The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 32

An hour later my stomach sac was completely empty, except for the dump truck worth of charcoal they'd forced down my throat. I was still tied to the table when they finally removed the black tube. As the last inch of tubing slid up my esophagus, I found myself wondering how female p.o.r.n stars were able to deep-throat all those enormous p.e.n.i.ses without gagging. I knew it was a strange thought to have, but, still, it was what had occurred to me.

"How you feeling?" asked the kind doctor.

"I have to go to the bathroom really bad," I said. "In fact, if you don't untie me I'm gonna take a dump right in my pants."

The doctor nodded, and he and the nurses began undoing my restraints. "The bathroom's in there," he said. "I'll come in there in a little while and check on you."

I wasn't quite sure what he'd meant by that, until the first salvo of gunpowder came exploding out of my r.e.c.t.u.m with the force of a water cannon. I resisted the urge to look inside the bowl to see what was coming out of me, but after ten minutes of exploding salvos I gave in to the urge and peeked inside the bowl. It looked like the eruption of Mount Vesuvius-pounds of dark-black volcanic ash exploding from my a.s.shole. If I weighed a hundred thirty pounds this morning, I weighed only a buck twenty now. My very innards were inside some cheap porcelain toilet bowl in Boca Raton, Florida.

An hour later I finally emerged from the bathroom. I was over the hump now, feeling much more normal. Perhaps they'd sucked some of the insanity out of me, I thought. Either way, it was time to resume Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional; it was time to patch things up with the d.u.c.h.ess, curtail my drug intake, and live a more subdued lifestyle. I was thirty-four, after all, and the father of two.

"Thanks," I said to the kind doctor. "I'm really sorry for biting you. I was just a bit nervous before. You can understand, right?"

He nodded. "No problem," he said. "I'm just glad we could help."

"Could you guys call me a cab, please? I gotta get home and get some sleep."

It was then that I noticed that the two policemen were still in the room and they were heading directly for me. I had the distinct impression they weren't about to offer me transportation home.

The doctor took two steps back, just as one of the policemen pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Oh, Christ! I thought. Handcuffed again? It would be the Wolf's fourth time in chains in less than twenty-four hours! And what had I really done? I decided not to pursue that line of thinking. After all, where I was going I would have nothing but time to think about things.

As he slapped the cuffs on me, the policeman said, "Pursuant to the Baker Act, you're being placed in a locked-down psychiatric unit for seventy-two hours, at which point you'll be brought before a judge to see if you're still a danger to yourself or others. Sorry, sir."

Hmmm...he seemed like a nice-enough fellow, this Florida policeman, and he was only doing his job, after all. Besides, he was taking me to a psychiatric unit, not a jail, and that had to be a good thing, didn't it?

"I'm a b.u.t.terfly! I'm a b.u.t.terfly!" screamed an obese, dark-haired woman in a blue muumuu as she flapped her arms and flew lazy circles around the fourth-floor locked-down psychiatric unit of the Delray Medical Center.

I was sitting on a very uncomfortable couch in the middle of the common area as she floated by. I smiled and nodded at her. There were forty or so patients, mostly dressed in bathrobes and slippers and engaged in various forms of socially unacceptable behavior. At the front of the unit was the nurses' station, where all the crazies would line up every few hours for their Thorazine or Haldol or some other antipsychotic, to soothe their frazzled nerves.

"I gotta have it. Six point O two times ten to the twenty-third," muttered a tall, thin teenager with a ferocious case of acne.

Very interesting, I thought. I had been watching this poor kid for over two hours, as he walked around in a remarkably perfect circle, spitting out Avogadro's number, a mathematical constant used to measure molecular density. At first I was a bit confused as to why he was so obsessed with this number, until one of the orderlies explained that the young fellow was an intractable acidhead with a very high IQ, and he became fixated on Avogadro's number whenever a dose of acid hit him the wrong way. It was his third stay in the Delray Medical Center in the last twelve months.

I found it ironic that I would be put in a place like this-considering how sane I was-but that was the problem with laws like the Baker Act: They were designed to meet the needs of the ma.s.ses. Either way, things had been going reasonably well so far. I had convinced a doctor to prescribe me Lamictal, and he, of his own volition, had put me on some sort of short-acting opiate to help with the withdrawals.

What troubled me, though, was that I'd been trying to call at least a dozen people on the unit's pay phone-friends, family, lawyers, business a.s.sociates. I'd even tried reaching Alan Chemical-tob, to make sure he'd have a fresh batch of Quaaludes for me when I finally got released from this insane asylum, but I hadn't been able to get in touch with anyone. Not a soul: not the d.u.c.h.ess, my parents, Lipsky, Dave, Laurie, Gwynne, Janet, Wigwam, Joe Fahmegghetti, Greg O'Connell, the Chef, even Bo, who I could always get in touch with. It was as if I were being frozen out, abandoned by everyone.

In fact, as my first day in this glorious inst.i.tution came to a close, I found myself hating the d.u.c.h.ess more than ever. She had completely forgotten about me, turned everyone against me, using that single despicable act I'd committed on the stairs to garner sympathy from my friends and business a.s.sociates. I was certain that she no longer loved me and had uttered those words to me while I was overdosing only out of sympathy-thinking that perhaps I might actually kick the bucket and she might as well send me off to h.e.l.l with one last bogus "I love you."

By midnight, the cocaine and Quaaludes were pretty much out of my system, but I still couldn't sleep. It was then, in the wee hours of the morning, on April 17, 1997, that a nurse with a very kind heart gave me a shot of Dalmane in my right a.s.s cheek. And, finally, fifteen minutes later, I fell asleep without cocaine in my system for the first time in three months.

I woke up eighteen hours later to the sound of my name. I opened my eyes and there was a large black orderly standing over me.

"Mr. Belfort, you have a visitor."

The d.u.c.h.ess! I thought. She had come to take me out of this place. "Really," I said, "who is it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know his name."

My spirits sank. He led me to a room with padded walls. Inside was a gray metal desk and three chairs. It reminded me of the room the Swiss Customs officials questioned me in after I'd groped the stewardess, except for the padded walls. Sitting on one side of the desk was a fortyish man with horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. The moment we locked eyes he rose from his chair and greeted me.

"You must be Jordan," he said, extending his right hand. "I'm Dennis Maynard *10 ." ."

Out of instinct I shook his hand, although there was something about him I instantly disliked. He was dressed like me, in jeans and sneakers and a white polo shirt. He was reasonably good-looking, in a washed-out sort of way, about five-nine, average build, with short brown hair parted to the side.

He motioned to a seat across from him. I nodded and sat down. A moment later, another orderly came in the room-this one a large, drunken Irishman, by the looks of him. Both orderlies stood behind me, a couple of feet back, waiting to pounce if I tried pulling a Hannibal Lecter on this guy-biting his nose off, while my pulse remained at seventy-two.

Dennis Maynard said, "I've been retained by your wife."

I shook my head in amazement. "What are you, a f.u.c.king divorce lawyer or something? Christ, that c.u.n.t works quick! I figured she'd at least have the decency to wait the three days 'til the Baker Act expired before she filed for divorce."

He smiled. "I'm not a divorce lawyer, Jordan. I'm a drug interventionist, and I've been hired by your wife, who still loves you, so you shouldn't be so quick to call her a c.u.n.t."

I narrowed my eyes at this b.a.s.t.a.r.d, trying to make heads or tails of what was going on. I no longer felt paranoid, but I still felt on edge. "So you say you've been hired by my wife, who still loves me? Well, if she loves me so much, why won't she visit me?"

"She's very scared right now. And very confused. I've spent the last twenty-four hours with her, and she's in a very fragile state. She's not ready to see you."

I felt my head fill with steam. This motherf.u.c.ker was making a play for the d.u.c.h.ess. I popped out of my chair and jumped over the desk, screaming, "You c.o.c.ksucker!" He recoiled, as the two orderlies lunged after me. "I'll have you stabbed to death, you piece of s.h.i.t, going after my wife while I'm locked up in here. You're f.u.c.king dead! And your family's dead too! You don't know what I'm capable of."

I took a deep breath as the orderlies pushed me back down into my seat.

"Calm down," said the d.u.c.h.ess's future husband. "I'm not after your wife. She's still in love with you and I'm in love with another woman. What I was trying to say is that I've spent the last twenty-four hours with your wife talking about you, and her, and everything that's happened between you two."

I felt entirely irrational. I was used to being in control, and I found this lack of control wildly disconcerting. "Did she tell you that I kicked her down the stairs with my daughter in my arms? Did she tell you that I cut open two million dollars' worth of shabby-chic furniture? Did she tell you about my little baking disaster? I can only imagine what she said." I shook my head in disgust, not just over my own actions but over the d.u.c.h.ess airing our dirty laundry to a complete stranger.

He nodded and let out a chuckle, trying to defuse my anger. "Yeah, she told me about all those things. Some of them were pretty amusing, actually, especially the part about the furniture. I'd never heard that one before. But most of the things were pretty disturbing, like what happened on the stairs and in the garage. Understand, though, that none of this is your fault-or I should say none of these things makes you a bad person. What you are is a sick sick person, Jordan; you're sick with a disease, a disease that's no different than cancer or diabetes." person, Jordan; you're sick with a disease, a disease that's no different than cancer or diabetes."

He paused for a second, then shrugged. "But she also told me how wonderful you used to be, before the drugs took hold. She told me how brilliant you were and about all your accomplishments and how you swept her off her feet when you first met. She told me that she never loved anyone the way she loved you. She told me how generous you are to everyone, and how everyone takes advantage of your generosity. And she also told me about your back, and how that exacerbated..."

As my interventionist kept talking, I found myself hanging on the word loved. loved. He had said she He had said she loved loved me-past tense. Did that mean she no longer loved me? Probably so, I thought, because if she still loved me she would have come to visit me. This whole business of her being scared didn't make sense. I was in a locked-down psychiatric unit-how could I harm her? I was in terrible emotional pain. If she would just visit me- me-past tense. Did that mean she no longer loved me? Probably so, I thought, because if she still loved me she would have come to visit me. This whole business of her being scared didn't make sense. I was in a locked-down psychiatric unit-how could I harm her? I was in terrible emotional pain. If she would just visit me-even for a second, for Chrissake!-and hug me and tell me that she still loved me, that would ease my pain. I would do it for her, wouldn't I? It seemed unusually cruel of her not to visit me after I'd almost committed suicide. It didn't strike me as the act of a loving wife-estranged or not-no matter what the circ.u.mstances.

Obviously, Dennis Maynard was here to try to convince me to go to rehab. And perhaps I would go, if the d.u.c.h.ess would come here and ask me herself. But not like this, not while she was blackmailing me and threatening to leave me unless I did what she wanted. Yet wasn't rehab what I wanted, or at least what I needed? Did I really want to live out my life as a drug addict? But how could I possibly live without drugs? My entire life was centered on drugs. The very thought of living the next fifty years without Ludes and c.o.ke seemed impossible. Yet there was a time, long before all this happened, when I'd lived a sober life. Was it possible to get back to that point, to turn back the clock, so to speak? Or had my brain chemistry been immutably altered-and I was now an addict, doomed to that very life until the day I died?

"...and about your father's temper," continued the interventionist, "and how your mother tried to protect you from him but wasn't always successful. She told me everything."

I fought the urge to be ironic but quickly failed. "So did little Martha Stewart tell you how perfect she she is? I mean, since I'm such damaged goods and everything, did she even get a moment to tell you anything about herself? Because she is perfect, after all. She'll tell you-not in so many words, of course-but she will tell you. After all, she's the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge." is? I mean, since I'm such damaged goods and everything, did she even get a moment to tell you anything about herself? Because she is perfect, after all. She'll tell you-not in so many words, of course-but she will tell you. After all, she's the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge."

The last few words gave him a chuckle. "Listen," he said, "your wife is far from perfect. In fact, she's sicker than you are. Think about it for a second: Who's the sicker one-the spouse who's addicted to drugs or the spouse who sits by and watches the person they love destroy themselves? I would say the latter. The truth is that your wife suffers from her own disease, namely, codependence. By spending all her time looking after you, she ignores her own problems. She's got as bad a case of codependence as I've ever seen."

"Blah, blah, blah," I said. "You don't think I know all this s.h.i.t? I've done my fair share of reading, in case no one's told you. In spite of the fifty thousand Ludes I've consumed, I still remember everything I've read since nursery school."

He nodded. "I haven't just met with your wife, Jordan; I've also met with all your friends and family, everyone who's important to you. And one thing they're all unanimous on is that you're one of the smartest men on the planet. So, that being said, I'm not gonna try to bulls.h.i.t you. Here's the deal: There's a drug rehab in Georgia called Talbot Marsh. It specializes in treating doctors. The place is filled with some very smart people, so you'll fit in well there. I have the power to sign you out of this h.e.l.lhole right now. You could be at Talbot Marsh in two hours. There's a limousine waiting for you downstairs, and your jet is at the airport, all fueled up. Talbot Marsh is a very nice place, and very upscale. I think you'll like it."

"What makes you so f.u.c.king qualified? Are you a doctor?"

"No," he said, "I'm just a drug addict like you. No different, except that I'm in recovery and you're not."

"How long you sober for?"

"Ten years."

"Ten f.u.c.king years?" I sputtered. "Holy Christ! How the f.u.c.k is that even possible? I can't go a day-an hour-without thinking about drugs! I'm not like you, pal. My mind works differently. Anyway, I don't need to go to rehab. Maybe I'll just try AA or something."

"You're past that point. In fact, it's a miracle you're still alive. You should've stopped breathing a long time ago, my friend." He shrugged. "But one day your luck's gonna run out. Next time your friend Dave might not be around to call 911, and you'll end up in a coffin instead of a psychiatric unit."

In a dead-serious tone, he said, "In AA we say there are three places an alcoholic or an addict ends up-jails, inst.i.tutions, or dead. Now, in the last two days you've been in a jail and an inst.i.tution. When will you be satisfied, when you're in a funeral home? When your wife has to sit your two children down and explain how they're never gonna see their father again?"

I shrugged, knowing he was right but incapable of surrendering. For some inexplicable reason I felt the necessity to resist him, to resist the d.u.c.h.ess-to resist everyone, in fact. If I were to get sober, it would be on my own terms, not on anyone else's, and certainly not with a gun to my head. "If Nadine comes down here herself, I'll consider it. Otherwise you can go f.u.c.k yourself."

"She won't come here," he said. "Unless you go to rehab she won't speak to you."

"Fair enough," I said. "Then you can both go f.u.c.k yourselves. I'll be out of here in two days; then I'll deal with my addiction on my own terms. And if it means losing my wife, so be it." I rose out of my chair and motioned to the orderlies.

As I was walking out of the room, Dennis said, "You may be able to find another beautiful wife, but you'll never find one who loves you as much as she does. Who do you think organized all this? Your wife's spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of panic, trying to save your life. You'd be a fool to let her go."

I took a deep breath and said, "A long time ago there was another woman who loved me as much as Nadine did; her name was Denise, and I f.u.c.ked her over royally. Maybe I'm just getting what I deserve. Who knows anymore? But, either way, I'm not being bullied into rehab, so you're wasting your time. Don't come see me again."

Then I left the room.

The rest of the day was no less torturous. Starting with my parents, one by one my friends and family came into the psychiatric unit and tried to convince me to go to rehab. Everyone except the d.u.c.h.ess. How could the woman be so coldhearted, after I'd tried...what?

I resisted using the word suicide, suicide, even in my own thoughts-perhaps because it was too painful, or perhaps out of sheer embarra.s.sment that the love or, for that matter, the obsession with a woman, even my own wife, could drive me to commit such an act. It was not the act of a true man of power, nor was it the act of a man who had any self-respect. even in my own thoughts-perhaps because it was too painful, or perhaps out of sheer embarra.s.sment that the love or, for that matter, the obsession with a woman, even my own wife, could drive me to commit such an act. It was not the act of a true man of power, nor was it the act of a man who had any self-respect.

In truth, I had never actually intended to kill myself. Deep down, I knew that I'd be rushed to the hospital and my stomach would be pumped. Dave had been standing over me, ready to intervene. The d.u.c.h.ess wasn't aware of that, though; from her perspective, I had been so distraught over the possibility of losing her, and so caught up in the despair and desperation of a cocaine-induced paranoia, that I had tried to take my own life. How could she not be moved by that?

True: I had acted like a monster toward her, not just on the stairs but over the very months leading up to that heinous act. Or perhaps years. Since the early years of our marriage, I had exploited our unspoken quid pro quo-that by providing her with the Life, I was ent.i.tled to certain liberties. And while there might be a germ of truth to that notion, there was no doubt that I had stepped way over the line.

Yet, in spite of everything, I felt that I still deserved compa.s.sion.

Did the d.u.c.h.ess lack compa.s.sion? Was there a certain coldness to her, a corner of her heart that was unreachable? In truth, I had always suspected as much. Like myself-like everyone-the d.u.c.h.ess was damaged goods; she was a good wife, but a wife who'd brought her own baggage into the marriage. As a child, her father had all but abandoned her. She had told me the stories of all the times she got dressed up on Sat.u.r.days and Sundays-gorgeous even then she was, with flowing blond hair and the face of an angel-and waited for her father to take her to a fancy dinner or on the roller coaster at Coney Island or to Riis Park, the local beach in Brooklyn, where he could proclaim to one and all: "This is my daughter! Look how beautiful she is! I'm so proud she's mine." Yet she would wait on the front stoop for him, only to be disappointed when he never showed or even called to humor her with a lame excuse.

Suzanne, of course, had covered for him-telling Nadine that her father loved her but that he was possessed by his own demons that drove him to the life of a wanderer, to a rootless existence. Was I now feeling the brunt of that? Was her very coldness a result of the barriers she'd erected as a child that precluded her from becoming a compa.s.sionate woman? Or was I simply grasping at straws? Perhaps this was payback-for all the philandering, the Blue Chips and the NASDAQS, the three-a.m. helicopter landings, and sleep-talking about Venice the Hooker, and the ma.s.seuse and the groping of the stewardess...

Or was the payback more subtle? Was it a result of all the laws I'd broken? Of all the stocks I'd manipulated? Of all the money I'd smuggled to Switzerland? For f.u.c.king over Kenny Greene, the Blockhead, who had been a loyal partner to me? It was hard to say anymore. The last decade of my life was unspeakably complicated. I had lived the sort of life that people read about only in novels.

Yet, this had been my life. Mine. Mine. For better or worse, I, Jordan Belfort, the Wolf of Wall Street, had been a true wild man. I had always looked at myself as being bulletproof-dodging death and incarceration, living my life like a rock star, consuming more drugs than any thousand men have the right to and still living to tell about it. For better or worse, I, Jordan Belfort, the Wolf of Wall Street, had been a true wild man. I had always looked at myself as being bulletproof-dodging death and incarceration, living my life like a rock star, consuming more drugs than any thousand men have the right to and still living to tell about it.

All these thoughts were roaring through my head, as I closed out my second day in the locked-down psychiatric unit of the Delray Medical Center. And as the drugs continued to make their way out of my cerebrum, my mind grew sharper and sharper. I was on the rebound-ready to face the world with all my faculties; ready to make mincemeat out of that bald b.a.s.t.a.r.d Steve Madden; ready to resume my fight with my nemesis, Special Agent Gregory Coleman; and ready to win the d.u.c.h.ess back, no matter what it took.

The next morning, just after pill call, I was summoned back into the rubber room, where I found two doctors waiting for me. One was fat and the other was average-looking, although he had bulging blue eyeb.a.l.l.s and an Adam's apple the size of a grapefruit. A glandular case, I figured.

They introduced themselves as Dr. Brad *11 and Dr. Mike and Dr. Mike *12 and immediately waved the orderlies out of the room. Interesting, I thought, but not nearly as interesting as the first two minutes of the conversation, when I came to the conclusion that these two were better suited as a stand-up comedy act than as drug interventionists. Or was that their method? Yes, these two guys seemed quite all right. In fact, I kind of liked them. The d.u.c.h.ess had flown them in from California, on a private jet, after Dennis Maynard informed her that the two of us hadn't hit it off too well. and immediately waved the orderlies out of the room. Interesting, I thought, but not nearly as interesting as the first two minutes of the conversation, when I came to the conclusion that these two were better suited as a stand-up comedy act than as drug interventionists. Or was that their method? Yes, these two guys seemed quite all right. In fact, I kind of liked them. The d.u.c.h.ess had flown them in from California, on a private jet, after Dennis Maynard informed her that the two of us hadn't hit it off too well.

So these were the reinforcements.

"Listen," said fat Dr. Brad, "I can sign you out of this s.h.i.tty place right now and in two hours you can be at Talbot Marsh, sipping on a virgin pina colada and staring at a young nurse-who's now one of the patients because she got caught shooting Demerol through her nurse's skirt." He shrugged his shoulders. "Or you could stay here for another day and become better acquainted with b.u.t.terfly-lady and math-boy. But I gotta tell ya, I think you'd be crazy to stay in this place one second longer than you have to. I mean, it smells like..."

"s.h.i.t," said the Glandular Case. "Why don't you let us sign you out of here? I mean, I have no doubt that you're crazy and everything, and you could probably use to be locked away for a couple of years, but not here-not in this s.h.i.thole! You need to be in a cla.s.sier loony bin."

"He's right," added fat-Brad. "All kidding aside, there's a limo downstairs waiting for us, and your jet's at Boca Aviation. So let us sign you out of this madhouse, and let's get on the jet and have some fun."

"I agree," added the Glandular Case. "The jet's beautiful. How much did it cost your wife to fly us here from California?"

"I'm not sure," I said, "but I'm willing to bet she paid top-dollar. If there's one thing the d.u.c.h.ess hates, it's a bargain."

They both laughed, especially fat-Brad, who seemed to find humor in everything. "The d.u.c.h.ess! I love that! She's a good-looking lady, your wife, and she really loves you."

"Why do you call her the d.u.c.h.ess?" asked the Glandular Case.

"Well, it's a long story," I said, "but I can't actually take credit for the name, as much as I'd like to. It came from this guy Brian, who owns one of the brokerage firms I do a lot of business with. Anyway, we were on a private jet, flying home from St. Bart's a bunch of Christmases ago, and we were all really hung over. Brian was sitting across from Nadine in the cabin, and he laid a humongous fart and said, 'Oh, s.h.i.t, Nae, I think I just left a few skid marks with that one!' Nadine started getting p.i.s.sed at him, telling him how uncouth and disgusting he was, so Brian said, 'Oh, excuse me; I guess the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge never laid a fart in her silk panties and left a few skid marks there!'"

"That's funny," said fat-Brad. "The d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge. I like that."

"No, that's not the funny part. It's what happened next that was really funny. Brian thought his joke was so hysterical that he was doubled over laughing so he didn't see the d.u.c.h.ess rolling up the Christmas edition of Town and Country Town and Country magazine. Just as he was lifting his head up, she popped out of her seat, took the most enormous swat at his head you could possibly imagine, and knocked him unconscious right on the plane. I'm talking out-f.u.c.king-cold! Then she sat back down and started reading her magazine again. Brian came to a couple of minutes later, after his wife threw a gla.s.s of water in his face. Anyway, ever since then the name stuck." magazine. Just as he was lifting his head up, she popped out of her seat, took the most enormous swat at his head you could possibly imagine, and knocked him unconscious right on the plane. I'm talking out-f.u.c.king-cold! Then she sat back down and started reading her magazine again. Brian came to a couple of minutes later, after his wife threw a gla.s.s of water in his face. Anyway, ever since then the name stuck."

"That's incredible!" said the Glandular Case. "Your wife looks like an angel. I wouldn't think her the type to do something like that." Fat-Brad nodded in agreement.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, you have no idea what she's capable of. She might not look tough, but she's strong as an ox. You know how many times she's beaten me up? She's especially good with water." I smiled and let out a chuckle. "I mean, don't get me wrong: I deserved most of the beatings. As much as I love the girl I haven't exactly been a model husband. But I still think she should've visited me. If she did, I'd already be in rehab, but now I don't wanna do it because I don't like being held hostage like this."

"I think she wanted to come," said fat-Brad, "but Dennis Maynard advised her against it."

"It figures," I sputtered. "He's a real piece a s.h.i.t, that guy. As soon as all this is resolved I'm gonna have someone pay him a little visit."

The comedy team refused to engage with me. "Can I make a suggestion to you?" asked the Glandular Case.

I nodded. "Sure, why not? I like you guys. It's the other p.r.i.c.k I hated."

He smiled and looked around conspiratorially. Then he lowered his voice and said, "Why don't you let us sign you out of here and take you to Atlanta and then just bolt out of the rehab after you check in? There're no walls or bars or barbed wire or anything like that. You'll be staying in a luxury condo with a bunch of wacky doctors."

"Yeah," said fat-Brad, "once we drop you in Atlanta, the Baker Act is nullified and you'll be free to go. Just tell your pilot not to leave the airport. If you don't like the rehab, just walk away."

I started laughing. "You two guys are unbelievable! You're trying to appeal to my larcenous heart, aren't you?"

"I'll do whatever it takes to get you to rehab," fat-Brad said. "You're a nice guy and you deserve to live, not die at the end of a crack pipe, which is what's gonna happen if you don't get sober. Trust me-I speak from experience."

"You're a recovering addict too?" I asked.