The Players Ball

by David Kushner

  Even Kym Wilde, who was dabbling herself, grew concerned. He was growing increasingly paranoid, insisting she remove the batteries from her phone so they couldn’t be located. She was helping him dress, eat, and he was sleeping with a baseball bat. Phil Van Munching, his old friend from Northwestern, who was now living in New York, would be talking with Kremen one minute, when he’d say something deadpan like “I got a guy to kill in Mexico,” with no inflection.

  “It was like he was telling me he was having a hamburger for lunch,” Van Munching later recalled.

  And by the speed of Kremen’s voice, the way he ranted, Van Munching suspected that drugs could be at play—a concern that others who cared about Kremen began to share among themselves. “Are you taking care of yourself?” Van Munching asked.

  Kremen didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to unload either. “I don’t know, dude,” he’d say, “this whole thing is stressing me out.”

  When anyone suggested he needed to go to rehab, he’d snap back. He began hiring and firing staff, lashing out unpredictably, working all hours of the night and expecting others to do the same. “I’m so efficient, you should be in rehab,” he’d snap. “I can be up for five days in a row—you guys are slackers.”

  And no matter how much success he was having, they could see his battle with Cohen was getting the better of him. Again and again, to their shock and mystification, they’d find him, at all hours of the day and night, on the phone with Cohen, taunting, laughing, fighting, slamming down the phone, only to dial back. Kremen had been sending him checks periodically, hoping he’d cash them so that Kremen could surreptitiously find where Cohen was banking. But, as always, Cohen had his number.

  One day, Kremen received a large package in the mail. When he opened it, he found something surprising inside: an inflatable female sex doll. Sticking out of the ridiculous slit between the doll’s legs was a check—the same one he’d sent to Cohen to try to have him cash—and a note. “Nice try,” it read.

  CHAPTER 14

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY

  When Kremen arrived at the U.S. Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in San Francisco on Friday, June 27, 2003, he wasn’t feeling confident. He was still smarting from losing up to this point, the court’s decisions echoing in his head. He and his lawyers had argued that domains are property, that domains deserve the same protection as property, and despite the fact that he’d registered the domains for free, NSI still had a contractual obligation to fulfill. Kremen’s losses were sending a larger message, a missive from the brick and mortar past, that this new world online wasn’t as legitimate as the one before it. Perhaps it was a bias against the domain itself, Sex.com, a denial of the power of sex online, how it made and drove the net. But no matter. This was Kremen’s last shot, and the Court of Appeals was either going to finally see the light—or relegate him to darkness once and for all.

  The answer finally came in a unanimous decision from the three-judge panel, as written in a colorful opinion by Judge Alex Kozinski. “ ‘Sex on the Internet?,’ they all said. ‘That’ll never make any money,’ ” Kozinski wrote. “But computer-geek-turned-entrepreneur Gary Kremen knew an opportunity when he saw it . . . several years before . . . hordes of eager NASDAQ day traders would turn it into the Dutch tulip craze of our times. With a quick e-mail to the domain name registrar Network Solutions, Kremen became the proud owner of Sex.com.”

  But as Kozinski noted, Kremen wasn’t alone—and, to Kremen’s delight, Kozinski didn’t pull any punches in how he qualified his rival as the “con man” that he was. “Con man Stephen Cohen, meanwhile, was doing time for he, too, saw the potential of the domain name,” Kozinski went on. “Kremen had gotten it first, but that was only a minor impediment for a man of Cohen’s bounded integrity.”

  The closer Kozinski got to the conclusion, the more Kremen’s heart pounded. He’d fought so hard, been through so much, only to find that Cohen would seem to always wriggle away. As a result, he wanted even more to take down NSI, to exact justice from them for giving away Sex.com to this con man in the first place. But now, at long last, the court agreed. Kozinski ruled that NSI, in fact, was responsible for damages related to Kremen’s loss of Sex.com. Kremen had won.

  He leapt in the air, thrusting his fists up victoriously. That’s it! It’s over! I won! I was right! He felt electric, the power of right ruling over the evil of wrong. Cohen had swindled NSI because of their own ineptitude, he thought, and now he would bear the fruit. And he knew that this was not just a win for him. It was a massive win for the future of the internet. It marked a fundamental shift for the web as a commercial platform, and afforded the kind of protection for property that had long been customary in the “real” world. “The law has always required people who are protecting property to do so,” as Jim Wagstaffe, Kremen’s attorney, told Wired, “whether you’re a coat-check person or you’re running a car lot, you’re obligated to protect people’s property. All this case does in one sense is apply those rules to electronic property.”

  And, as a result, the electronic world would never be the same. “This is a landmark internet decision,” Wagstaffe told the BBC. “It is the first time a court has applied traditional property protections to a domain name.” In the future, in other words, if anyone tried to steal or infringe on someone’s property, the owners could sue to protect what was rightfully theirs.

  Kremen left the courthouse on air. That was it. He had been vindicated. Cohen was a “con man,” the judge said it. NSI was liable, of course they were! They had fucked up. The internet was real. Kremen was a visionary. He had seen this. He was the mad scientist in the basement, and finally given justice. It would be up to the U.S. District Court of the Northern District of California to determine how much he’d get from NSI, but given the millions Cohen had made with his property, Kremen and his legal team figured the number could be north of $10 million.

  So yeah, he had some celebrating to do. And he knew just how he wanted to do it. There was a Stanford reunion coming up, and he was going to show up in style. The big winner with the porn star at his side. He called Kym Wilde. She put on a tight black latex corset, long black boots. Kremen relished showing her off to his old classmates. He went all out for his fortieth birthday that October too.

  Wagstaffe would never forget bringing his wife to the nightclub in the Mission District of San Francisco for the fortieth bash. Though the battles were hardly done—Cohen still owed Kremen $65 million, and the case against NSI was unfolding—he welcomed the opportunity to celebrate with Kremen and the rest. They’d never been to a party like this. People were wearing buttons with Kremen’s face and “accidental pornographer” written on top. Pornographers, Stanford grads, Dogpatch hangers-on, friends, and family crowded the floor as music pumped and drinks flowed. Topless waitresses passed Wagstaffe and his wife, revealing a four-foot-tall ice sculpture of a penis. “This is a fun party, isn’t it?” Wagstaffe told his wife with a big grin.

  * * *

  Before long, the party was all over, and Kremen was face-planted at the Dogpatch, when his phone rang from a strange number. He picked it up only to hear a familiar voice on the other end, Cohen.

  Cohen could have been in Monte Carlo. Or Tijuana. Or the West Bank. It didn’t matter. Because as far as he was concerned, he could make Gary Kremen think he was anywhere. He did this by a technique called spoofing, a little hack of the telephone system which enabled him to display any location he wanted on Kremen’s Caller ID. Cohen could make a call from, say, Amsterdam, and when Kremen’s phone rang, Cohen could make it so that Kremen’s phone showed he was getting a call from San Diego. He liked to keep Kremen guessing. He wanted Kremen to think he was in the South of France, running a casino far from his reach, whether or not he was really there at all.

  The calls had become frequent of late. And they had become longer. At all hours of the day and night. Something had changed. The chase had become so all-consuming that ordinary life began to pale. They despised each othe
r, but they needed each other. The closer Kremen got to Cohen, the more Cohen would emerge from the shadows. By now Cohen’s world was growing darker. His old allies had turned on him, Marco, Jack, the rest.

  Several of the places where he was hiding his Sex.com money were getting taken by Kremen: the Rancho Santa Fe mansion, the internet shack on Rail Court, the Bolero, the shrimp farm. He had also moved his money overseas, into Luxembourg and Liechtenstein. He had gotten himself wrapped up in Earth Station 5, which never really got off the ground. He had tried to luxuriate in Monte Carlo, surrounding himself in the flash of the bare breasts and casino lights. And for what? Just to end up reaching for his phone, dialing the numbers, until the familiar nasally voice of Kremen flowed from his earpiece again. Little did Cohen know, however, Kremen was recording all their calls—just in case.

  With the news of NSI’s loss, Cohen was ready to congratulate Kremen on his win. He had been the first to encourage Kremen to take NSI for every penny he could, and assured him that he was going to make a mint now that they were at fault. Kremen took the occasion to wax philosophically on how far they’d both come. “What are you fifty-five, fifty-three, fifty-one?” Kremen asked Cohen.

  “Fifty-five,” Cohen replied. “You’re what, how old are you now, forty-two?

  “Just forty, just had a fortieth birthday party Saturday.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “You know once you get past fifty, it’s sort of academic.”

  Cohen spoke to Kremen like Kremen was a little brother, a protégé, the kid snapping at his heels. “Cohen is someone just as twisted and smart as Gary,” as Wilde had told Playboy. “It’s what Gary admires and appreciates.” He had grown accustomed to these calls, they gave him a sense of power. Kremen wanted him. He was chasing him. Cohen was playing hard to get. After all these years, they’d realized they had more in common with each other than a lot of other people. Businessmen. Entrepreneurs. Hustlers. Jewish. Short attention spans. Hands in a million pots. And early to the newest technology, a fact of which Cohen never failed to remind Kremen. “I don’t know how far back you go on the internet,” Cohen said, “so, when ARPANET was around.”

  “Steve, I was there before you were on.”

  “You weren’t, no, you weren’t,” Cohen demurred. “You were in what year?”

  “Um, about 1984.”

  “Let me tell you something, I was there in 1979 running the French Connection. Let me tell you something . . . I was the guy that helped set up the original communications that eventually became ARPANET.” No matter, they respected each other’s chops, the way they both understood how sex and dating—from the French Connection to Match and Sex.com—were what really drove the internet. And they bemoaned what Cohen called the “wannabes” in the sex business compared to the legends like him including Screw magazine publisher Al Goldstein and Reuben Sturman, the man credited with launching the modern porn business, both of whom he claimed to have met in jail. “There are so many wannabes, Stephen,” Kremen agreed, “it’s a fucking pain in the ass.”

  “Oh, it’s unbelievable,” Cohen agreed. “Everybody is a genius and everybody knows how to do it better.”

  And they both agreed that the future of business online was file-sharing. Instead of running from it in fear like the people in the music and movie industries, the better move was to monetize it and use it to drive traffic—just as Cohen was trying to do with Earth Station 5. Kremen explained how he was putting thirty-second video clips onto Kazaa, one of the file-sharing services, with a built-in Sex.com search window at the end, so viewers would click through to the site and generate advertising revenue. “People click through like mad,” Kremen told Cohen. “I learned a lot from you.”

  * * *

  On April 20, 2004, Kremen got the icing on the cake of the court’s ruling against NSI: the company decided to settle with him—for a reported $15 million. A huge smile spread across Kremen’s face—$15 million! Though he was never one for material things, the windfall floored him—$15 million. He felt richer than he’d ever dreamed, vindicated. He had been right all along. Sex.com was rightfully his, not Cohen’s. NSI had screwed up, for reasons that would remain a mystery: perhaps just a mistake, perhaps some conspiracy, but no matter. He had won the site back, won the staggering settlement that would leave him set if not for his whole life then most of it. “I’m ecstatic that we have reached a settlement,” Kremen rejoiced in a statement, “so we can put the case behind us and find peace.”

  In the past when he’d felt like this, he’d pack up his car and head into the desert to unwind. And that’s just what he needed now, but he didn’t want to go alone. So he picked up Kym Wilde. They had grown close, despite the insanity. They’d fallen for each other. He’d taken care of her, looked out for her and her family. They’d had a birthday party at Rancho for Wilde’s young son, filling a room with multicolored, plastic Chuck E. Cheese balls for him and his friends all to go diving. They drove out until the city turned into sand, and the lights turned to stars. As the night fell, they did whip-its and watched the meteor shower way up high. For a minute, it was almost like normal.

  But then, back in the city, it began spiraling out of control again. Kremen’s paranoia was getting the better of him. He had hired a private eye to trail Wilde, convinced she was sleeping with someone he knew. He threatened to sue her for everything she had, just as he had sued everyone else who stood in his way. Finally they were in her apartment in the Mission, arguing and fighting as she was throwing back shot after shot of tequila, until she grabbed a knife and stormed inside the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  Kremen panicked, pounding on the door, telling her to come out, until he heard an awful scream and a thud, and he put all his weight against the bathroom door, falling inside, only to find Wilde there, covered in blood, her wrists slashed, the knife on the floor. And then they were in an ambulance, squealing through the streets. She was almost dead. But she wasn’t. The EMT told him that she knew what she was doing. She cut her wrists the wrong way, she was making a point. And as he watched her get wheeled away, the thick white bandages around her wrists dotted with blood, he could only ask himself one thing: How did I get myself into this mess? And, more important, how could he get himself out before they were carting him away next?

  Before long, his relationship with Wilde had run its course. And as soon as he could, he called his sister, Julie, and told her to meet him down in Rancho Santa Fe. Julie, who was now working as a photographer, had considered her brother a whiz who sometimes went too far, but she was never going to tell him what to do. Now, however, he came calling. It was time to clean up, kick the drugs once and for all, he decided, but he needed her help. Until then, he’d tried to keep his drug use quiet, not only from her but from his parents. But when she found him there in Rancho, there was no hiding it anymore. She felt a sinking feeling when she saw her brother. This was not the guy she had known. He looked strung out, unhealthy, besieged by people who only wanted to exploit him. And she was going to do whatever she could to help him get back to himself once and for all.

  First, they bought one-way tickets for all the hangers-on who were causing problems—sending Crab and the rest back to San Francisco. She tossed out all the burritos and chips, replacing them with salad and fruit and fresh water. Kremen would go on the exercise bike, sweating out the toxins, then lock himself in his guesthouse as the cravings shook his body and rattled his mind. But soon, day after day, he felt a little better, a little healthier, until one day he emerged, clear-eyed, focused. He was okay. He would be all right. He had millions of dollars, a loving family, friends. There was just one thing left to do. And then maybe finally he would have that peace after all.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE SAMURAI

  Just before noon on June 22, 2005, a maroon Kia Optima heading north from Mexico inched behind the long line of cars at the San Ysidro station on the border. The driver and sole occupa
nt was Stephen Cohen’s twenty-one-year-old adopted daughter, Jhuliana. As the border officer was asking her the usual questions—is this your car? “yes,” anything to declare? “no”—the agent’s computer showed an invalid transponder on the car. Probably nothing, especially since she was in the Secure Electronic Network for Travelers Rapid Inspection lane, designated for people who had already passed background checks. Jhuliana was directed to pull over so that her car could be further inspected.

  But when the secondary inspector had Jhuliana pop the trunk, the officer found ten large packages wrapped in brown packing tape inside, along with a strange soapy smell. The agents brought over a dog, Pistol, who sniffed the car and confirmed the presence of drugs inside. The packages, which had been coated in liquid detergent to cover up the smell, were filled with pot: 202 pounds in total. Jhuliana Cohen insisted she’d only been helping out a guy named Juan whom she met in a bar, and paid her $500 to smuggle the drugs across the border. But no matter, she was under arrest.

  Eight days later, Kremen sued—alleging that Stephen Cohen had been using her to conceal assets. “I guess I’ll end up filing a lawsuit against [Gary] because there’s absolutely no merit to it,” Cohen told Adult Video News. “I divorced my ex-wife some time back and I have very little contact with that side of the family. I understand that [Jhuliana] was arrested for drugs. But I have no knowledge of any of this kind of stuff.”

  But Kremen kept closing in. One day, two months later in August, Cohen was standing outside the Tijuana office building of his lawyer, Gustavo “The Toad” Cortez Carbajal, dressed in jeans and a Beverly Hills Polo Club T-shirt, two cell phones attached to his belt, when a man came jogging up to him. “Steve Cohen?” the guy said. He introduced himself as Michael Gross, a reporter for Playboy who was working on a story about the Sex.com case. Gross had contacted him a few days earlier, only to be told by Cohen that he was in Monte Carlo fueling up his jet. Cohen couldn’t help but be surprised. “Uh,” Cohen stammered, “what are you doing here?”