Treanor is on a roll, and then he makes the connection: “In fact, Your Honor, we arrested both of the defendants in this case simultaneously at very distant parts of the country because we wanted to arrest them both when they were present at the same time because we believed if we arrested one the other one would never come to the United States. We arrested them simultaneously because we were aware that a single phone call could frustrate the ability of the government to arrest the other. We were—we believe we were correct, seeing that such a phone call was placed to Mr. Lefebvre.”
Eaton asks for more information on Lefebvre: “Is he a U.S. citizen?” Treanor says no but he is also out on a $5 million bond. Then he tells Eaton about the screwup with the bail money: “We were informed that yesterday his attorney attempted to satisfy the final conditions to get his release, but that Mr. Lefebvre, due to an error out on the West Coast, was moved to another facility and I think he was released today and is due—we’ve had conversations with his attorney. He’s due to arrive in this jurisdiction.”
“Yes,” Eaton says, “I guess Judge Gorenstein will hear the arguments about Mr. Lefebvre.” He decides to concede ground to Treanor, deciding that the change “might be sensible just so people don’t run around like chickens with their heads cut off.” Until the end of February, Lawrence is restricted to New York. He’ll be able to travel in the U.S. after that and doesn’t have to suffer any drug testing humiliations.
Meanwhile, back at Oklahoma FTC, finally, over fourteen hours after this morning’s rude awakening, Lefebvre gets processed into another cell. This time there’s actually a decent novel to read, Aldous Huxley’s Point Counter Point. He gets about halfway through. The book takes his mind away from Oklahoma City and transports him back in time. He’s even more pleased when he finds a large, deep crate of books in the common area—more good ones, too.
But the guards, they really annoy him. When they lock everyone down in their cells at night, there is so little light it’s impossible to read. There’s nothing to do except contemplate the fact that there’s some guy he doesn’t know in the bunk beneath, so he can’t sleep. Who knows what the hell the guy did, or what he’s doing right now, or what he wants him to join in with.
• • •
Day Six, Saturday, January 20, 2007, Oklahoma City FTC: In the morning, Lefebvre gets paraded to breakfast. Everyone is herded into a central room, which has two levels. The main part is about three steps up, and it has a large steel banister around it. Three steps down is the lunchroom. The lunch tables are set up in a big circle around the central area. Outside the lunch area are the steel doors that take the prisoners back to their cells. Everyone congregates in the middle and walks in circles all day. Lefebvre notices that the black guys all stick together in the corner, doing heavy-duty calisthenics, getting real big. He thinks, Might as well do something while you’re in jail, right? Me, I read a book.
Lefebvre picks what’s known as the cold corner, mainly because nobody would think of sitting there. He pulls his blanket over his shoulders, settles into the cold corner, reads a book, and passes the time. He doesn’t converse much, mostly keeping to himself but maintaining cordiality when necessary. The entire day passes without him having a clue what’s to happen next. His intuition tells him Marella is out there chasing him down, but then again he has no way of knowing. All he knows is the wheels grind slowly. Be cool.
• • •
Day Seven, Sunday, January 21, 2007, Oklahoma City FTC: Now it’s the Sabbath, which makes a week of captivity. Lefebvre gets up and once again nobody says anything to him. That’s all right, he’s ready to do it again, sit in the cold corner and read a book, tough it out. Except this time, the guards start treating him differently. “Man, I wish I had your friends,” his guard tells him. Lefebvre picks off his type right away. Guy’s treating him with respect now only because of the dollar amount. Guy’s got only one measurement of a person. Lefebvre thinks, Might as well set this dude straight.
“What are you talking about?”
“Five million bail—fuck you think I’m talking about?”
“I don’t have any friends. That’s my fuckin’ money!”
As with MDC L.A., word gets around. By now everybody on the floor knows what’s up with the “Five Million Dollar Man” standing by the door getting bailed out. Now he’s Lee Fucking Majors. A rock star. They start coming up to him, making conversation with the cold corner bookworm guy. Lefebvre stands in a doorway where on the door it says in large block letters NO STANDING HERE. Lefebvre stands there anyway. Everybody knows he’s going out on five-million bail.
Then the guards escort him downstairs. They stuff him in a room with a wide selection of ugly polo shirts. Not polo shirts exactly, more like ugly golf shirts. Ugly jeans, too. And really ugly nondescript beige nylon jackets—neither jacket nor car coat, really, and they just don’t fit. Lefebvre selects what he thinks he can wear. He stands back and admires himself. He says to the haberdasher, “Guy, how do I look?”
“You look like you just got out of jail.”
Then he goes up to meet his $850-an-hour Beverly Hills lawyer, who has flown in to greet him at Oklahoma FTC with the $5-million check. He gets to the gate. He can see Marella, who waves, “Hi!”
Then they tell Lefebvre, “Go sit over there.”
“What for?”
“GO SIT OVER THERE.”
“My lawyer’s here. My bail’s paid. You’ve got the documents. I’m free. Let me out of here.”
“ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE US TROUBLE HERE? ARE WE GOING TO HAVE TO PUT YOU BACK IN?
“Why?”
“YOU EARNED TEN DOLLARS! WE HAVE TO GET YOU THE CHECK!”
“Put the ten dollars in your coffee jar.”
Lefebvre’s beyond annoyed now. He sits, steaming, while they bureaucratically chase down someone who might be authorized to sign the ten-dollar check. Then he has to sign a document that says he’s received his pay. If he doesn’t sign it, they won’t let him out. The procedure steals forty minutes of freedom. You fuckers!
Not to mention stealing forty minutes of Marella’s time. That’s an expensive wait to receive a ten-buck check. Fuck it—I’m out, that’s all that matters.
“Vince, how do I look?”
“What do you think you look like?”
“Where’s my Armani?”
Lefebvre knows that at one point Marella worked at a men’s clothing shop in L.A. The clothes were from the south of Italy, where guys would sit in circles, each making a suit. They’d all jabber in Italian while handstitching little puckers on the shoulder. Turns out Marella’s a great dresser.
Marella and Lefebvre take a cab to the airport proper and grab some pizza and beer. They sit and wait for the freedom flight. Two mornings ago it was shackles and leg irons and little Ritz Crackers with peanut butter between them; now it’s front row on Southwest and gorgonzola and champagne—in jail-issue clothing. Lefebvre doesn’t throw the ugly “suit” out. It’s a keepsake, or talisman, now. There was the low of being arrested and then the high of being released. But the high isn’t really that high. Certainly no bubble-hash high, just a low-grade buzz from shake pot, maybe. All they know at this point, flying into LAX, is that the DOJ has not yet frozen Lefebvre’s assets. Not that comforting.
The pair lands in Los Angeles. Lefebvre has three days before he has to appear in New York. Priority number one when he gets out of the limo and inside Malibu 2 is to search high and low to find that pot. He scours the house and finds the pipe. Yes! He takes the pipe and washes it really, really carefully. He goes upstairs, out onto the roof, where he can shower and wave at helicopter pilots, heads over to the dark side of the roof. He puts the pipe into one of those rubber gloves used for washing dishes and hucks the motherfucking pipe as far as he can toss it out into the ocean. Next day, his interior designer comes by.
“Hey John,” he says. “L
ook, man, I found your pot lying out so I took it and hid it. Sorry about that.”
Yes!! Lefebvre digs out the pot, busts it into really, really small bits, and flushes it down the toilet. Then he takes the baggie the pot was in, cuts it into really, really small strips, and flushes them down the toilet. The whole procedure is irrational, but he’s afraid they’ll bust him again, this time for pot, and put him in jail for forty years like the well-toned diminutive Texan he met back at the detention center in Oklahoma City.
• • •
Day Nine, Tuesday, January 23, 2007, Manhattan, New York: Lefebvre is on another commercial flight—this time to New York City. An arraignment is a legal document that calls a person, such as Lefebvre, to answer an indictment. The indictment was last week; tomorrow comes the arraignment, which will also include his first urine test. They choose a place on Park Avenue that Marella knows and likes, the Loews Regency Hotel New York.
They eat in style, dinner at Daniel on the Upper East Side. Lefebvre likes their idea of the world’s most expensive hamburger. For thirty-two bucks, the Original DB involves sirloin burger filled with braised short ribs, foie gras, and black truffle, served on a Parmesan bun with frites. Tomorrow, Marella will enter a plea of not guilty on behalf of his client.
• • •
Day Ten, Wednesday, January 24, 2007, Manhattan, New York: Lefebvre, like Lawrence the previous Friday, must have his day of arraignment: Case Number 07-CR-597. The United States District Court, Southern District of New York, 500 Pearl Street. Criminal Cause for Bail Hearing.
“All rise,” says the Clerk. “The Honorable Gabriel W. Gorenstein presiding. United States of America v. Lefebvre. Counsel, please state your names for the record.” There are two government lawyers, Christopher Conniff and Treanor, as well as FBI Special Agent Maryann Goldman. Marella, Benjamin Gluck, and David Frankel say they’re appearing on behalf of Lefebvre, who is present in court on bond.
Conniff tells the court Lefebvre was arrested in L.A. on January 15. There is no need for a Rule 5 warrant, an appearance upon arrest, because he “was presented before a magistrate on that day in the United States District Court for the Central District of California.” Then it’s simply an issue of detention, bail, or release, says the judge, who then prompts Conniff to describe the agreed bail package: “The government entered into an agreement with defense counsel,” says Conniff, “and we proposed to maintain the same conditions now. Those conditions would include a $5-million personal recognizance bond, which has been secured by the defendant’s property in Malibu, California. The defendant would reside at that property and his travel would be restricted to the Central District of California and the Southern District of New York for purposes of appearing in connection with this proceeding.”
The judge wants the Eastern District of New York added. Conniff says yes, Your Honor, and then, “Supervision will be conducted by the pretrial services officer in Los Angeles, and the surrender of all travel documents, which I understand has occurred, and no application for new ones.”
Marella says almost everything stated is accurate. “I just wanted to make one correction. In terms of what has been posted, there was a $5-million cash bond that was posted in Los Angeles.” Then a bureaucratic discussion follows because Marella and Gluck aren’t members of the Bar of this court. The New York associate, David Frankel from Kramer Levin, requests a pro hac vice (for this occasion) from Gorenstein. It is granted, but the judge warns them that next time they’re in his court they better have paid up the twenty-five-dollar fee so they can present the proper certificate to him.
The next order of business is the preliminary hearing. Lawrence’s follow-up court appearance is set for February 14, Conniff tells the judge. Gorenstein asks if counsel can agree to this date, and Marella says he can. The judge gets right down to it: “Based upon the agreement of counsel, my review of the pretrial services report and the complaint, the defendant is released on $5-million personal recognizance bond already secured by $5 million in cash. His travel is restricted to the Southern and Eastern Districts of New York and to the Central District of California. Surrender of any travel documents and no new applications, strict pretrial supervision.”
Gorenstein adds one more thought: “There was an issue in the report about drug testing. Is that not a condition at issue?” Conniff replies, “It should be, Your Honor. I omitted it. I’m sorry.” So, so close—Lefebvre almost gets out of drug testing.
Lefebvre’s arraignment is short, efficient, and cordial, unlike Lawrence’s. Conniff does not even bother trying to convince Gorenstein that Lefebvre is a flight risk. On the down side, while Eaton never blinked about waiving the drug testing for Lawrence, Lefebvre now has to face the omnipresence of this decision.
• • •
When Lefebvre pisses for the Man for the first time, the guy administering the test says, “Sure you don’t want to sit down?”
This first test is a howitzer. Sure, Lefebvre’s been smoking dope forever. But lately, in the last couple of years, he’s been smoking something called bubble hash. No ordinary pot, bubble hash is made from a process that extracts THC from weed. The extraction produces something akin to hard, brown, compressed hash. Lefebvre’s friend presented it to him a couple of years back. “John, here’s a little piece of it.” Then the guy, who has known Lefebvre forever, warned him, “I’m telling you, listen to me carefully, John, three tokes and I was u-h-h-h-u-r-r-h-u-u-h BAAMMMM!!”
Next morning, Lefebvre decided he wanted to show his mom the $1-million parcel of land he’d just scored down around Oldman Dam, a couple of hours south of Calgary. He did one toke on the way over to his mom’s condo by the Elbow River. Then he did another. Then he did one more. Wow, that’s not bad … actually, hey, that’s pretty good! So he decided, Y’know, what’s one more hit? Four tokes. Then he picked up his mom and started driving down Macleod Trail in south Calgary.
Mom was going on about something or other, but Lefebvre couldn’t keep track. He was going nuts and couldn’t concentrate on anything she was saying. Holy shit, I’d better take control of this conversation right now! He started talking about what he wanted to talk about, ripped out of his tree. And off they went, down to his new Oldman Dam property.
The point is, by the time the clerk in New York says, “Sure you don’t want to sit down?” Lefebvre has been smoking this stuff every day for months. The THC content in his body is off the chart.
THC overload now discovered, Lefebvre realizes it’s game over for getting high. For a guy who wants “He never stopped tokin’” for an epitaph, this has to be a tough sacrifice. “Forty million bucks, fuck that,” he acknowledges. “Not toking is the biggest inconvenience of being arrested.”
Ten days after the FBI’s intrusion into his life, Lefebvre’s first drug test is over. He is allowed to leave 500 Pearl Street and return to Malibu, where he can stare at the ocean and the haze and maybe write a few songs—the bust has given him a few ideas.
A bunch of press people come up to him outside. “Got any statements?” they ask. “Got any comments?”
“Yeah, I got a comment.”
Mics shift toward Lefebvre’s mouth.
“Stop global warming.”
XIII (January–June 2007)
“Living the Dream”
Back in Los Angeles, the alleged money launderer once again had to face Devona Gardner, senior officer, California-Central (Pretrial). Ten days before, when Lefebvre had first met her, she’d recommended that he remain incarcerated. He had visited too many countries in his life, she argued; he was a world traveler and constituted a flight risk. Despite this decision, Lefebvre enjoyed and memorized her voicemail spiel: “If this is about any other matter please leave a message and I will return the matter.”
It was a weird experience being back home. He couldn’t concentrate on reading and couldn’t establish his usual routine. He had to see Marella at
least once a week for the first three weeks, and he had to see Gardner regularly. He was phoning her daily and visiting twice a week. Foolishly, he drove into L.A. a couple of times before realizing the thirty-mile traffic jam from Malibu to downtown L.A. was crazy to negotiate. He started to ride the seams. “If you’re on a motorcycle you can just take split lanes, so when the traffic’s backed up you’re still moving.” Still, that was a lot of miles. “Eventually, they got it so I only had to come in once a week, then every other week, then monthly. Phone every week. They started slowing it down when they realized I wasn’t a player.”
It was hard for FBI personnel to imagine, but Lefebvre might not be the master criminal they had thought. He tried to settle in, and for sure he wasn’t taking any chances smoking up. He tried to remember the last time he’d gone so long without doing so. His friends and associates in Calgary were supportive but “freaking out.” They wanted to fly down, but at this point, early on, who knew what the DOJ might do? It might arrest anyone close to Lefebvre who was discovered crossing the border. He explains, “Geoff and Jane and all the people who are affiliated with me formally are reluctant to this day to go to the U.S. Jane has gone, but Geoff still won’t. I’m not exactly sure why. Geoff’s a cautious guy. That’s one of the reasons I hired him. If I was money laundering so was he—that’s the way he looks at it. I’ve come to an accommodation with them, so I say to Geoff, ‘That would indicate that they don’t want anything more out of me.’ And he says, ‘Yeah, but what do they want out of me?’”
The other investors stayed away. Ramsay and Choy never went near the border. Glavine and Edmunds, no way. Natland was in the U.S. on January 15 but soon hightailed it north. He rented a car straight away and drove from Las Vegas to Alberta, abandoning his rental at the border and walking across. Once on Canadian soil, he was in—no one’s going to stop a Canadian on his way out of the U.S. A friend had driven to the border to meet him and was waiting. Gordon Herman was in San Francisco when he heard, and he immediately left for the airport. “That,” Lefebvre says, “would have been a harrowing trip.”
Life Real Loud Page 26