players, and the girl who ran the whole operation. They called me the “Poker Princess,” the “Madam of Poker,” and worse. Paparazzi came to my mother’s house, my father’s house, my high school. They called my friends, my ex-boyfriends, and e-mailed me incessantly. I spoke to no one, and finally they just went away.

  I moved back to L.A. right before my birthday, almost two years to the day after my world fell apart. I found a cute apartment, nothing like the luxurious homes I had in my previous life, but I made it my own. Most of my “friends” had jumped ship when the money was gone, but I was left with the few quality friends I had made along the way and I was grateful for them. I was walking Lucy early one morning and I ran smack into Eugene. There he was, as if no time had passed, with his dark eyes smiling at me. He had moved to Los Angeles and by chance was renting an apartment a couple of blocks from mine.

  “Zilla!” he said in his soft voice, and hugged me tightly.

  I was so happy he had gotten out of New York. Last I’d heard he was partnering with Eddie Ting, who had, predictably, screwed him over. We talked for a long time, reminisced about our good times, crazy times. I apologized for the way I had treated him.

  “I’ll always love you, Zil,” he said, “and I forgave you a long time ago. You are the strongest, prettiest girl I know, with the smallest feet and little wings.”

  I laughed. I missed him so much, missed living in our fantasy world. He was the only person who really knew me, really saw me, and vice versa. He was my soul mate, and the way I felt about him was visceral, but I knew we could never be a couple. He was a gambler; he would always live at night, live for the next hand, the next game, the next move. We looked at each other; all the passion, love, and history was dizzying.

  “I better go,” I sai
d, somewhat reluctantly.

  “Okay,” he said.

  We hugged good-bye.

  I walked home thinking about the irony that he had moved so close. I thought about my crazy life in poker, and I missed it sometimes. The danger, the money, the excitement, but it wasn’t sustainable. I had learned to live differently now. I slept a lot, spent time outside in the sun, I ate healthy meals, I lived frugally. It was peaceful.

  WHEN I GOT READY FOR BED THAT NIGHT, I put on the silky, white La Perla nightgown that Eugene had given me on my birthday long ago.

  I smiled. He was doing well and that was all I ever wanted for him. I wrote a little before dozing off to sleep, cuddling with Lucy, the one true constant in my life.

  I woke to my phone ringing incessantly. Confused, I looked at the time. Five A.M.? I didn’t get calls from strange numbers at strange hours anymore. I answered.

  “Molly Bloom?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Jeremy Wesson from the FBI. We are outside your apartment. If you don’t come our immediately, we will break down the door. You have twenty seconds.”

  I bolted up, my heart racing and my hands shaking. Was this a prank, was someone trying to hurt me? I didn’t understand.

  “You have fifteen seconds, Miss Bloom.”

  I ran to the door and opened it.

  It was a scene out of a movie, FBI agents, maybe twenty of them, maybe more. Assault weapons, handcuffs, voices screaming at me, the things they yell at violent criminals. They only took off my handcuffs to let me put on different clothes. I had to change in front of the female agents. No underwire bra, they commanded. They wouldn’t let me touch anything, so they dressed me. After placing the handcuffs on again, they put me in a dark SUV.

  “Where are we going?” I asked quietly.

  “Downtown,” was all they would say.

  We pulled into a dark basement parking garage.

  “Are you ready for the prisoner?” a man asked into a two-way radio.

  “Yes,” they answered.

  They led me upstairs, and announced something about the prisoner being on the floor.

  They took my fingerprints, my picture, and then they asked me to stand and face the wall. A female agent put shackles on my feet.

  “Turn around,” she commanded.

  She took a large chain belt and fastened it around my waist. She then handcuffed my hands to the chain belt and she and another agent led me to a cell. It was hard to walk with the shackles, they were cutting into my anklebone, but I didn’t dare complain. They opened the door to a dirty cell. I looked at their faces, terrified. They led me inside and with a large key they locked me in.

  “How long will I be here?” I asked politely

  “I would get comfortable, sweetheart,” the woman said.

  I heard the marshals call out, “Prisoners on the floor!” My head snapped up. I waited as the shuffle of feet rounded the corner. My eyes connected with familiar dark almond eyes . . . Eugene! I searched his face and he looked at me for a moment and then turned away coldly. Behind him was his brother, Illya; Helly, the wealthy socialite; Noah, the mathematician called “the oracle,” who served as the group’s sports handicapper; and then came Bryan Zuriff, a trust-fund kid. When my lawyer finally showed up, he handed me the thick indictment, which detailed the alleged criminal conspiracy. It read like a movie script. The defendants ranged from a man known as a “Vor,” a Russian organized-crime boss who was also one of the ten most wanted fugitives in the world; to Helly, the wealthy playboy who had dated a countless number of supermodels; to John Hansen, the chess master; to Noah, the math savant; to Pete the Plumber, who had lost so much gambling that he had given away part of his plumbing business, now allegedly being used as a front for money laundering. And then there was Eugene, his brother, and their father, who according to the indictment were running a $100-million bookmaking operation out of the Trump Tower apartment where I had spent many nights.

  There were thirty-four defendants, most I had never heard of.

  I was the only woman.

  Finally I was released on $100,000 bail and ordered to appear in New York City before the federal judge of the southern district of the city to enter a plea.

  BEING IN THE COURTROOM WAS one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. On the benches on the left side of the courtroom sat friends, family, and reporters. I glanced at my mom, who, unbeknownst to her, was sitting next to Eugene’s mother, who looked distraught. My heart broke for this woman; her whole family had been indicted. The benches on the right side of the room were for defendants, and the ones who were still incarcerated sat behind a glass partition at the head of the courtroom. My lawyers sat reassuringly on either side of me, explaining everything that was happening and making sure I was doing okay. I looked around at my so-called coconspirators. Some were in slick suits, some in matching velour tracksuits, and some in prison uniforms. I had read the press release on the FBI website. I was facing five to ten years.

  The judge entered and we all rose. Most of the speech he made was about procedure. I looked around for Eugene; he was sitting in the front row, dressed casually. I waited as each defendant, many needing translators, entered in pleas of not guilty. Finally, at the very end of the list, he called my name. I stood, although I could barely feel my legs. The whole courtroom turned and looked at me and I felt the room start to spin.

  “How do you plead, Miss Bloom?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” I managed.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you all the way back there. How do you plead to the charges alleged against you?”

  The whole courtroom was still. Somehow I tapped into an extra reserve of strength I didn’t know I had.

  I spoke in a loud strong voice: “I plead not guilty to the charges, Your Honor.”

  The year of my life following my arrest and indictment was heartbreaking and terrifying, but it was also a year of tremendous growth. I decided not to fight the indictment. Unfortunately, it is not always a case of guilt or innocence. If I had chosen to fight, it would have cost me millions of dollars (I barely had enough money to travel to the mandated court dates) as well as years of my life—all with no guarantee of justice. I also declined once more to cooperate with the government. So, on the coldest day of the year, December 12, 2013, I threw down the white flag and accepted the charges. I became a convicted felon that day, and I await sentencing.

  I don’t know how the honorable federal judge will sentence me, but I know that no matter what he decrees, he doesn’t decide my fate. I do. I have been asked many times: If I had to do it all over, would I choose the same path? My answer is yes, a thousand times, yes. I had a grand adventure. I learned to believe in myself. I was brave, and I went big. I was also reckless and selfish. I got lost along the way. I abandoned the things that mattered and traded them for wealth and statues. I lusted for power and I hurt people. But I was forced to face myself, to lose everything, to fall on my face in front of the world, and the lessons I learned on the way up were just as valuable as the ones on the way down. I know that this time I will use everything I have learned to do something that matters.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing this book has not been without its challenges. I want to acknowledge those who stood by my side, encouraged, and believed in me.

  Carrie, thank you for believing in my story and for working tirelessly to make the book what it is. You have been an extraordinary collaborator and friend.

  Lisa Gallagher, I feel like I met you a million lifetimes ago. We have been through so much together. You have gone above and beyond, both as a friend and an agent. I can’t imagine a more brilliant, savvy, and compassionate partner to have gone on this journey with.

  Susan, you are amazing. Your hard work and kindness were an integral part of this process.

  Lynn, my publisher, thank you for all your support.

  Joseph, thank you for your creativity and vision.

  Matthew, I am so grateful for o
ur serendipitous meeting several years ago. You have become one of my closest friends and most trusted advisors. I am a big fan of the Hiltzik clan. Thank you for your help and guidance and for always making me laugh.

  Jim Walden, how can I possibly thank you enough? You are a true gladiator. Your integrity, compassion, and unwavering commitment to justice restored my hope in my darkest hour.

  Sarah Vacchiano, your kindness and competence have meant more than you will ever know. I am honored to have you on my side and as my friend.

  Leopoldo, what can I say, you have been such an integral part of both the book and my entire life. You light up the world with your radiant goodness. I love you so much.

  Jordan and Jeremy, thank you for your unconditional love. I am astounded more and more each day at what extraordinary human beings you have become. You are not only my brothers but my best friends.

  Gram, I feel blessed to have spent so much time with you, both as a child and then again as an adult. I love you.

  Ali, I feel overwhelmed and filled with love just writing your name. You have stood by me with no hesitation, no judgments. You nursed my broken spirit with both kindness and gentle guidance. You taught me by example the value of gratitude, compassion, and generosity. You are my best friend, my sister, and my compass. There are no words to describe my gratitude adequately—just a lifetime of trying to be as good to you as you are to me and the rest of the world. You truly are my hero.

  Steph, you are such a huge inspiration to me. Thanks for the unconditional friendship, the strategy sessions, and for your unwavering support.

  LL, you were one of the first friends I made in L.A. Thanks for coming back into my life when I needed you most.

  And finally, Dad, you have always been larger than life to me. You taught me to be fearless and to believe in my dreams, and you gave me the encouragement and mentoring to achieve them.

  I love you, Daddy.

  About the Author

  MOLLY BLOOM grew up in Loveland, Colorado. She attended the University of Colorado at Boulder, majoring in political science. Later, she was a member of the U.S. Ski Team and ranked third overall in North America in 1998. For several years Molly organized one of the largest high-stakes poker games in the country. She currently lives in Los Angeles.