In the Shadow of the Sun

Tax Havens: Excess and Decline

Éric St-Cyr

Parfum d’encre

In The Shadow Of The Sun

To all the men whose lives are stolen from them. I have loved very little, hated even less. Some might say my heart is too small. They do not understand that all the space is occupied by the three women in my life…

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In a world where justice is carried out without the support of truth, expressing one’s opinion becomes a daring act. Everything you are about to read is true; however, to protect the protagonists of this story, their names have been changed. During my incarceration, I had the chance to listen to the majority of the songs whose titles appear in this work. Their lyrics were a source of inspiration and comfort. I invite you to listen to them as well.

GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

(Elton John)

March 12, 2014, 4:30 PM

I walk quickly along Collins Avenue in Miami. I’m smiling, feeling confident; the difficulties of the last ten years are behind me. The two businesses I started last year, Clover and Tradderoffshore, are on the brink of remarkable expansion, I can feel it. I’m a portfolio manager, which means I invest my clients’ money in the stock market to generate profits. Since Christmas, we’ve doubled our number of clients, managing their millions. A year ago, I thought I’d have to close my companies, and now I look to the future with hope.

I’m fifty years old and in the best physical shape of my life. Still a handsome man, especially after my recent weight loss. I’m wearing beige Superdry khakis and a blue Abercrombie shirt. On my feet, my four-hundred-dollar suede Cole Haan shoes. A little luxury that helps me feel good about myself. As my partner Sara often says, “If you feel good, you look good. If you look good, you feel better.”

At my right, with a radiant smile, my friend and business partner, David. Like me, David exudes confidence. Thirty-five years old, blond, five feet seven inches tall, piercing blue eyes. A natural charmer loved by all, this American possesses a rare charisma. His attributes and sharp mind have made him one of the best salesmen I’ve had the pleasure to know; his role is to find clients. With a network of contacts numbering in the thousands, David brought a new energy to our offices upon his arrival. We make a good team. He casts the line, hooks the fish, and I then help reel in the catch. Once the client is on board, I take care of managing their portfolio.

Instead of investing large sums in a team of salespeople, we do business with small and medium-sized financial institutions in tax havens. We offer them a turnkey approach to managing their clients’ wealth. The legal structure we’ve put in place is cutting-edge. The bank becomes our client and is able to open multiple accounts for depositors without revealing their identity to us. With this structure, the client enjoys a numbered account in a tax haven, providing them with protection and anonymity. All of this is perfectly legal. However, if an individual intends to deposit the proceeds of criminal activities, the bank must refuse the funds. Therefore, it’s the financial institution or the client’s law firm that is responsible for ensuring the legitimacy of the money’s source. If, like many, the client transfers funds to evade taxes and commits tax fraud, it’s their responsibility. They are deciding to commit a crime in their own country, which might not be a crime elsewhere. If they’re caught by their country’s authorities, they will face the consequences. I’ve always been very clear about this with all my investors.

This week, we’ve recruited a fourteenth bank as a client; business couldn’t be better.

We left our hotel, the Dorchester, and we’re heading to the upscale Fits Careon in South Beach, Miami. Our client, an American accountant, has reserved a room there, just like our first meeting in March 2013. Today, he’ll be joined by two of his clients.

This is our third meeting with this accountant, Jim, a contact that David had established when he was in his previous job. The first meeting took place a year earlier at the same hotel. At the time, we couldn’t find a solution to help Jim’s two clients. The first client he introduced to us was looking to open a four-million-dollar account with money from Korea, money earned by his company in a steel sale – an amount that was clearly unknown to the tax authorities. After discussing our investment approach, we told him he should open an account with a partner bank before we could manage his money. As required by law, the bank would then report his account to the U.S. government, an option he found unacceptable. The client never got in touch again.

The other client, named Moishe, wanted to safeguard funds from creditors and confidentially invest two million dollars with Clover. After refusing his money multiple times over the past year, and due to his persistence, I finally forwarded the case to my friend Jean, a lawyer in the Turks and Caicos Islands. Jean’s firm claims to have developed a legal way to assist American clients seeking anonymity. By accepting the client, Jean committed to verifying the source of the money. Moishe paid two hundred thousand dollars to Jean’s firm, and I now manage that fund.

Today’s meeting is to present Moishe with a series of potential investments for an additional two million dollars. Jean, now his attorney, will also be present.

As we approach the Fits Careon, David wants me to tell him the story of when the company I worked for previously was sold. Deep down, I know what he’s looking for. The real question is: How does it feel to become a millionaire overnight? I worked for Global Asset Management Capital from 1993 to 2005. I started as a representative and worked my way up to becoming a partner in the company. In 2001, a large bank acquired Capital, and I received nearly two million dollars before taxes for my company shares. It was one of the happiest days of my life. I finally had access to a significant amount that allowed me some freedom. I named my stash “go to hell.” From that moment on, if I ever did a job I hated, I could tell my employer, “Go to hell.” I turn to David to tell him. I look at him. His smile has never seemed so radiant to me. I see him projecting into the future, imagining the day our companies will be sold for millions of dollars. Seeing his excitement, I can’t help but reveal that my goal is ten times greater for the sale of Clover. “You bet,” he replies.

We arrive at the Fits around 4:45 PM. Our meeting is scheduled for 5:00 PM. After inquiring about the location of the meeting from the concierge, we head to the conference room. Strangely, we’re the first to arrive. I sit at the head of the table, facing away from the entrance door, and connect my computer to the projector. Jim, who organized this third meeting, arrives at 5:05 PM. He apologizes for being late. His client Moishe arrives shortly after. They’re accompanied by a new potential client who wants to learn more about our services. Jim explains that Jean will join us for dinner. I stand up, thank everyone for being there, and begin the presentation. At that very moment, the door opens, and a person shouts, “Federal agents, this is an operation of the U.S. IRS, nobody move!” My initial reaction is to think that Jean has arrived earlier than expected and is playing a joke on us.

I turn around to see a group of officers wearing bulletproof vests, weapons in hand. Quickly, I press the power button on my Mac to protect the information on my hard drive. Since I travel a lot, and there are occasional hurricanes in the Cayman Islands, I always need to be able to manage my firms’ operations, no matter where I am. All the data for my companies is stored on my hard drive, and I’m determined to protect this information at all costs.

An agent suddenly grabs my arm and leads me out of the room. He pushes me against the wall, searches me, and handcuffs me behind my back. I’m then escorted to the elevators. Three officers are with me; they’re saying something, but I’m too shocked to understand their words. We go up to a floor and enter a hotel suite. I can’t help but wonder if the IRS is paying for the room or if the Fits Hotel is providing it for free. We cross the room, and I’m seated on a sofa. The agent who handcuffed me reads me my rights; he’s the leader of the group. He then outlines the charges against me. I’m charged, along with David and Jean, with conspiring to launder two hundred thousand U.S. dollars – the amount that Moishe deposited with Jean and that we’re managing – and with conspiring to launder an additional two million dollars. The maximum prison sentence for these three offenses is three times twenty years. The same officer, John, asks if I’d be willing to discuss the situation with him, which could help my case in front of the judge. He adds that anything I say can be used against me in court. After asking him a few questions, I agree to answer his. John leaves no doubt about the information he’s seeking: “We want the list of all the American clients of Clover.” I explain that we have no American clients, that the majority of the assets we manage belong to financial institutions located in various tax havens or to individuals from places other than the United States. I can see on his face that he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. He wants access to my computer and phone, but I refuse. Sharing confidential information about clients, whether individuals, companies, or banks, without the approval of the Cayman authorities, would be a crime punishable by imprisonment in my country of residence.

During this interrogation, there are four agents with me in the Fits suite. Two federal agents from the U.S. IRS and two local police officers. John, who’s facing me, is officially the bad cop. He holds a document several inches thick with my name and photo on top. To my right sits an older agent who speaks little but remains very polite with me, even offering me a bottle of water to quench my thirst. He’s the good cop. John is furious that I won’t let him access my computer, so he ends our conversation. I turn to the good cop to ask if I’ll be released tonight. It’s Wednesday, and it’s past 6:00 PM. I can’t wait to talk to my wife and come up with a plan to get out of this mess. The good cop looks at me with compassion and replies that he’d be surprised if I’m released before Monday. Apparently, I underestimated the situation.

LOSING MY RELIGION

(R.E.M.)

I am native to Saint-Marc-des-Carrières, a small village in the Mauricie region. As its name suggests, this locality is known for its open-pit granite quarry. It’s the only granite quarry I’ve heard of, apart from, of course, the Flintstones’. I have few memories of my childhood village; the ones that remain have probably been crafted by my imagination using old photos and stories told by my parents or my brother. Strangely, when I think of Saint-Marc, I see images of winter: snowmobiles, ice fishing, and Christmas mornings. Yet, I vividly remember my aversion to the cold. From a young age, I detested going outside to face the freezing temperatures of Quebec. As Robert Charlebois so aptly put it in one of his songs, “Cartier, you should have sailed against the winter.”

Our family nucleus consists of four people: my father Charles, an entrepreneur who runs operations for a clothing manufacturing company; my mother Hélène, a stay-at-home mom concentrating her efforts on educating us; Bobby, my three-year-older brother, and me.

Charles is a complex individual. Born in 1937, he belongs to that generation of men who show very few emotions. Intelligent, he’s also a straight and honest man who’s not afraid to express his opinions. For years, I had a difficult relationship with him. Some might say that both of us having stubborn heads had something to do with it; they might not be entirely wrong. During my adolescence, when I was dreamy and idealistic, Charles was a successful businessman. At that time, he was conservative, and I was liberal. With age, I became prosperous and conservative. As he grew older, he softened and became liberal. I think the heart is tender in the spring and winter of life and toughens up during the summer and fall to survive. Regardless of the resentment and aggression I felt towards my father, I always loved and respected him.

At the age of six, we move to Drummondville, a city in central Quebec. My father is increasingly absent; he only comes home on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings, and he stays with us all day on Sundays. My brother and I hold him in boundless admiration, unfortunately showing less consideration for my mother’s work, with whom we share our daily lives. My father, Charles, has never been punctual, and I spend hours waiting for him to be able to talk to him during his dinner. He usually arrives home around 7 PM on weekdays, often much later. My brother and I sit at the table to share our adventures of the past days with him. My father always encouraged competition between his sons. As Bobby is talented in all sports and I am terrible at anything athletic, we discuss a lot about his accomplishments. From the age of eight, I develop some bitterness towards the relationship my brother has with my parents. Although they don’t show favoritism towards the elder sibling, the three of them seem to share much more common interests. This frustration drives me to escape; I find refuge in reading and become an avid fan of adventure novels. Around the age of ten, I already don’t desire the ordinary life of the people around me. I want to travel, discover other countries, other cultures. I too want to live the adventure.

Our parents are Catholic, although like many Quebecers of their generation, they are not practicing. We attended church twice a year: at Easter and on Christmas Eve. I hate church. What misery to wait for over an hour doing nothing, watching the clock that seems motionless. Before my incarceration, I had forgotten how miserable it can be to wait for time to pass. You feel pitiful watching the hands move slowly. The perception of time in prison is the same as that of an eight-year-old child on December 24th at 8 PM. You’re waiting for a Christmas Eve that doesn’t come. Time, as Einstein demonstrated, is relative...

As a child, I am not religious, rather agnostic, and in adolescence, I become definitively atheist. My ideas are well-formed on the subject. Humans created religions to help them accept death; they promise a spiritual continuity, asserting that after life everything will be better, like a warranty against the defects of existence. My convictions come at a cost. From the age of eight, I wake up at night in a sweat, tormented by what awaits me someday: nothingness, emptiness, absence. I finally managed to accept death when I became a father. That’s when I felt that my existence had a meaning, that it continued through the lives of my children.

I’m seven years old when I discover the sea. For summer vacation, we drive to the beaches of Maine. I still remember my first encounter with the ocean. On the way to our motel, we stop to stretch our legs. What a thrill to smell the ocean, the pungent, salty air! What a delight to lift rocks at low tide to discover small fish and crustaceans! Throughout the next week, my brother and I spend our time exploring the shoreline, debating who saw the biggest fish, and trying to convince ourselves that lobster isn’t as disgusting as it seems. It’s during this trip that I realize my quest for adventure will be lived by the sea. I later become an admirer of Jacques Cousteau and everything related to underwater diving.

Towards the end of the week, Bobby and I, walking at the town pier, meet a local fisherman who has just caught a small shark. It’s about a meter long and weighs ten kilos. I still remember touching its skin, which seemed soft but had the texture of sandpaper. I’m so excited that I have trouble sleeping the next night. I’m hooked, no doubt; I’ll live near the ocean where I’ll fish and explore the underwater life that still fascinates me today.

HOTEL CALIFORNIA

(Eagles)

End of the interrogation, I’m pushed out of the suite. As I leave, I notice a bottle of Tito’s Vodka in the Fits’ room bar. It’s the same vodka I recently introduced to the Cayman Amateur Theater’s bar. For the past two years, Sara and I had taken over the operations of the Cayman Drama Society’s bar. We volunteered there for several hours a week. I really enjoyed being a bar server on production nights; it changed my focus to serving people from analyzing financial markets while sitting in front of my computer screen. This activity gave me the opportunity to meet people outside my circle of activities. When I introduced Tito’s Vodka, my vodka sales increased, and seeing the bottle now, I realize that I should check if it’s possible to invest in that company; it seems destined for a bright future. How strange, all the trivial ideas that come to our minds in moments of great stress.

The big black Suburban in American cop shows isn’t just a cliché; it’s also true. After my questioning by the feds, we descend in the service elevator to the hotel’s delivery center. I’m loaded into the vehicle, hands cuffed behind my back. The atmosphere there is more relaxed than at the hotel, almost as if the police officers are preparing for their weekend. They’re talking among themselves about their pension funds and social benefits. I interrupt, wanting to know where they’re taking me. We’re heading to the Federal Detention Center in Miami. Over the next few days, I’ll learn that there’s a difference between a detention center and a prison. An individual is generally detained in a detention center for a period of a few days to a few months, while waiting to be tried and, if found guilty, to receive their sentence. Once the inmate receives it, the government transports them to a prison to serve their sentence. I’ll spend the night in the detention center and see the judge the next morning. After thirty minutes of traffic, I arrive at my new residence...

The Suburban enters the garage where we’re greeted by a guard who slowly dons black latex gloves, making me very uncomfortable. The guard orders me to stay in the vehicle until the agents accompanying me secure their weapons in a safety box. Then, he helps me out of the truck, takes off my glasses, and hands them over to the IRS agents. Seeing the agents leave with my glasses, I explain to the guard that I can’t read without them, but he ignores me. I’ll later learn that only certain models of glasses are allowed in prisons to prevent the creation of makeshift weapons. The IRS agents fill out forms to confirm the delivery of their package and leave us. The guard, who insists I call him “Deputy”, briskly pulls me into a sorting room. I’m immediately struck by the cold in there. It must be about fifteen degrees Celsius. Whether due to fear or the cold, I’m trembling. To the left of the sorting room is another, smaller room. The guard pushes me into it. I’m greeted by another agent, who is also putting on latex gloves. This time, the gloves are blue, the kind you see in surgery. The guard is a big black man who must weigh around a hundred and fifty kilos. I clench my buttocks, although unlike the first agent, this one has a friendly face. He hands me a cardboard box and orders me to undress and place all my clothes in the box. I obey. Standing naked in front of the guard, I wait for what’s next. The big guard asks me if I have an address in the United States to ship my clothes to. I’d like him to send everything to the Dorchester, my hotel in Miami. He refuses; packages are only sent to private addresses. Without my phone, I can’t provide one. My clothes will be donated to charity. Goodbye, four-hundred-dollar shoes.

I’m still naked, and the situation becomes more uncomfortable by the minute. The agent who welcomed me shows up again to continue my inspection. When he speaks to the big black guard, I detect a Russian accent in his voice. He first asks me to face him and extend my arms forward, palms open, then he orders me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue. Next, he instructs me to lift my testicles so that the Russian can ensure I’m not concealing an AK-47. Finally, he compels me to turn 180 degrees, bend forward, spread my buttocks with my hands, and cough. Farewell, dignity.

If I was cold upon arrival, I’m now freezing. They give me Fruit of the Loom underwear, a pair of yellowed and holey socks, a brown T-shirt, and a green jumpsuit. I’m surprised; I thought they were all orange in prison. I’ll later learn that in several US federal prisons, inmates wear green uniforms, the same as your mechanic’s. The only difference is the word “inmate” printed in big white letters on the back. Orange or red jumpsuits are reserved for violent prisoners. They take me to another cell. I’m still cold, and my worry is increasing by the minute. How will I contact my wife? What will I say to her?

With my head in my hands, I replay the past three hours. My life has just turned upside down, and I realize that nothing will be the same again. Welcome to Club Fed!

CREEP

(Radiohead)

One hundred fifty! Actually, almost one hundred fifty. My exact score is one hundred forty-seven. Anyway, let’s call it one hundred fifty; it sounds so much better.

In 1978, I’m fifteen years old, a bit overweight, and too shy to approach the girls at school. All in all, I’m a pretty ordinary teenager. I come from a well-off family, which sometimes creates a certain distance between me and my friends, most of whom are sons and daughters of farmers. Despite my shyness around the opposite sex, I’m quite outspoken in class. It’s during this time that I discover that many people are uncomfortable around me, and I prefer solitude to groups. How I envy charismatic people! Envy, not to be confused with jealousy, will be a driving force of motivation throughout my life. I’ll always be fueled by the desire to have more, to do more, to be the best!

Things are going well in class. Without too much effort, I always end up in the top group, usually among the top three. I’m never first, I don’t win prizes, even though I’m constantly selected as a finalist. I’m the perfect embodiment of the eternal second. There’s only one exception to my academic success: I’m not good with languages. I barely pass my English classes. Even today, after over twenty-five years of immersion in the English-speaking world, I still sometimes struggle to express myself properly in the language of Shakespeare.

At the time, my father was successful thanks to his business. We now live thirty minutes from Drummondville, in Saint-Léonard-d’Aston. My family has built our dream house on several acres of land. A beautiful Canadian-style home on a wooded property with the Nicolet River running through it. We are the prosperous people of the village. At its peak, my father will employ over three hundred workers and be the largest French-speaking clothing manufacturer in Canada. At one point, he even had a private chauffeur! For Christmas at sixteen, my parents will give me a car and a credit card to pay for fuel. During this period, life is sweet in the St-Cyr household.

The school guidance counselor informs me that my IQ is one hundred forty-seven. He’s a serious and very kind man, I really like him. He will be one of the few adults I confide in during my adolescence. I don’t remember his name, I only recall that he was Egyptian and Muslim, a rarity in a region where 99.9% of the population is white and Catholic. The counselor tells me that this one hundred forty-seven places me at three standard deviations on a normal curve. I understand absolutely nothing. He explains, “You see, Eric, if you’re in a room with a hundred people, you’re very likely to be the smartest one in the group. If there are a thousand people in the room, again, you have a high chance of having the highest IQ. If there are ten thousand individuals with you, you’ll be among the top ten, but probably not the brightest. Do you understand?” I soak up his words. From a young age, I realized that I was gifted. Since I was never first in anything, I hadn’t fully grasped the extent of my abilities. I’ve just realized, however, that I have no limits anymore, that there’s no challenge, no job, beyond my reach. For a fifteen-year-old with little self-confidence, it’s a revelation. Knowing my potential will give me courage and force me to aim higher. The flip side of the coin is that many of my mistakes will be attributed to my ego, an ego nourished by the awareness of my strengths. And if I’m so intelligent, how do I explain writing this text sitting in a cell?

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

(Guns N’ Roses)

Around 8 PM, the Russian guard comes to get me, and we head towards the elevator. As we enter, he orders me to face the wall. His tone is stern and leaves no room for discussion. Lesson number two: keep your eyes on the ground, avoid eye contact, and act submissively. I suspect the guard is taking me to a cell for the night. I’ll probably be housed there with other prisoners until my release. Upon exiting the elevator, we emerge into a blue-toned room. In the room, there are about a dozen doors without bars. Opaque and made of metal, each of them has a small rectangular window on the right side. The place is austere, and I can tell I’m headed for solitary confinement. We approach cell number 6, and the guard takes out a key that’s over fifteen centimeters long and unlocks the door. He pushes me inside. The light in the room is very intense and blinds me for a few moments. I stagger, and the Russian closes the door behind me. Panic sets in as I see that the guard hasn’t removed my handcuffs. Turning around, I realize he’s looking at me through the window, as if thinking, “How did I end up with such an idiot tonight?” In the coming weeks, I’ll discover that there are very few new inmates in the prison system. The majority of the inmates are repeat offenders. So, I’m an anomaly in the system. My inexperience is obvious, and the guards seem to take delight in it. The agent opens a hatch in the door and asks me to put my hands through. I obey, and he removes the handcuffs.

It’s time to explore my new environment. I’m alone. The room is tiny, and it’s even colder than on the first floor. An air conditioning vent about three meters above the ground chills the place; it’s like a refrigerator. Many inmates before me tried to block the airflow by making a paste with water and toilet paper. This strategy didn’t work, and the paste fluttering in the wind is now covered in black mold. The same mold also covers more than half of the curtain-less shower. The place is unsanitary. I find the same stainless steel toilet as on the first floor, a concrete table, and at the back, two bunk beds made of metal. In the bottom unit, on a piece of plastic serving as a mattress, there are two thin sheets and a synthetic wool blanket. When my family moved from Montreal to Trinidad, we had to quarantine our dog Spike, a miniature poodle weighing less than three kilograms. I was very concerned about the conditions he’d be staying in. I can say that his accommodations were far superior to what the U.S. government offers me on the evening of March 12, 2014.

I’m so cold that I consider taking a shower to warm up. I approach to check its cleanliness. The mold climbing up the walls is so advanced that it creates complex plant-like patterns, eerily resembling French tapestries. Cockroaches and other insects inhabit the place, going in and out of the drain hole, a true ecosystem. No way am I washing in there. I sit on the cement bench facing the table, and I realize that I’m holding the prison inmate guide that was given to me by the counselor. On the table, I find a small pencil similar to those distributed on golf courses. First, I quickly read through the guide, holding it at arm’s length to compensate for my lack of glasses. I’m trying to understand why I ended up in solitary confinement instead of with the other inmates. The guide doesn’t answer my question. The IRS probably decided to break my spirit after I refused to cooperate. I must admit, they succeeded. The situation seems hopeless.

I write on the guide, using the few blank pages available. I jot down a few sentences about the events of the past few hours to clear my mind. I write to Sara, my partner, that I miss her immensely. She will try to reach out to me in the next few hours, and unlike usual, her messages will go unanswered. I express all the love I have for her, I proclaim my innocence, I ask her to stay strong. The more I write, the more I lose confidence. Like a shipwrecked person at sea, I see my boat sinking, with no hope of rescue. Me, the successful businessman, financial columnist, now lost, shattered, in less than five hours. My brain feels like it’s on fire, as if I’m suffering from a caffeine overdose. I can’t stop thinking; I must find a solution, there’s always a solution. Suddenly, the thought comes to me that I haven’t been allowed to make a phone call since the beginning of my arrest. Isn’t that illegal? Unconstitutional? This idea gives me courage again. Tomorrow, I’ll appear before the judge, and I’ll tell them that when I requested my phone call, it was denied to me, three times. If American TV is representative of the judicial system, the judge will have to drop the case and release me. I imagine the scene in my head and rehearse my monologue for the judge. Over the past few years, I’ve learned how to speak in front of an audience and sell my ideas. Tomorrow, I’ll reap the fruit of all these years of work.

Noises in the corridor snap me out of my reverie. I stand up and look outside. David is being pushed abruptly into another cell. His eyes are bloodshot and seem like they’re about to pop out of their sockets. I feel pity when I see him. He’s young, and in a few weeks, his wife will give birth to their first child, a daughter. My sympathy is short-lived, however. I quickly realize that he’s arriving at his cell more than two hours after me. The bastard talked. In my mind, I hear him blaming me to save his skin. Did he tell lies to cover his own back? Did he play the card of the poor innocent man manipulated by the infamous firm’s owner? David is a wolf in sheep’s clothing; underneath his innocent facade, there’s a cunning businessman. My concern grows even more.

Another hour passes, and it’s Jean’s turn, the lawyer from the Turks and Caicos Islands, to be brought in with handcuffs behind his back. Federal agents arrested him at the Miami airport. He doesn’t look much better than David. Jean was responsible for ensuring the legitimacy of the funds received from Moishe. It was his job to verify that the transaction wasn’t for money laundering. At that time, I didn’t know the nature of the legal structure Jean used to accept money from the client in the Turks and Caicos Islands. For my company, it was Jean’s firm that invested with Clover. Of course, we knew the assets were coming from Moishe, even though the workings of all this remained between the lawyer and his client.

Later, during questioning by the prosecutor, I learned that there wasn’t a bank directly involved in the structure set up by Jean. The law firm received the client’s money into its own trust account, meaning the lawyer’s client account. The agreement between Moishe and Jean was that the money constituted a loan from Moishe to the law firm for investment purposes. The law firm would then take that money and invest it with Clover in its own name. An ingenious way to evade FATCA, as there was no money in an American’s name deposited or invested in a financial institution, hence nothing to report.

I lie down on the uncomfortable bed and curl up in a fetal position to keep warm. I shiver, and my brain continues to whirl. The ceiling light is still just as bright. I think about the detainees at Guantanamo and wonder if their conditions are similar to ours. I cover my head with the blanket. In Henri Charrière’s book “Papillon”, he spends several years in the wretched hole of a prison in French Guiana. To fall asleep, he reduces the oxygen supply to his brain by covering his head with a blanket. Tomorrow, I must be as fit as possible; I have a judge to convince. I drift into restless sleep, but before closing my eyes, I say aloud the words I’ll repeat every night until my release: “I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.” I hope that far away from here, in our Cayman paradise, Sara can hear me.

FEELING GOOD

(Nina Simone)

I get my first job at fifteen. My mother starts working again; her relationship with my father deteriorates. She lands a job as a manager at A&W in Drummondville. Upon reflection, I realize today that it was quite an achievement to re-enter the job market after twenty years of professional inactivity. A&W was a popular burger chain in the 1970s and 1980s. The concept was to offer both table service and drive-through. Back then, customers parked their cars near a two-way radio displaying the menu. They rolled down their windows and placed orders through an intercom. The server delivered the order to the car on a tray fixed to the outside of the vehicle’s window. After eating, they’d call again for service. The experience was reminiscent of drive-in theaters. It might seem odd now, but it had a certain charm. A&W, like many other fast-food chains, had its own mascot for promotional events: a big brown teddy bear plush wearing a beret and an orange wool sweater. When my mother asks me to be the mascot for a hockey game because her cook, who usually plays the role, needs to work at the restaurant, I gladly accept. After donning the costume and getting used to its strong smell of sweat, I skate on the ice during intermissions. My mission is to make the kids laugh and lighten the mood between periods. My success is such that I’m promoted to the official restaurant mascot, a part-time job that I’ll keep for the next two years. The pay is excellent; I receive $15 an hour at a time when the minimum wage is $3.65. I’m paid to entertain people, and I have a blast making the crowd laugh. Upon reflection, it’s during this time that I developed a taste for showmanship. This experience in front of an audience will serve my career well.

CLOUDBUSTING

(Kate Bush)

I’m awakened at 5:15 in the morning, having barely slept. The slot in the door opens, and a brown paper bag containing my breakfast is handed to me: a small orange and a piece of cake. Over the next few days, I’ll discover that this very sweet cake, similar to sponge cake, is served to prisoners every morning. Coming from a low-carb diet, I dive into a sugary regime. My appetite hasn’t returned yet, even though I force myself to eat for strength. The night was turbulent. The cries of the inmates, the light that wasn’t turned off until very late at night, and the beam of the guard’s flashlight every fifteen minutes in my eyes prevented me from sleeping deeply. I’m exhausted. I get up and realize I’m covered in insect bites. My little companions had a field day during the night. The confidence I felt at bedtime has disappeared. I now find my hope of being released just because I couldn’t make a phone call ridiculous.

At 6:15, they come to get me; I have to go through the same ritual as last night: putting my arms through the slot to be handcuffed. They’re too tight and hurt me. I signal to the guard, who adjusts them without saying a word. Lesson number three, if I have a problem, I need to express it clearly and immediately. I’m taken to the first floor, to the search room. They remove the handcuffs, and I undress again. I place my jumpsuit in a numbered box and put the rest of my clothes in it. There are about fifteen of us detainees changing uniforms six by six. In Miami, all prisoners have to remove their green jumpsuits and wear a beige set to appear in court. It consists of heavy cotton pants, a brown T-shirt, and a large hippie-style poncho. Of course, before putting it all on, we have to be searched, spread our buttocks, and cough. Strangely, I no longer feel the shame and humiliation from last night. After twelve hours of captivity, I already couldn’t care less.

As I exit the search room, I see David and Jean waiting to enter. When I pass them, one of the officers indicates to his colleagues that we can’t be placed in the same cell and can’t have contact. It’s clear that the prosecutor wants to ensure we won’t talk to each other. Once again, I request to make a phone call, and once again, it’s denied. I’m still cold, as if my body can’t adapt to its environment. David, Jean, and I are placed in three different cells, each packed with other detainees. Each of our cells contains fifteen to twenty prisoners. The guards open the door and call each prisoner, one by one. I’m the last to exit the cell. I’m ordered to face the wall. I obey, and I’m searched again. Then I’m led to a strange platform with a small ladder on each side. A guard puts ankle chains on me. The chain between the ankles is about sixty centimeters long. It’s long enough for small steps but too short for a normal stride. With such restraints, running would be impossible. I step down from the platform, and another chain is placed around my chest, with my wrists secured by handcuffs. I can’t lift my arms; they’re attached at belly height. Tied up like a sausage, I walk like an elderly person suffering from arthritis. A guard approaches me and sticks a piece of paper on my back. Another detainee receives the same treatment. I stretch my neck to see what’s written on my neighbor’s back: “Group two, keep separated.” These post-it notes are used to ensure that co-defendants in the same case can’t be near each other. It’s a very archaic technique, which is not surprising since the conditions of detention resemble those of the early century. All the prisoners line up and start walking. After about ten steps, I feel the ankle chains cutting into my Achilles tendons; it’s very painful. With each step, it’s as if a small knife is cutting into my skin. We walk through an underground corridor toward the federal court in Miami. The group moves very slowly; the journey across the street takes us more than twenty minutes. I feel like I’m heading to the galleys. After a multitude of corridors, we arrive at an elevator where we’re corded up against the wall like bottles in a crate of beer. We go up, and we’re taken to three other cells adjacent to the courtroom. The chain around the waist and the handcuffs are removed, but we keep the ankle chains. There are six inmates in my cell. We share two stainless steel benches and the eternal toilet. As I rub my ankles to alleviate the pain, one inmate shows me how to roll my socks up to the Achilles tendon to reduce discomfort.

After an hour of waiting, the atmosphere relaxes, and we start chatting among ourselves. I become friends with John, one of the guys from group two, those who also have to be separated. He’s from the Dominican Republic and has a big mouth. He’s dying to tell me his story; I let him talk, it passes the time. John was also arrested last night. He spent the night in one of the small cells adjacent to the processing room where I was before being led to the hole. I conclude that my initial impression was correct. I was put there to break me. He and his co-defendant work for an American airline. They’re flight attendants; John has been employed there for over twenty-five years. Since the pay isn’t great, the two men decided to make a big score, a crime so lucrative that the profits would secure them a golden retirement. The two friends had custom-made underwear designed to transport cocaine—eight kilos in total, four kilos each. After receiving the merchandise, completing a flight with no issues, they noticed that over a dozen police officers were waiting for them at Miami airport customs. Someone must have talked. While waiting in line, John panicked and went to remove his underwear in the bathroom. An officer arrested him as he exited the restroom, and they quickly found the coke in the trash can. The two friends are facing twenty years in prison. Just like me, they are in their fifties and have never had a run-in with the law. It’s a sad story that gets even more complicated when John realizes that the cell is being monitored and everything he just confessed is being recorded. Lesson number four, in prison, the less you say, the better.

Every ten minutes, a detainee is taken, and it’s my turn. I’m taken to a room where I have to answer the same questions about my mental health as yesterday. Once again, I’m photographed and fingerprinted. Once again, the guards are rude and deny me access to a phone.

At 10 a.m., half of the detainees are brought before the judge to appear. No luck, I’m not in that group. David, Jean, and I will appear at 1:30 p.m. At 11 a.m., it’s lunchtime. A guard brings us a brown paper bag with this time four slices of bread, two slices of cheese, four slices of bologna, and a small orange. In the cooking contests I like to watch on the Food Network channel, they would call this meal a “deconstructed sandwich.” I eat the orange and offer the rest to my cellmates. I think about Sara. By now, she must know that something has happened; I never leave her without news for more than twelve hours. Maybe she called David’s wife to find out what’s going on.

At 1 p.m., they come to get us. There will be ten of us appearing before Judge White. Since the group is small, it’s difficult to separate me from my co-defendants. For the first time, our eyes meet. David looks ashamed. I signal to Jean to see if he was able to make a phone call; he nods. We walk towards the courtroom with our chains, our chains, and our handcuffs. We sit down, and a court marshal explains to us that when the doors open to the public, we must avoid any contact with the people present, or they will be expelled from the room. We all sit to the left of the judge, who hasn’t arrived yet. Suddenly, panic sets in. The trembling of my knees is so noticeable that I feel like everyone is noticing it. The door opens, and the crowd is allowed in. Even though I know Sara isn’t here, I can’t help but look for her. There’s no one for me, no one for David. Jean has a lawyer, a woman in her early sixties with an aggressive demeanor. She speaks to him in a low voice; I try to hear their conversation.

The lawyer whispers to him not to worry. According to her, the case is baseless; we were arrested to scare the industry. I don’t feel sympathetic towards this woman; she seems to be seeking confrontation, and she’s too sure of herself. Her manner, her gaze, her posture in front of the judge exude arrogance. However, her words lift my spirits. The judge enters the courtroom, and we stand up. I smile when I notice that Judge White is Black. A man in his sixties and of handsome appearance, he is particularly affable with the detainees. He explains the proceedings to us. We will all appear before him one by one. We will identify ourselves by spelling our last name. Afterwards, he will read the charges against us and ask a few questions. If we don’t have a lawyer and can’t afford one, the court will appoint a state-paid lawyer to defend us. This judge impresses me; he speaks clearly and treats us all with respect. The other seven detainees are charged with narcotics trafficking. Five of them are repeat offenders, and the prosecutor doesn’t hesitate to mention that. The other two are the airline flight attendants. None of the seven has enough money to hire a lawyer.

American justice is above all a sport for the poor. After about an hour of appearances, David is called to the stand. He’s aged ten years since his arrest. He, who takes such good care of his appearance, a full-fledged member of this new generation of metrosexual men, now looks like a pale copy of himself. He looks like a forty-five-year-old gay man who has been arrested for indecency in a public restroom. His eyes are red and swollen, his gaze vacant, his mouth open. He’s still in shock. All the anger I felt towards him last night disappears; now I pity him. I’ve always considered David a younger brother or a son; seeing him like this saddens me a lot. I’m probably not in a much better state than he is. My legs wobble, and I desperately need a shower. The judge reads the charges against David and asks him if he can afford a lawyer. He replies that he can, although he hasn’t had the chance to contact one yet. He’s promised that he’ll be able to make a phone call, and he’s asked to return to court the next day with his lawyer. Jean is next, and he’s not looking very bright either. This stocky man, always smiling, now appears gray and resembles a character from The Sopranos with his curly black hair and prison uniform. The judge and his lawyer agree to return to court the following Tuesday for a reason that escapes me.

Finally, it’s my turn. I move slowly to the stand with my chains. I slowly pronounce my name, enunciating each syllable. The judge repeats word for word the questions he asked David. I try to answer him, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I have to try three times to declare that I wasn’t allowed to make a phone call, despite my multiple requests. I look ridiculous. What happened to all the preparation from last night? Where’s the eloquent speaker I thought I was?

The judge orders the marshal to let me make a phone call. In the process, I learn that the right to make a call within the first hours of your arrest is an urban legend in Uncle Sam’s land. They take me to the room where my photo and fingerprints were taken. David is already on the phone. I settle into an office with a guard and give him Sara’s number. He tells me that the communication doesn’t work and asks in which U.S. state the area code 345 is. I tell him that it’s not a state but the Cayman Islands. The guard isn’t familiar with that place. As I’ll repeat more than a hundred times in the next few days, I explain where my country of residence is located. He smirks nastily and retorts that I’m not allowed to call someone outside the United States. I raise my voice because the judge gave me permission. The officer replies that the judge allowed me to make a call, but not an overseas call. If I want to call another country, I should ask him for permission the next day.

I’m devastated, helpless. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I was arrested. My family isn’t aware and probably thinks I’m dead in an alley. I don’t have a lawyer, and I have no way of reaching one. If last night in my cell I was sinking like a ship, now I’m hitting rock bottom. I’m made to stand waiting in a corridor. David is next to me and tells me he just spoke to his wife’s father. She’ll let Sara know. David suggests that we have the same lawyer, and I agree. These are the first pieces of good news today. Finally, one less obstacle in front of me, although I know there will be many more on the path to freedom. A few minutes later, the marshal realizes his mistake and scolds us for exchanging a few words. He’s particularly furious with me and threatens to tell the judge everything. I feel like I’m back in elementary school. We’re then taken back to the cell for an additional hour, and we resume our long and painful walk to the detention center. Upon arrival, we’re searched again, and we’re given our green jumpsuits back. I return to the hole for the night.

DON’T STOP BELIEVIN

(Journey)

The stress of the past few hours and lack of sleep have drained all my energy. I lie down on the hard mattress of my cell and wrap myself in the blanket to analyze the situation. David’s wife has now communicated with Sara. I think about her distress, I imagine her completely helpless. In our relationship, Sara manages the daily affairs, and I make budget decisions. Strong and united, we consult on important choices that could impact the future of our family. I love Sara more than anything. My pursuit of fortune in recent years has been primarily to ensure a golden retirement for us. Now my priority is to protect Sara and the girls. So, it’s not the time to feel sorry for myself or be selfish. I reflect. All our assets are invested in our property in the Cayman Islands and in my businesses. I have very little debt, and I have enough money in my companies to sustain us for the next two years.

What will happen to this money when the scandal becomes public? What will the Cayman government do with Clover? How can I quickly increase my liquidity while allowing Sara to maintain a comfortable long-term life? The indictment mentions three maximum sentences of twenty years. I don’t believe I’m guilty, so I expect to be released soon. However, when news of my imprisonment becomes public, my reputation will be tarnished, and I’ll have to start over. St-Cyr, think harder. What will you do if you can’t sell the house? What will your family do if you’re imprisoned for ten years? I need to find a fast way to grow our capital. It’s at this moment that I realize if I close shop, my companies will have to sell all the assets under management and return the money to clients. By carrying out all these transactions, the brokerage fees will generate a profit of over seven hundred thousand dollars. Indeed, when a broker buys or sells stocks for a client, they charge a percentage of the transaction value that they keep for their services. When I add this amount to the value of our property and Clover’s liquidity, I calculate that this sum would allow Sara and the girls to have a good life for the next ten or fifteen years. No more saving Clover, everything must be closed. When I get out of prison, I’ll find a job that will cover our daily expenses until our retirement. Around two in the morning, I finally close my eyes. I’ve regained control, or at least, that’s what I believe...

The next day is a replica of the previous day. Breakfast, search, dressing, handcuffs and shackles, waiting, and the judge at 1:30 p.m. While waiting for my second appearance before Judge White, I share my courtroom cell with a wheelchair-bound inmate for a few hours. He describes the detention conditions of the Miami center where I am. He has to return to the county prison where he committed his crime and he dreads the transfer. The reason for his disappointment is easy to understand. A few months ago, he attempted to rob a bank in the mentioned county. As he left the branch through the main door, he pointed his gun at a police officer. Eighteen bullets in his body later, he ended up in the hospital for several months. This man in his early thirties seems to have spent the majority of his adult life behind bars; a true encyclopedia of the prison environment. Today, he has just learned that he is returning to the county prison he knows well. According to him, the detention conditions there are appalling. Moreover, the police officers in charge of this prison are the same ones who shot him. According to this young man, the federal detention center in Miami ranks among the best prisons in the country; there are few fights among inmates, the center has many sports facilities for prisoners, and the cafeteria serves real meat, not a substitute. You can even have fried chicken once a week. So, I’m lodged in a “five-star” establishment.

Facing the judge, I tremble like the previous day. This time, there are nine detainees. After receiving the customary warnings, the doors of the room open. I catch sight of David’s wife entering with her large belly. She seems devastated. I know Sara isn’t there. Our daughter Tiffany has just arrived in the Cayman Islands, returning from her school in California, and she must be busy with my imprisonment, so she doesn’t have time to come to court. But that doesn’t stop me from searching the crowd for her, and I’m sad, yet relieved, not to see her. It’s better this way; I’m not sure if I could have held back my tears if she had come. However, surprised and happy, I spot my brother-in-law Christian and his wife sitting at the back of the room. So, my family is aware.

Two lawyers approach David; they were retained by his father. In their fifties, they are well-dressed. The government-appointed lawyers pale in comparison. No one signals me, which means David and I won’t have the same team. I’m worried; no lawyer mentions my name. Finally, a tall man with disheveled hair, resembling Ben Affleck, enters the room. He scans the prisoners, meets my gaze, and forms the word “Éric” with his lips. I stand up and approach the bar that separates us. The first words that come out of my mouth are: “I am so fucking happy to see you, you have no idea!” His name is Aaron Blackmann; his firm was retained by Sara.

He reassures me and gives me news of my spouse: despite the shock, she’s doing well. He then explains the proceedings to me. When it’s my turn, he’ll inform the judge that I’ve retained his services. The judge will summon us to negotiate with the prosecutor for bail. David once again precedes me to the bar. The judge suggests to his lawyer to come back the following Tuesday to discuss a possible bail. It’s Friday, and I hope my lawyer will insist on coming back on Monday. The sooner I get out of here, the better, but the judge also sets a meeting for the following Tuesday, and Aaron requests an extension until Thursday. I’m disappointed. Another week in jail. The news of my arrest should soon reach the Cayman Islands, and I risk losing control of Clover. I well understand that it will be difficult to secure bail, as I’m not American and all my assets are outside of this country.

There are rarely surprises in the prison world. Upon leaving the court, I take exactly the same route as the day before. The machine is well-oiled. After putting on my green uniform, a guard informs me that I’m being transferred to the general population of the prison. Relieved not to be sent back to solitary, I still have some apprehensions... How will I be treated by the other inmates? My knowledge of life ‘on the inside’ comes exclusively from television and movies. I might as well admit it, it doesn’t seem easy at all.

They give me a blanket, two sheets, a towel, a soap, and a cup, then guide me to Block 8 West, my new quarters. I enter the block and notice that everything is painted the same blue as in solitary. The doors of the forty cells are similar to those in the isolation ward. The block consists of three floors; the top and bottom floors are the same size and each accommodate twenty cells. The middle floor is smaller, with tables and televisions. The overall shape resembles an hourglass. I’m assigned to the upper floor, cell 32. The door isn’t locked, I enter the room, and a nauseating odor hits my nose. It smells like death, like those carcasses that lie by the side of the road on hot summer days. The guard leaves me. My new cellmate is lying on the bottom bunk, listening to a small portable radio. I approach and extend my hand to introduce myself. From his indifferent look, I understand that no one acts like that here. I make my bed and climb up to lie down. Good news, I’m no longer cold. Lying on my back, I look at the ceiling and notice that an inmate has drawn a large cross with his excrement on the light. How he managed to reach that high remains a mystery...

The putrid smell doesn’t come from that cross, which seems old, but from my downstairs neighbor. This 66-year-old black man from Honduras doesn’t speak a word of English and makes no effort to communicate with me. I’ll quickly realize that he consumes an alarming number of medications. He demands that I leave the cell three to four times a day so he can relieve himself. Apparently, he has serious digestive problems. He’ll spend several nights vomiting in the toilet. The strangest thing is that he refuses to eat the meals served to him and spends a fortune on junk food. Inmates are fed three times a day; the authorities assure us that the diet is complete and contains two thousand calories. If a prisoner has money in their account, they have the option to supplement their diet with other provisions. A list must be filled out and submitted to the guards by Sunday evening. The order is delivered the following Friday. In addition to what he can obtain, such as chips, chocolate, and Ramen noodles, the inmate must buy his own spare clothes, soap, shampoo, and other personal care products. With my luck of the past few days, here I am stuck with a cellmate who doesn’t speak English, smells like death, and eats only junk food. I’m lucky.

STAND BY ME

(Ben E. King)

My dream of a career in advertising lasted only a few months. My academic results aren’t impressive; I’m not accepted into communications at UQAM as I had hoped. I’m naturally disappointed. I, who wanted to become an advertising creative and be recognized for my cutting-edge slogans, have to settle for enrolling in business administration – how dull! I still work for A&W and am transferred to the Desjardins complex restaurant in Montreal. I move in with my friend Guy in an apartment on Édouard-Montpetit Boulevard, near Décarie Highway. Guy will walk to HEC, and I’ll take the subway. Even though our financial means are very limited, we make ends meet. Working at the Desjardins complex is much more demanding than in Trois-Rivières. The lunch rush, when government workers from around arrive by the hundreds to satisfy their hunger, is intense, but I love it. Initially, I’m responsible for frying the fries, then I’m quickly promoted to the grill, the kitchen’s control center. The work is mentally and physically demanding, but the satisfaction of serving four hundred meals in less than two hours validates me every day.

The first university quarter gives me a lot of difficulties. Most other students have studied administrative techniques for three years in college. They have an excellent understanding of finance and accounting concepts. On my side, my law and philosophy courses are completely useless. I double down, studying late into the night to catch up. My friend Guy, whom I’ve known since high school, is a top student; he excels in all subjects. He supports me a lot during the first few months.

I am surprised by the amount of group work to be submitted in order to prepare us for the job market, which is not my strong suit. I feel that most of the time, one person does the work for everyone. After a quarter where I barely succeed, I forge a friendship with three other guys my age who are in most of my classes. We spend time together after classes several times a week. We develop a camaraderie that will last for the next three years. We quickly realize that we waste a lot of time together discussing and reviewing each other’s work. Since the chemistry is good among the four of us, we decide to work on our group projects together. I suggest to my companions that, just like in the working world, we appoint a leader for each project. They agree, and each person seriously applies themselves to their assigned task. Gradually, trust is established, and the team assignments become individual tasks with all four names on the first page. By freeing myself from all the time wasted in meetings, I study more, have fun, and work at A&W three or four days a week. I finish the year with a respectable grade of 3.6 out of 4. It’s at university that I learned that group meetings are often just a waste of time.

FOLSOM PRISON BLUES

(Johnny Cash)

Saturday, March 15th, I wake up filled with great sadness. It wasn’t a dream, I’m in jail. There’s a small window about eight centimeters wide on the wall behind my bed. The sun is rising over Miami, and the day looks beautiful. It’s my fourth day in hell. I look outside, a vulture, or a crow, as we called them in Trinidad, is flying over the city. Is this an omen of things to come? From my window, I can see the courthouse and its parking lot, behind the imposing Wells Fargo bank building. At this early hour, there’s little movement in the streets. I imagine myself walking around, looking for a coffee. Whenever Sara and I visit a city and stay at a hotel, I leave the room early in the morning without waking her up. I know a large hot latte will make her happy. I love strolling through a city at dawn, before the energy of the day explodes. It’s strange how quickly we miss the everyday things, the sun on the skin, the morning jog, and a good cup of coffee. All those things we take for granted hurt so much when we lose them. All that is already far away. I get up, make my bed, and sit down, lost in thought.

An hour later, a guard unlocks our door. However, we can’t leave the cell until the bell rings. When the signal is given, half of the block’s population rushes to have breakfast. I bring my cup and go down the steps to the second level. The other inmates all have bowls in their hands. It’s an item that must be purchased, which makes no sense since they serve cereal every morning. I’m given two pieces of cake and they pour cereal into my cup. I place a small milk carton and an orange on a tray, then head to the tables. I’m nervous because I don’t know anyone and I’m afraid of making a misstep. Should I sit with the Black inmates or the Latinos? Do I absolutely need to find a table with White inmates? In doubt, I choose an empty table and wait to see who will join me. A Black man sits across from me, and we eat in silence. Milk seems to be the only available drink, and unfortunately, I’m allergic to it. When I drink it, I experience asthma symptoms. My breath becomes short, and I cough heavily. Since that’s all there is, I drink half the carton and accept that I’ll cough for the rest of the morning. The milk brand is Clover’s Land, which makes me smile: prison is now Clover’s land. After a twenty-minute breakfast, we return to the cell to make room for the second group of prisoners.”

Around 8 a.m., once the inmates responsible for cleaning have finished their job, we leave the cells to engage in various activities until 11 a.m. It’s Saturday morning, and my last shower was on Wednesday at 5:30 a.m. I don’t really have a choice anymore. If there’s a myth in the popular imagination that persists, it’s the one about a man being raped while taking a shower in prison. I must have heard the soap-dropping joke hundreds of times, and at this moment, I don’t find it funny at all. I gather my courage, grab my soap, shampoo, and towel, and head to the showers. They are located in the middle of the corridor, facing the guard’s booth. There are four showers on the first floor and four more on the third floor. A door conceals the body from knees to shoulders. This lack of privacy serves as protection. If two people were in the shower at the same time, everyone would know.

I undress and press the button on the wall. A cold spray douses me before turning warm and comforting. It’s evident that the prison environment is facing significant budget cuts. Given the substantial deficits presented by the U.S. government, it’s easier and politically acceptable to cut costs in inmate services than in education or healthcare. When you’re a beneficiary of prison services, you quickly notice the measures put in place to reduce costs. In the shower, there’s only one button to press. You don’t choose the temperature. The water spray lasts for ten seconds; I’ve counted multiple times. According to the prison guide, after the first spray, the inmate is supposed to lather up with soap, wash their hair, and activate the second spray to rinse off. According to the guide, a shower should take less than two minutes. Fortunately, none of these regulations are followed.

The Federal Detention Center in Miami is a maximum-security prison. The directives are clear, and there are no exceptions, except for the showers. Any infraction leads to solitary confinement. During my stay, I was told the story of a record producer from Puerto Rico whom I met. He had managed to sneak a mobile phone into the penitentiary by inserting it into his rectum. He must not have coughed very loudly. When he was caught for possession of contraband, he was sent to solitary confinement for four months.

After my shower, I explore the rest of Block 8 West. My walk is short because there’s not much to see. A small gym with a basketball hoop, a training room containing three old rusty stationary bikes, and a rarity, a treadmill that must date back to the 1970s and works without electricity. If this is five-star treatment, I’d rather not know anything else. A bookshelf with novels and a room with four computers are also on the second floor. I’ll finally be able to contact my family. Of course, a few phones are available, but I have to wait until the counselor registers me in the system before I can use them.

I’m very excited to get my hands on a computer after four days of abstinence. I’m addicted to communication, especially emails and the web. I never part with my cell phone, and I get up at night to read my messages and check the performance of Asian or European markets. Having access to a computer is like regaining some of the privileges that were taken away from me in the last few days. I suddenly remember that I no longer have my glasses. No matter, I sit in front of the screen and squint to read better. With some effort, I’m able to decipher the text displayed on the screen. I enter my inmate number 02218-104, which I’ve memorized, and my personal identification number. It works; a menu appears, and the top left corner of the screen indicates that the session will expire in fifteen minutes. I click on the email section, but my access is blocked. I need to first register the contact details of the people I want to communicate with and wait for the system operators to validate them. I enter Sara’s information and return to the main menu. As I navigate, I realize that I don’t have access to the web; the system is an intranet. It allows communication with authorities, learning more about the detention center, and sending emails that will be reviewed by federal agents. I’m disappointed, of course. At least, I’ll be able to communicate with Sara very soon. The session expires, and I’m forced to wait an hour before coming back.

CAREER OPPORTUNITIES

(The Clash)

In my final year of bachelor’s degree, a significant group representing large companies visits the students to recruit future leaders for their companies. Less than 1% of students find employment through this method. Nevertheless, the university strongly recommends applying for advertised jobs. The process allows students to refine their curriculum vitae, and if selected, to undergo an important learning step, the interview. Personally, I have no particular career in mind; making money interests me much more than the field I’ll work in. I apply for all positions offering a fixed salary. My good grades and especially the fact that I have already been working for several years to pay for my education allow me to be chosen for numerous first interviews.

Generally, I’m then required to take a written aptitude test that seeks to determine if my personality matches the position and the company’s philosophy. About 90% of candidates are rejected at this stage. If I survive this step, I move on to the second interview, where my chances of getting a job increase significantly. I am selected by three companies for the second interview: Ford Motor Company, the Canadian Financial Corporation (CFC), and Hudson’s Bay Company. Ford and CFC are looking for young graduates for their management programs, and Hudson’s Bay wants to hire a buyer. The place I would most like to work is Ford, followed by Hudson’s Bay, with CFC far behind. Ford offers a prestigious job, and I am the only one from my university selected for an interview. The proposed salary is the highest, twenty-seven thousand dollars per year, with significant benefits, and I’ve heard that as an employee, I could buy a new vehicle each year with a 30% discount. The job at Hudson’s Bay pays much less, but since I would work closely with the marketing team, I would have a better chance of transitioning to become an advertiser. CFC doesn’t disclose the salary it intends to pay. This was a time when bankers were perceived as uninteresting people who held clerical jobs. I still remember my father’s experiences with the bank manager, and a banking career doesn’t excite me much. I’m twenty-two years old, and cars are much more enticing than savings accounts. The second interviews take place at the university and at a downtown Montreal hotel. Ford and CFC invite me for a third interview, while Hudson’s Bay rejects my application. I’m not surprised. During the interview, I’m asked how I would promote a new bra in-store. The lady who interviews me is very pretty. Since I’m shy and uncomfortable with the topic, I stutter out an incomprehensible response. Instead of suggesting a fashion show, like a Victoria’s Secret style, for example, I talk about mannequins and the importance of customers touching the product. A complete lack of imagination. In stressful situations, I often tend to freeze, and my brain stops functioning. I feel ridiculous, and my discomfort is contagious. The lady quickly ends the interview. As I leave, I already know that I won’t be selected, quite the opposite of my experience with Ford. My meeting on the west side of the island goes perfectly. The following week, the company invites me for a final interview in Toronto with airfare, hotel, and expenses paid. I can’t sit still; I already see myself working for Ford and living the good life.

The day of the trip finally arrives, and everything goes smoothly. I only have one concern for the interview: I don’t speak English. I hope the people asking me questions have a basic understanding of French. On the eve of the interviews, all candidates are invited to dinner at a fancy Japanese restaurant. It’s my first experience with food from the Land of the Rising Sun. I know how to use chopsticks because I’ve practiced a little during Chinese meals at home. However, I only know how to order from this menu in English and Japanese. I don’t want to seem ignorant, so I put on a relaxed and sophisticated air and order the supreme sushi platter. It’s worth noting that this was 1986, well before the invasion of ethnic restaurants in North American downtowns. Japanese food represented the height of exoticism. The server places a beautiful plate in front of me with an impressive selection of sushi and sashimi. My eyes land on the only thing that seems to have been cooked: an orange shrimp atop a bed of rice. I’ve never eaten raw fish in my life. The plate is very pretty but doesn’t whet my appetite. I pick up the shrimp with my chopsticks and bring it to my mouth. The taste is quite bland with a hint of horseradish aftertaste. It’s not really good, but since this dinner is part of the interview ritual, I smile at everyone and continue my tasting. I slowly adapt to my plate; the portion is generous, and raw fish is much harder to swallow than the shrimp. I focus on my esophagus to ensure the fish doesn’t swim to the surface and that everything remains under control in my stomach. I’ve already consumed two-thirds of the sushi, and now I’m tackling the sashimi. In my plate, I notice a small green ball that strangely resembles marzipan. Marzipan is an ingredient used in pastry in European countries. It’s often served as is, molded into cute little characters. Maybe the Japanese pair their raw fish with marzipan? After some contemplation, I slowly pick up the ball, examine it, bring it to my mouth, and take a big bite. The effect is immediate. The mustard shoots up my nose, quite literally. The pain is intense, and my eyes well up with water. How do I avoid looking foolish? I force myself to swallow the wasabi. Smiling all the while, I apologize and nonchalantly leave the table, heading towards the restroom. Once there, I vomit up everything I’ve eaten in the past hour, and I return to finish my meal as if nothing happened. If anyone noticed my blunder, they didn’t mention it.

I have few memories of my meeting with Ford executives the next day for a good reason: I absolutely do not understand anything they’re saying, and I’m convinced the same goes for them. My previous experience with English-speaking Canadians boils down to my daily encounters on the streets of Montreal, at the café, grocery store, or video club. In Montreal, a customer service person, even if not perfectly bilingual, can get by in both English and French. Naively, I expected the same from the people at Ford in Toronto. I have to face facts; I don’t speak a word of English. This is a gap I’ll need to fill in the future. I return to Montreal dumbfounded. A week later, the Ford people contact me to wish me good luck in my job search. Now I have two strikes against me, and only CFC remains to avoid striking out. The third interview with the bank takes place at their downtown Montreal headquarters. It’s more of an orientation day with the other candidates, during which we are discreetly observed. After a month of waiting, I receive a job offer for a management training position with a salary of twenty-one thousand five hundred dollars per year. Considering that I’ve been living on less than five thousand dollars for a few years, I eagerly accept the offer; I’m now a banker!

SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT

(Nirvana)

After an hour of what feels like endless waiting, I return to the computer room to write to Sara. Once I’m plugged in, the system informs me that I have permission to communicate with my wife, but I first need to deposit money into my account. I’m fuming. One step forward and two steps back, nothing is straightforward in jail.

I step out of the room and grab a book from the metal rack. A good book will help pass the time. The choices are limited, and over half the books are in Spanish. I choose Jared Diamond’s *Guns, Germs, and Steel*, a hefty four-hundred-eighty-four-page tome I’ve always wanted to read. I have a minimum of a week’s wait for any news, so I have plenty of time to finish it. I head back to my cell to start reading. The book delves into the reasons behind the varying growth of civilizations throughout history. The moment I lay my eyes on the first page, I realize the text is too small for me to read comfortably. I would need my glasses. I hold the book at arm’s length and embark on a long, painful ocular exercise. After an hour of reading and a throbbing headache, I go down to the second level to watch TV. There are three TVs in the dining area. The first one plays variety shows, the second is locked on a sports channel, and the third only shows Spanish-language programs. The broadcasting language hardly matters since no sound comes from the screens hanging from the ceiling. To hear the shows, inmates have to buy a small portable radio with headphones. It’s a smart way to keep the place quiet, but it’s frustrating for new prisoners who haven’t received their money yet. Nevertheless, I choose to watch the variety channel. The most popular TV shows in a detention center don’t necessarily need sound. Forget CNN or the Discovery Channel. Inmates particularly enjoy police chase shows like *Cops* and shock reality shows like the hugely popular *Jerry Springer*. After lunch, every day, inmates gather in the dining area to watch the most-watched show in Miami. The program *Cheaters* is a reality show in which cameramen film a woman or man suspected of cheating on their partner. The suspected person is followed around and eventually meets a lover for dinner. We witness the first kisses, and often, the cameramen go so far as to film the lovers in bed together. When they’re in bed, in the act, the images are pixelated. During this time, the cheated-on partner watches the video of the lovers and is then brought to the scene to catch them in the act. It all ends in arguments, tears, or physical altercations. The most incredible thing is to see these eighty silent men watching this spectacle with interest. What masochism on their part, why torture themselves like this when they’re so far from their loved ones?

Once again in my life, I’m a visible minority, but I’m used to it from my stays in the islands. The prison population in Miami is predominantly Black. To this group are added Latinos, who make up around 40% of the population, while Whites make up less than 10% of the incarcerated individuals. Saying that the ethnic diversity in prisons differs from that of the general population is an understatement. What surprises me the most during my stay is the absence of friction between ethnic groups. Naturally, Whites hang out with Whites, and the same goes for Blacks and Latinos. However, everyone talks to each other, watches TV side by side, and helps one another. In general, in the maximum-security facilities where I’ve stayed, prisoners show great respect for each other.

All inmates in Miami have been incarcerated by the federal government. There are no county detainees. Over half are in prison for drug trafficking; the second most common crime is illegal entry into the country. Legalizing narcotics and relaxing immigration laws would empty American prisons. Many of the inmates I’ve talked to about these statistics think that the prison system is a significant business that requires a huge source of raw material: the prisoners. None of them believe that the federal government will legalize drugs in the coming years, as the prison economic system would collapse.

As I mentioned earlier, the majority of the people around me are repeat offenders who aren’t exactly choir boys. It’s well-known in the gang culture that a tear tattooed on the side of one’s right eye is an honor signifying that the tattooed person has committed murder. I’ve never seen so many teary-eyed men. The average age of inmates is around twenty-eight to thirty years old. There are perhaps ten of us with white hair, and some call me “Pop” as a sign of respect, which still annoys me somewhat. The younger the inmate, the more they puff up their chests to assert their strength and authority.

I have a memory of a young man barely twenty years old. Covered in tattoos and weighing around three hundred pounds, he liked to play tough. One morning, when I’m alone in the gym practicing my basketball, he approaches to tell me that my shots are garbage. In a prison setting, one should never seek provocation, but it’s recommended to stand firm against aggression to avoid being walked over. He takes the ball and misses his first five shots.

I casually retort that he’s not much better than a fifty-year-old who hasn’t played in a quarter-century. He doesn’t respond and storms out of the gym in anger. Later that evening, while waiting to access a computer, I can read what he’s writing to his family by looking over his shoulder: “I feel helpless, lost, and I always want to cry.” In prison, even the tough youngsters feel fear, just like the older folks.

IN YOUR EYES

(Peter Gabriel)

The first year of work in the CFC training program involves a short internship in various clerical positions found in a bank branch. The candidate must first be a cashier for a period of one month before moving on to the position of cashier supervisor and then gradually climbing the ranks. After a year, a candidate who has successfully completed their training is appointed as an administrative head in a branch. They will hold this position for a few years before specializing in credit or another area of banking activity.

I must admit that I am inept at any repetitive task requiring sustained attention. I am one of those people who struggle to concentrate; my mind wanders from one idea to another, abandoning the current task. I am a terrible cashier. At the end of the day, I either have too much or too little money in my cash register, which is, of course, a problem for a bank. During my lone month as a cashier, I managed to make five thousand dollars disappear in a transaction, an error that took over a week to be detected and rectified. My banking career starts off on the wrong foot. Along with my incompetence, there’s a growing sense of boredom. The SFC offered me a job in finance, yet I find myself doing clerical tasks. I’m far from the movie “Wall Street” with Michael Douglas. I quickly become bitter and don’t hesitate to share my frustration with other trainees. My sarcastic comments catch the attention of management, and I’m summoned to the headquarters to face disciplinary measures. After just three months of working in the adult world, I’m already threatened with being fired – a terrifying prospect. The bank’s leaders accuse me of having a negative influence on other trainees, which is hard for me to deny. Despite all this, instead of letting me go, the SFC recognizes my leadership and gives me a second chance. I make serious efforts to improve, and a year later, I’m appointed as an assistant head in the administration. Becoming an assistant rather than a head is my first professional failure. The weight of shame I feel during my appointment will change me. Initially, my confidence is shaken, but I regain my composure and make a promise to never be mediocre or average at anything in the future. This failure will also drive me to seek new challenges.

It’s during this learning year that I meet my future partner. During my internship, Sara is an administrative head in a neighboring branch. I’ll always remember the first time I met her. It’s at a cocktail event held in honor of the new trainees at the bank’s headquarters. I desire her immediately, the moment I lay eyes on her. A tall, slender woman with beautiful blue eyes. Beloved by everyone, she’s a rising star in the bank. She seems unattainable to me. I make no effort to win her over. At that time, I’m already in a relationship. When it ends a year later, Sara is the first woman I call – it’s the best decision of my life. Since I’m always shy around women and consider her too beautiful for me, I don’t dare to propose a first date. I constantly call her, ask her for help with certain files or trivial information. All I want is to hear the sound of her voice. Fed up with me wasting her time, she’s the one who takes the first steps. Our union will last more than twenty-five years.

SAY IT AIN’T SO, JOE

(Murray Head)

The first meeting with my lawyers is scheduled for the evening of March 15th. The guards lead me to the visitation room where I wait for forty minutes before Aaron Blackmann, the lawyer I met in court, arrives. He is accompanied by another lawyer, a head shorter than him, one of his partners, Aaron Scharttz. Both my lawyers have the same first name. It feels like a scene out of the American sitcom “Newhart” from the 1980s:

“Here’s my lawyer Aaron and my other lawyer Aaron.”

Laurel and Hardy explain that they work as a team with a third partner, Ari Goldeen. All three of them are in their thirties, which worries me a bit. My intuition tells me that experience counts for a lot in their field. Scharttz tells me that Sara has not yet retained their services; she wants me to make the decision. I ask some questions, particularly focusing on their experience in similar cases. Scharttz takes control of the discussion. He’s a small man with very black eyes and hair; he looks like a delicate child and speaks softly. He informs me that all three partners are former federal prosecutors. They are well-versed in how the system works, especially Scharttz; he was one of the prosecutors in the IRS’s case against Bradley Birkenfeld, an employee of the Swiss bank UBS who was arrested a few years ago for helping US citizens evade taxes. In this famous case, Birkenfeld pleaded guilty to a charge of active assistance in tax evasion and received a forty-month prison sentence and a thirty-thousand-dollar fine. He remained incarcerated for two and a half years. Five weeks after his release, Birkenfeld received a check for one hundred and four million dollars, representing his share of the money recovered by the IRS thanks to the information he had provided. Indeed, Birkenfeld had reached an agreement with the US Treasury, which would pay him a portion of any recovered amount in exchange for the list of his clients. So far, the amount paid to Birkenfeld represents the largest payment to an informant in US history. The irony in all of this is that Birkenfeld wasn’t caught in the act; he voluntarily went to the US government to expose Americans who were hiding their money in the Swiss giant. However, he forgot to disclose the names of a few big players, and the IRS charged him with conspiracy...

According to Scharttz, my case bears many similarities to Birkenfeld’s. I’m charged with money laundering, but these charges are just a pretext; what the IRS is interested in is getting their hands on the millions of dollars my clients are believed to be hiding in the Cayman Islands. Even though my lawyers haven’t had the chance to study the details of the accusation yet, they are certain they can help me (which isn’t really a surprise). I remember the Birkenfeld case well, and this detail motivates me to retain their services. Scharttz mentions that one of the prosecutors in charge of my case is named Katherine Duroc, a former colleague with whom he maintains an excellent relationship. He adds that to engage their firm’s services, I need to sign a contract and make an initial payment. I have a choice between two payment methods, an hourly rate or a fixed amount of one hundred and fifty thousand US dollars for all the work before the trial. I was expecting much less. This journey will be physically, mentally, and financially painful. I accept the offer without negotiating, which is not like me. Stress and fear are clouding my judgment; all I want is to get out of here. Scharttz informs me that he will be back tomorrow morning for the contract signing. I need money in my prison account to be able to write to my family, and he promises to take care of it. I also ask about Sara. Every time I mention her name, my voice breaks. Despite their assurances that she’s okay, I don’t believe a word of it. Haunted by the pain and shame she must be feeling, I’m convinced she’s suffering and panicking.

We then discuss the case. I provide a detailed explanation of the nature of my businesses and our innovative approach with financial institutions. Blackmann hands me a copy of the indictment. Some of the discussions held between David, the clients, and me are transcribed verbatim. Our conversations were recorded – that’s bad news. I’m afraid I might have said something stupid, especially as some of our evenings were quite spirited. I also recall a discussion where I told Jim, the accountant, that the less I knew, the better – words that could come back to haunt me now. The document states that the individuals David and I came to meet in Miami, Jim, Moishe, and Hans, are IRS agents. Jim had been trying to incriminate David for years, long before he joined Clover. The tax agent did everything he could to create a false friendship between David and him. We foolishly fell into a trap set by the federal government! To me, all of this is entrapment, a scheme by the government to push individuals to commit a crime they had never committed in the past. Haven’t I repeatedly refused to accept money from Jim the accountant’s client? I must be able to defend myself against these accusations. I continue reading, stunned by the transcription of a conversation that David and Moishe had behind my back. According to the document, David mentioned that Clover is willing to accept money from a bank fraud. He naively added that only money from drug trafficking or deposits intended to fund terrorist activities would be rejected. When David arrived at Clover, I noticed that he had very limited asset management training. That’s why I decided to share my office with him. That way, I could guide him during his phone conversations. When the issue of the type of money we accepted came up, I was very clear: no cash, no dirty money, nothing illegal in the Cayman Islands. I specifically emphasized the importance of avoiding any money from drug-related transactions or terrorist activities. It seems that he only remembered the latter part of the discussion. He just repeated my words without thinking. I’m furious; how could he be so naive? Blackmann urges me to describe my relationship with David. I tell him that we’re very close, he’s responsible for sales, and I’m responsible for portfolio management. I also mention that we work side by side, and I often have to tell him what he can and cannot tell clients. David tends to do everything to close a sale; is his zeal responsible for my prison stay?

I return to my cell, lie down on my bed, and quickly fall asleep. I will be awakened at 11:30 PM. At that time, all inmates must stand by their beds to ensure everyone is present – another humiliation. Back in bed, I can’t fall asleep again. What nonsense could David have uttered when I wasn’t present? The accusation is suddenly very real.

WITH ARMS WIDE OPEN

(Creed)

Unable to bear the administrative work any longer, I leave SFC after two years of service. With the help of a friend, I secure a teaching job at a workplace integration school for newly arrived adults in the country. I teach basic accounting, mathematics, and the fundamentals of the Canadian banking system. The pay is far better than that of the bank, for only about twenty hours of work per week. Sara and I now live together in downtown Montreal. I have never felt so light; I have free time and I enjoy my job. I remember a quote I read at the time: “Happiness is the absence of stress.” It describes my state of mind back then quite accurately. As someone naturally reserved, I find myself laughing out loud regularly. My life is beautiful and carefree. I am happy.

After a while, I realize that this job isn’t right for me. I have no preparations to make, and I feel guilty receiving my paycheck at the end of each month. I feel like my work is leisure; it’s too easy. Despite the joy that fills me, the feeling of not achieving enough grows within me. My relationship with my father improves. With maturity comes acceptance. Who am I to judge past actions? How can I be certain that I would have done differently in his place? We are in 1989, and the harsh recession of recent years is coming to an end; the Canadian economy is gradually improving. My father now works for a clothing manufacturing firm on Parc Avenue in Montreal. His transition from entrepreneur to employee is difficult. Charles is constantly in conflict with the company’s owners. However, as his working conditions are good and the industry is declining, he has no choice but to swallow his frustration. He is recognized as a productivity master in his field, and despite his mood swings, his bosses greatly appreciate his contribution. The new fashion trends are prints. The screen printing industry seems to be growing, and there are few reliable and efficient firms in the metropolitan area. Charles asks me if this is a business that interests me. I agree to study the project. After three months of work and thanks to a loan guaranteed by the Quebec government, I launch Hiéroglyphe: a fabric screen printing company. I become an entrepreneur.

At the same time, Sara and I decide to have a child. Less than a month after making that decision, Sara becomes pregnant. Everything happens very quickly. I leave teaching and now work sixty hours a week to start my own business. Three months later, I have three significant clients. Their orders allow me to run the presses from ten to sixteen hours a day. It’s good, but it’s not enough. The competition intensifies, and prices are dropping. My clients pay me about ten cents per print, sometimes a bit more for multi-color work. If I can’t increase my volume or execution speed, I have to try to raise my prices. This is when I discover the “entrepreneurs” of the flea markets. At that time, printed t-shirts for ten dollars each are selling like hotcakes in Quebec’s flea markets. The entrepreneurs distributing them to the merchants copy the most popular designs and print them on low-quality t-shirts. By avoiding paying royalties to the creators, these “pirates” pocket profit margins of over 300%. So, I start working on the side... at night. I now operate my presses twenty-four hours a day. I charge the pirates a dollar twenty-five per print, twelve times the normal price. After a few months, Hiéroglyphe generates a substantial profit. The mascot of a well-known carbonated drink and famous turtles will generate the necessary profits for the down payment on my first house.

This period of euphoria will not last long. The migration of manufacturing operations from Canada to Asia intensifies, and two of my clients close their doors during the summer. At the same time, the pirates disappear to avoid the authorities, who are increasingly raiding the merchants. We erase all traces of smuggling, and I spend my days searching for new clients. It’s a lost cause. Hiéroglyphe closes its doors at the end of August, a month before the baby’s due date. I need to find another job; there’s no way we can survive on just Sara’s income. Luckily, I’ve maintained good contacts with the people at SFC Bank. The old adage of not burning bridges serves me well. I swallow my pride and get in touch with my friend Paul, a human resources director at SFC. We meet in downtown Montreal, and he tells me about a regional manager position. After a few meetings, the position is offered to me. By leaving the bank for eighteen months, I’ve advanced my career by four years. At twenty-six, I will be the youngest bank manager in Canada. After the failure of Hiéroglyphe, my ego is now recovering. My daughter Zoë is born on September 22, 1990; everything falls back into place. I am proud of this beautiful little girl and my future position as a banker. What a wonderful life awaits me!

However, my paternal instinct was not innate. For years, I’ve been brainwashed by the idea that the birth of a child is an exceptional moment, a great joy. How many men have told me, sitting beside their partners, that the day their first child was born was the happiest day of their lives? I am convinced that many men who report these sentiments do so out of fear of hurting their loved ones. Personally, witnessing the birth of my spouse was a nightmare. The screams, the tears, the stress of the nurses, my wife’s aggression, the doctor’s indifference, the blood, the waiting, and the feeling of helplessness fail to describe the hell that the birth of my first daughter was for me. When the horror finally ended, the cord was cut, and I took that little body in my arms, I expected to be overwhelmed by the long-awaited joy. No luck, that little thing squirming in my arms was a stranger, an intruder, a being that had polluted my life for several days. It was when my daughter grew up, when she started smiling, recognizing me, that a relationship was established. My strong love for my daughters was born during their first year of life, and it was not instant.

I become a bank manager on November 1, 1989. At first, I have no idea what I’m doing. I ask a lot of questions and learn while working. I’m fortunate to be able to rely on several employees with more experience than me. We are entering a period of change for the Canadian banking system. With the arrival of computer systems, productivity increases, administrative tasks decrease, and staff focus more on sales. This development benefits me. I’m much better at sales than paperwork. The head office in Toronto launches two annual contests to increase assets: one focuses on mortgage sales, and the other on developing deposits in registered retirement savings plans. In my first year, my branch ranks among the top in Quebec in both areas, and we’re finalists for the title of Quebec’s most performing branch the following year. Finally, my work is recognized, and my career takes off. Over the next two years, I’ll be responsible for the growth of an SFC branch in the Montreal suburbs. My family and I have just moved, and I live a five-minute drive fromwork. This job is perfect for a new dad.

This period is uneventful until 1992, one spring morning. I arrive at work around 7:15 AM. Usually, upon my arrival, after sorting through the internal mail and reviewing daily reports, I take thirty minutes to call my colleagues from other branches. During these phone calls, we discuss our respective positions in sales campaigns and talk about the techniques that work in each of our sectors. On this cold spring morning, I pick up the phone to call my friend Christian, the newly appointed manager of another SFC branch. Christian, just like me, is a former intern who has successfully climbed the ranks at the bank. We discuss the ongoing mortgage campaign and a possible promotion for me in the coming months. After two years of success, I should expect changes; the bank never keeps a manager in place for too long. I suspect that financial institutions promote bank managers every two or three years before they become too attached to their clients and become too lenient in granting loans. After ten minutes of conversation, I hear a loud noise at the other end of the line, followed by shouts and barking: “Shut up, everyone down!” Christian’s branch is being robbed. Trying to gather more information, I stay on the line, but all I can hear is incomprehensible. I put the phone on hold and shout for my assistant to come join me. I command her to immediately call the Quebec Security Department. My tone leaves no room for discussion. I ask her to find Mr. Cheneaux, the department director. Taciturn and silent, Cheneaux is a former police officer; he speaks softly and never raises his voice. Yet, everything about him commands respect. In my memory, he resembles Vladimir Putin, the current President of Russia, and exudes the same authority. As an English-speaking friend once told me: “You don’t fuck around with Cheneaux.”

After a few moments, my assistant signals that he’s on the line. I pass the phone to my assistant, quickly explaining the situation and asking her to listen carefully to what’s happening in Christian’s branch. I rush to the neighboring office to take my assistant’s phone and speak to Cheneaux, who tells me: “I’ll take care of it, stay on the other line.” For almost an hour, I keep the phone to my ear. I hear noises, but nothing coherent. Around 9 AM, the secretary informs me that a police officer wants to speak to me on another line. The sergeant from the area informs me that he’s in front of the branch and everything seems calm. He needs to know if I still hear voices inside. I answer in the negative. The tactical operations team is considering besieging the bank, and he would like me to give them the green light since I’m the only one in contact with the team. I ask him to give me two minutes to check one last time. I know very well that I won’t hear anything new on the other end of the line. For several minutes, there have only been dull and muffled sounds. I put the sergeant on hold and go back to the other line. As I expected, I hear nothing. I have two choices: I either tell the officer that everything seems calm and risk the lives of the bank employees if the thieves are still there, or I recommend waiting, pretending to hear the criminals’ voices. My decision is made:

— Sergeant, they’re still there! I think I can hear them. I recommend that you wait before intervening.

— Thank you, call me back if you have any new developments.

Around 10 o’clock, the line is hung up without me being able to learn more. My subsequent calls remain unanswered. It’s during the evening news that I will learn how the drama unfolded. A group of three individuals had spent the weekend breaking through the floor of an apartment located above the branch. After succeeding in their maneuver, they left only the suspended ceiling between the branch and the apartment. Once the ATM and the bank vault were opened by the employees, the burglars entered the manager’s office. It was at that moment that I heard the screams. They then filled their bags with thousands of dollars and waited for the branch to open before exiting through the front door. Following my recommendation, the police did not attempt to intervene. Upon their exit, the robbers were greeted by a hail of bullets. A young man in his early twenties died on the spot, pierced by multiple projectiles. This story troubles me deeply. On one hand, I am proud that my actions helped stop criminals and relieved that none of my colleagues were hurt; on the other hand, I feel guilty, as my phone call cost a man’s life. I sleep poorly that night, experiencing my youthful anxieties about death once again.

Several weeks after that eventful day, I receive a letter from Mr. Cheneaux and the vice-president of the bank in Quebec congratulating me for my composure and decisive actions. Despite my successes, I am growing more and more bored at the bank. It’s a conservative environment where imagination has no place. I am far from my dream career as an advertising creator. Every week, I read job offers in Montreal’s newspapers and apply for any that offer work abroad; I haven’t lost my desire for adventure and travel. Unfortunately, all my requests remain unanswered. In 1992, SFC offers me the management of a larger branch in Montreal, where I did my internship and where I was threatened with dismissal. The loop is closed. I leave the suburbs to return to the city. In a Canadian bank, when the boss tells us to jump, we jump. The position doesn’t interest me much, but for lack of choice, I accept it. I’ve just turned thirty, and despite myself, I’m gradually becoming the banker I once despised. Life has turned into a long peaceful river.

IRONIC

(Alanis Morissette)

Aaron Scharttz arrives at the detention center on Sunday morning at 9 am. He is accompanied by an apprentice who records every word I say. Lawyers are not allowed to have phones or tape recorders in their possession during a meeting with a prisoner. Our discussion initially revolves around the contract he hands me. Since I don’t have my glasses, I struggle to read the document. I ask a lot of questions to ensure that the option of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars doesn’t contain any clauses requiring additional expenses. Aaron indicates that expenses like travel are not included. An additional amount of fifty thousand dollars will be needed. I ask him sarcastically why this information wasn’t mentioned to me yesterday. Scharttz blushes and stammers. He thought we had discussed it. I don’t really have a choice; I sign the contract, and we move on to other matters.

I need to determine whether I want to cooperate with the prosecutor or not, so I ask Aaron for his opinion.

— It all depends on what you said on the IRS agents’ recordings.

I affirm that I don’t remember saying anything incriminating. I think about it for a second and correct myself. I do remember a discussion with Jim, the accountant for the pseudoclient. One day in the Cayman Islands, he insisted on explaining the origin of the funds. I interrupted him and replied that the less I knew about the transaction, the better it was for the client and for Clover.

I know that this comment will harm my defense, especially if it was recorded. I always believed that Jim’s clients simply wanted to evade taxes, so I didn’t understand why he was so insistent on revealing the source of the funds. Although it’s common, people who try to avoid paying taxes in the Cayman Islands is a taboo topic. The client doesn’t say it, and no one asks them. There are, of course, some implications, like when in Canada, we ask a mechanic if the bill will be different if paid in cash. We’re not encouraging them not to report their income to the tax authorities, but it’s somewhat similar... So for me, even if I strongly doubt that an American is trying to commit tax evasion, I wash my hands of it and don’t want to know. This way, if they ever get caught, I can still plead ignorance if questioned. The individual won’t be my client but the bank’s or the law firm’s that I will refer them to. It’s up to them to decide whether to accept them or not. It’s clear that I should have asked Jim for more details; it’s one of the biggest mistakes of my life. The responsibility to verify the source of funds was Jean’s and his law firm’s, except that if a client wants to tell me something, as a representative of a financial institution, I must listen, which I should have done with Jim. In doubt, I should have inquired, which I didn’t do at that time. Following my remark, Aaron nods his head in agreement. He confirms: “US law is very clear on this; playing the ostrich is a crime.” According to him, there’s no need to worry for now; he has already requested the transcripts of the recordings from the prosecutor. He will receive the first excerpts on Monday and warns me that the ones we will receive will likely be the most incriminating. The goal will be to scare me into cooperating. So we move on to discussing this topic.

Cooperation is the politically acceptable term to describe the action of selling out others to save oneself. A cooperating inmate should receive a lighter sentence than if they lose their case in front of a judge and jury. The US federal government criminally prosecutes thousands of individuals each year. The conviction rate is an incredible 99%, meaning 99% of the accused plead guilty or are found guilty during their trial. Based on discussions I’ve had with many inmates, I’d say that the majority of the accused cooperate with the state. There are more rats in American prisons than in a municipal dump. The entire US judicial system is built on informing. An inmate sells out two others, who in turn sell out four, and so on. An inmate can decide to cooperate as soon as they’re arrested, hoping that the prosecutor will be more generous when negotiating the terms of their sentence. They can also wait to receive a sentencing offer from the prosecutor before sharing their information and thus try to negotiate a lighter sentence. For a group of co-defendants, the dynamic is different. The first one to crack and cooperate is usually the one who gets the lightest sentence. To enjoy the benefits of cooperation, the accused must plead guilty. If a cooperating inmate rejects the proposed sentence and decides to go to trial, the agreement is terminated, and the prosecutor will seek a higher sentence.

There are two elements to negotiate between the IRS prosecutor and the defense attorney. The first is to agree on the indictment. If an inmate agrees to cooperate, the prosecutor will likely reduce the charges against them, thereby reducing the maximum possible sentence. It’s important to specify that the quality and quantity of the information provided by the informant are not necessarily taken into account during a judge’s verdict. Ultimately, they hold all the power. Therefore, it’s important to reduce the charges from the beginning to shorten the potential maximum sentence. Each crime in the United States is assigned a level in the federal government’s sentencing guidelines. From this level, points are added or subtracted depending on whether it’s a crime committed by a repeat offender, a premeditated crime, or a violent crime. Dozens of nuances need to be considered. The score obtained will dictate a minimum or maximum sentence. The judge can still sentence an accused to a more or less severe sentence than recommended by the guidelines if there’s an unusual aggravating or mitigating circumstance, although this rarely happens.

The second element to negotiate is the percentage of sentence reduction. The prosecutor determines this percentage by evaluating the quality of the information provided by the informant. Since the prisoner has already pleaded guilty, there’s no trial. A date is set for the sentencing hearing. A few days before this date, after negotiation with the defense, the prosecutor proposes a percentage of time reduction, also called credit, which can range from 10 to 100%. The judge isn’t bound to follow these recommendations, and it’s not uncommon for them to sentence the accused to a much harsher or lighter sentence. For example, in Birkenfeld’s case, the informant who received a hundred and four million US dollars for his information, the prosecutor had asked the judge for a sentence reduction and proposed thirty months of imprisonment due to the informant’s excellent cooperation. The judge still sentenced Birkenfeld to forty months in prison, a third more than the sentence proposed by the government.

When an accused person cooperates, they sign a contract to that effect. Generally, the information disclosed cannot be used against them if the cooperation continues until conviction. If the inmate decides to backtrack or is suspected of lying, all the shared information can be used by the government to incriminate them. Therefore, it’s rare to see an informant change their mind.

Choosing to become an informant isn’t an easy decision to make. Before taking the plunge, I must first assess the probabilities of winning my case. In my mind and heart, I believe myself to be innocent of the crimes I’m accused of, and I suspect that the IRS evidence is merely circumstantial. To me, Moishe’s money was about tax evasion, not funds from a much more serious crime.

Tax evasion, tax fraud, and money laundering are three different crimes. Money laundering involves concealing the origin of a sum of money acquired through illegal activity by injecting it into legal activities. For example, making it seem like drug money comes from real estate sales. Money laundering always involves some form of tax evasion or fraud. Since these funds come from criminal activity, they’re never reported to the tax authorities, so no taxes are collected. There are several notorious criminals in the US who have been caught for tax fraud because they didn’t declare their income from illegal sources, even if the crimes generating these funds were never proven. The most well-known example? Al Capone, who died in prison serving a seventeen-year sentence for tax fraud.

Tax evasion is omitting to declare income, hiding it from authorities, refusing to pay owed taxes, or not submitting a tax return. In the US, tax evasion is generally seen as a minor crime and is rarely treated as a serious offense. In the Cayman Islands, where there’s no income tax, it’s not a crime. Most sentences for tax evasion don’t involve prison time.

Tax fraud involves lying on a tax return or falsifying documents to pay less tax to the government. Tax fraud is always a serious crime. In the US, this kind of crime is punishable by up to twenty years in prison.

Tax evasion doesn’t necessarily involve money laundering. Many legal experts agree that if the funds an individual doesn’t pay taxes on come from a legal source, the only crime committed is tax evasion. In the Cayman Islands, there’s no income tax, so by accepting funds from tax evasion, we’re not committing any crime in our country of residence, even if it’s not very ethical.

Charging us with aiding tax evasion in the US would be a waste of time for the IRS. In the worst case, we would receive a reprimand and a fine. To really harm us, they need to charge us with a more serious crime. That’s why US authorities have set a trap to implicate us in a money laundering conspiracy. They’ve concocted a story of bank fraud involving the bankruptcy of a construction entrepreneur. The recording of the conversation between David and Moishe during a car ride in San Francisco in the summer of 2013 forms the basis for this conspiracy.

I haven’t consciously engaged in money laundering, but Clover has accepted individuals engaged in tax evasion. A much less serious charge than what’s being brought against us.

I must be realistic and consider that the prosecutor and the judge are on the same team. With an opposing team batting average of .990, it will be difficult to win the game. Could a jury be favorable to me? Will David and Jean testify against me? If I choose to go to trial, I could face a twenty-year sentence. Given my clean record, a sentence of ten to fifteen years seems more realistic. If I choose to be an informant, the sentence will probably be four to five years with a reduction of 30 to 50%. I’m fifty years old and can’t afford to spend the next ten years in prison. When I get out, I’ll be sixty, and it will be very difficult for me to find a job and rebuild my life. I won’t have been able to support my family’s needs, and my relationship won’t survive all those years of separation. Cooperating seems like the logical solution. Despite that, my heart isn’t in it; it makes me sick to have to plead guilty to conspiracy to commit money laundering. Admitting guilt to aiding tax evasion would tarnish my reputation, but my investors would understand, whereas money laundering immediately brings to mind drugs or theft. No one will entrust me with a cent in the future. That’s not an acceptable compromise, and the prosecutors are well aware of that. It’s professional hara-kiri. My career as a financier is over.

The topic of cooperation leads us to discuss David. As he’s willing to do anything to close a sale, I’m convinced he’ll jump at the opportunity to become an informant first. That’s a big problem. If David speaks first, my value as an informant drops drastically. We also discuss my computer. I explain to my lawyer that I shut it down when I was arrested and that it contains all the data from all my firms. It’s probably the most valuable item for the prosecutor. Everything is there: account openings, passport copies, fund transfers, emails, etc. Of course, there are very few American names on the hard drive; they’re not our direct clients, but rather those of the banks we deal with. However, my computer contains information about all our partner banks, the names of their shareholders, their structure – everything is there. I expect my lawyer to smile as I explain all this, but instead, he seems even more saddened. He informs me that the IRS has obtained a search warrant for my computer, phone, and iPad. I’m devastated. I won’t have any negotiation power left after they analyze my hard drive. A few moments later, I make the only logical decision. I will be an informant if the prosecutor agrees to offer me a suspended sentence. That way, I won’t have to go to prison, and who knows, maybe we can negotiate a payment of 20% of the recovered tax revenues from the bank’s clients? Aaron smiles sadly.

— That won’t work.

He explains that the 20% deal made with Birkenfeld, the Swiss bank employee, was for thousands of names of American clients. I don’t have that leverage. In the US justice system, informants with the most incriminating information receive the best treatment. For white-collar workers who cooperate, the bigger the crime, the smaller the sentence. Unfortunately, I have very few levers. As I mentioned before, Clover doesn’t accept American clients. Even Moishe isn’t a Clover client; I have no information about him. Jean’s law firm had an account with Clover. The structure I set up was designed to protect the identity of the fund holder. What I can offer is an overview of the legal and financial structure used by the banks we deal with and explain the techniques Americans can use to escape taxes. I also have all the details about these financial institutions, some of which are owned by Americans. Aaron is getting restless. I draw him a diagram illustrating how a Clover client bank works, from acquiring the client to transferring funds to us. We work with over ten financial institutions with a similar setup. I continue my explanation, briefly describing the characteristics of the different legal structures used to protect clients’ assets from lawsuits or taxation. I explain that each country has its advantages and disadvantages, and each promotes a structure unique to it. Panama usually uses private foundations for American clients, while the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands favor a structure called STAR Trust. The more I talk, the more Aaron can’t sit still. It’s as if he’s never heard of how tax havens operate before. Someone who was so taciturn just ten minutes ago is suddenly radiant. He speaks up:

— I’m convinced that if we choose to cooperate with the prosecutor, the IRS will be delighted to hear all this information. Your understanding of the industry will be of great value to the tax authorities. Don’t overestimate their knowledge of tax havens. I want to make you the superstar informant when it comes to tax evasion in the Caribbean.

Finally, we discuss my appearance before the judge next Thursday. It will have two aspects: I must confirm that I am the individual listed in the indictment and explore the possibility of obtaining bail for my release. As I expected, my lawyer doesn’t believe that the judge will grant me bail. I’m not an American, I have no assets, and no family in this country. The probability of flight is too high. I agree and conclude our discussion by indicating that if we choose the path of cooperation, we need to outpace David and be the first to work with the prosecutor. Aaron confirms this and assures me that he’ll be back next Tuesday evening with the transcripts of the prosecutor’s recordings. We shake hands and part ways.

When I spread my buttocks for the search before returning to my cell block, I feel better. Fear often comes from the unknown, and right now, I have a better view of what awaits me.

RISE

(Eddie Vedder)

After just four months at my new branch, I’m already fed up. Everything is getting on my nerves: the employees, the clients, and especially my boss. The bank’s important strategic shift that began a few years earlier to turn branches into sales points continues. The bank is hiring new leaders with strong sales expertise. These district managers come from different industries: brokerage, insurance, even car sales. For a company as sclerotic as SFC was in the early 1990s, this shock treatment is beneficial in the short term. In the long run, however, the bank’s stock performance tells a different story. It’s always dangerous to marry lending campaigns and personal bonuses. As technology continues to increase productivity and centralize decision-making at headquarters, anyone can do credit; there’s no need to know accounting or finance. Just submit a loan application online to receive approval or rejection. And if the banker’s compensation depends on the number of loans granted, they might lower their selection criteria and tend to overlook certain small details that would harm credit approval. This is, in fact, a significant factor in the 2009 collapse of the US real estate market. Financial institutions lent money to anyone! As a shareholder, I can only applaud the bank’s initiative to increase sales; as an employee, it’s a different story. Bernard, Paul, Vlad – these new leaders all come from the same mold: unrefined, tough, and arrogant; they’re willing to do anything to reach their goals. The well-being of employees and the benefit of clients are not essential to them, contrary to what I’ve always advocated. Only the result matters to them.

Disgusted, I decide to look for another job. Every Wednesday, I flip through all the newspapers in the city to find available jobs. I discuss it with my contacts, and I check the bank’s intranet daily. For a few months, all the jobs have to be posted there. At the time, the internet is still in its infancy, and Monster and LinkedIn don’t exist. Job hunting is primarily about networking.

I don’t bear any resentment towards the bank; it’s my position that isn’t right for me. A company the size of SFC inevitably offers opportunities where I could excel and be happy. In February 1994, while browsing the intranet, I come across a position for the Quebec director of Titan mutual funds. The job involves distributing this family of funds throughout the province to securities brokers and financial planners. These professionals will then propose them to their clients. The sought-after candidate must have strong sales and financial skills. They must be independent and ready to travel regularly. Knowledge of the brokerage world is an asset. I read the ad five times and make a call to my friend Martin. He holds a similar position for the bank’s mutual fund family. SFC’s funds are distributed through the branch network, and Titan funds target brokers and financial planners who don’t work in branches. Martin and I have developed a strong friendship over the past year. During the RRSP period, the district manager of that time had designated us as co-leaders of the promotional campaign in the city. We had a high goal ahead of us, paired with a tiny budget. Martin and I made a good team. As a former broker, he has a sharp mind and extensive culture. With his knowledge and my imagination, we created a campaign inspired by cinema and its stars. To motivate the branches, we regularly offered movie tickets to the top sellers. The most challenging part of a multi-week campaign was keeping the sales officers motivated, as they tend to revert to their routines. To combat this inertia, we sent industrial quantities of popcorn to the branches. Who doesn’t love popcorn, and who can resist taking a second serving? Our “stars” campaign was a resounding success, and our district ranked first in Quebec.

I share my interest in the Titan position with Martin. He’s familiar with it and mentions that he’ll be on the selection committee. He admits he hadn’t thought of my candidacy, but he believes I would be seriously considered if I applied. I hang up, excited, and immediately start updating my resume.

To be honest, I know nothing about investing, let alone mutual funds. I’m not licensed to sell them, and I don’t even have my brokerage account. Am I aiming too high? Can a plumber become a carpenter overnight? What do I have to lose by submitting my application? Actually, quite a lot! If my director learns that I’m trying to leave my position a few months after being promoted, he’ll be furious. He’ll find a way to take revenge by tarnishing my career and condemning me to stay in this position for several years. I’ve never had such a strained relationship with a superior. He’s a brute who enjoys ridiculing people and setting impossible goals. Employees only have one purpose in his eyes: to make him look good in front of his superiors.

After my discussion with Martin, I assess the likelihood of landing the job at Titan to be 20%. I’m convinced that I will be selected for the initial interview. However, my lack of certification, knowledge, and experience are significant obstacles. If I fail, I’ll focus on finding a job outside the bank. Since this is a sales position, I need to impress the Toronto team that will come to Montreal for the interviews. My background at the bank isn’t too bad, except my successes were achieved as a sales manager, not as a salesman. I have a month to prepare.

The next day, I send in my application and prepare for the potential meeting. Martin sends me as much information as possible about the company Titan, which is 100% owned by SFC. Titan is one of the smallest mutual fund firms in Canada, with less than two hundred million in assets under management. The company promotes five funds, one of which seems to hold interesting growth potential: the Asian equity fund, the best in its category for the past two years. I study the competition and the top-performing comparable funds.

At that time, the business world isn’t very familiar with presentation tools like PowerPoint software. I devise my strategy. During the interview, I’ll try to reverse the roles and take control of the discussion. At that point, I’ll showcase my sales abilities through a dynamic presentation about one of Titan’s funds using PowerPoint. Other candidates will focus their presentation on their past achievements and personal attributes. I can’t win with that approach; my investment training is too weak. I’ll concentrate on the product features. The poor quality of the advertising material Martin provided suggests that Titan hasn’t transitioned to a dynamic sales approach. I decide to present the Asian fund to the interviewers as if they were brokers. In the weeks that follow, I read everything I can about the Asian economy. I absorb as much information as possible about the region’s growth, risks, policies, and demographics. Nothing escapes me. I devour four newspapers a day and a significant number of specialized magazines. As I expected, I’m selected for the interview, and I’m ready. I put on my best suit and leave the branch after lunch, pretending to have a meeting at the headquarters. I arrive fifteen minutes early. To calm myself, I walk around the block three times. I enter right on time, shake hands, and immediately take control of the discussion. Quickly reviewing my past experience, I emphasize my sales successes during the bank’s campaigns. I then suggest that the best way to evaluate my potential would be to see me present one of Titan’s funds. The group smiles; my approach entertains them and provides a change from the previous morning’s interviews. It all goes exactly as I had hoped. A month later, I receive a call informing me that an offer will be delivered to my home the next day, Friday.

A few months earlier, Sara and I acquired an apartment on Nun’s Island, very close to downtown Montreal. This purchase has put significant stress on our budget, and I hope that Titan’s offer will be higher than my current income. Friday morning arrives, and as we leave for work, the mail still hasn’t arrived. At lunchtime, I return home to see if my offer has been delivered; no luck, I’ll have to wait until dinner. The wait is killing me; I can’t sit still and leave the office at 4:30 PM. Traffic is heavy in the city on Friday evenings. A fifteen-minute journey during regular times can easily take over an hour during rush hour. I arrive at 6:05 PM: the distribution center is closed. I approach the glass door and tap lightly to get the attention of a woman. She comes to the door and tells me to come back next Tuesday. I give her my best smile and show her the note left at home by a delivery person. She hesitates, then asks me to slide the paper under the door. Thirty seconds later, I have my envelope. Since then, I’ve sent hundreds of letters and packages, and whenever I have the choice, I always use that company. It’s my way of saying thank you to that woman.

I walk to my car, sit down, and open the envelope.

In university, I set financial goals for myself. The first was to earn a fifty-thousand-dollar salary by my thirtieth birthday, and the second was set at over a hundred thousand dollars by my fortieth birthday. I hadn’t reached my first goal... by just one month.

I quickly skim the letter to find the salary offer. Titan is offering me a salary of sixty-two thousand dollars per year, along with an attractive bonus based on my annual sales. Victory! Farewell to the life of a banker, welcome to the world of investment. There’s a second page attached to my offer; I read it and can’t believe my eyes. I’m also being offered a ten-thousand-dollar signing bonus. I’ve never seen anything like this in the finance industry; they’re treating me like a professional athlete! On the way back home, tears well up in my eyes.

During the weekend, I take the time to carefully reread the letter. Everything is in order. However, the document clearly states that I must possess all the necessary certifications to practice in the profession in Canada. After some research, I realize that I must have completed the Canadian Securities Course if I want to be a mutual fund representative. The regular course lasts six months and includes a series of practical assignments to be submitted monthly, followed by a final exam that accounts for 50% of the grade. A student also has the option not to do the practical assignments and just take the final exam, which, of course, counts for 100% of the grade. To pass the exam, one needs to score 60% with the practical assignment option and 70% by choosing the fast option. An exam session is held every Tuesday at the Securities Commission office. I leave the bank and request an unpaid week off before starting my new job. I’m going to try to intensively study the entire program and take the exam the following Tuesday. I’m putting everything on the line. If I fail, I could end up without a job. This spring week in 1994 will be filled with very short nights and lots of caffeine. After reading and rereading the fifteen-centimeter-thick brick, I take the exam, nervous but confident. The next day, I start my new role and begin my learning as if nothing were amiss. No one knows that I don’t have the necessary certifications for this job. A month later, I receive my result. I tremble as I open the envelope: 72%. I’m in business!

My responsibilities at Titan involve meeting as many brokers and financial planners as possible to sell them on the qualities of our family of funds. The challenge is to convince these individuals, who also work in the sales field, to grant me an hour of their time. Shielded by a protective shell, the broker is a unique creature. Saying no to a representative like me is second nature to them. Their time is precious, and they can’t waste it on trivial discussions. Their income comes entirely from commissions. Each sale brings a sum to the broker, which they share with their employer. For mutual funds, this can amount to 5% of the invested value. If a broker places a client’s hundred-thousand-dollar investment into one of our equity funds, we’ll pay them five thousand dollars in commission, an amount they’ll split with the firm that employs them. Not bad for a few phone calls and an hour of face-to-face work with a client. But few people survive their first year in the brokerage world. You need to sell a lot and sell early on to make ends meet. A broker who can’t quickly convince clients to entrust their assets to them won’t generate the commissions needed to survive in their first months of work. Newcomers struggle to make ends meet. Contrary to popular belief, a broker’s job isn’t to analyze financial securities but rather to find new clients, people with liquid assets ready to invest in mutual funds, bonds, or stocks.

A solitary hunter, the broker is a creature with two faces, friendly and attentive to clients, tough and manipulative toward others. Their brokerage firm provides them with their weapons; they’re tasked with hunting down their prey. Those who succeed the most have understood how to hunt down their prey in large numbers. Brokers are often compared to wolves, an unfair and unflattering comparison for wolves. Wolves only kill what they need to survive; they’re not solitary and hunt in packs. The image of a shark is also often used to describe brokers. This, too, is a poor comparison. Brokers don’t kill their prey; on the contrary, they bleed it gradually, ensuring it can survive for as long as possible. A better comparison would be a louse, a parasite that feeds on the blood of its host, causing some discomfort but not preventing it from functioning. My new job involves becoming the parasite of a parasite. It might seem ugly depicted in this way, but it’s very exciting. Life is glamorous, expense accounts are generous, industry people have sharp minds, and if I’m successful, my earnings will be limitless.

I spend my first weeks absorbing all the information about Titan’s products. I meet with different managers, ask a lot of questions, and familiarize myself with their portfolio management techniques. I have so much to learn. To show my new employer that they made a good choice, I want to achieve results as quickly as possible. I dive in headfirst; I’ll learn on the job. André, my assistant, is there to help me. His role is exclusively phone-based. His main function is to set up as many appointments as possible with brokers and financial planners. I sit down with André, and we formulate a plan of attack. First and foremost, we’ll focus our efforts on the regions. If I’m going to look ridiculous, it’s better that it happens outside the major centers. To be honest, I don’t have the courage yet to face the giants of the profession. Next, I ask André to make sure I meet a minimum of five people per day. To persuade a salesperson, my first strategy will be to convince them to listen to me over a good meal. My expense account is unlimited. Over the next few months, I’ll have the chance to visit the best restaurants in Quebec, taste the finest wines, and pay the price by gaining over twenty kilograms. My experience as a representative and my waistline will both expand day by day.

A typical day unfolds as follows:

- 8 AM: Breakfast with a promising young broker or financial planner. - 10 AM: Exploratory meeting with the manager of a firm we know little about, to receive the green light to promote our products to their brokers. - 12 PM: Group presentation at a significant firm’s office where Titan pays for lunch for everyone, or a meal at an upscale restaurant with a substantial broker. - 2 PM: Personalized meeting with a broker or planner. - 4 PM: Group presentation at a smaller or medium-sized firm. - 6 PM: Dinner, sometimes with prominent brokers as couples.

Every morning, I receive a report on the previous day’s sales and their sources. This document allows me to analyze my successes and thank my “supporters.” After several lean weeks, I head to a broker branch in Sainte-Foy. I focus my presentation on our small-cap fund and use a graph showing the superior growth of this sector compared to the overall Canadian stock market. In the following weeks, brokers invest over a million dollars in this fund. My boss is thrilled, while I’m left wondering. I don’t understand the reasons for this success because my other meetings during the same period haven’t borne fruit. I don’t remember making a better impression there than elsewhere. Yet, the facts are undeniable: I cracked the code; I said or did something that convinced my audience. I reach out to the brokers who now consider our fund an integral part of their offerings and subtly ask them about the reasons for their enthusiasm. I come away empty-handed from these inquiries. All they have to tell me is that they liked the presentation and individually decided to offer the product to their clients. That evening, as I return to my car, I open the trunk to put brochures inside. At the bottom is the performance chart I used during my meeting in Quebec. I now remember that I had clearly indicated that a client who invested in small-cap stocks would outperform any other investment in the country. After making this point, a broker asked me if it was possible to have a copy of the presented graph to share with their clients. I took note of it, and André sent a laminated graph to all the brokers at the branch. What I understand now is that a broker is primarily looking for a simple and quick way to close a sale. The majority of them aren’t interested in the fund’s content or the manager’s approach. Past performance matters, but what the salesperson wants is a simple story that’s easy to repeat to their clients. In Quebec, I told them one, and I gave them the tools to charm their clientele. Several years later, a consultant confirmed my discovery by telling me this: “The true salespeople are the hardest-working lazy people in the world. They make no effort to step out of their routine and learn new things. Give them a story they can repeat ad nauseam that allows them to close sales, and they’ll be on the phone sixteen hours a day.” It took me months to arrive at this conclusion, and this discovery would pave the way for my success.

Some studies suggest that members of a group have an average attention span of twelve minutes during a presentation. So, besides having a story to share, one must be concise and engage the audience from the first moments. This is where my theater experience came in handy. Sales are, above all, a performance. The more people are entertained during a presentation, the more receptive they’ll be to the ideas presented. It’s also crucial to master your material well. A single unanswered question can ruin a reputation. I’ve always built my presentations myself. That way, I dictate the pacing and the punchlines.

SOUND OF SILENCE

(Simon and Garfunkel)

It is Tuesday, March 19th, and I have been incarcerated for a week now. I feel like I’m at the same point as the evening of my arrest, nothing is progressing. I still haven’t communicated with my family, and news from the Caymans reaches me only through the filter of my lawyers. I spend my days looking outside or staring at this soundless television. Progress with reading my book is slow. I tried to find another book with larger print and came across Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential,” a man I met in the Caymans two years ago. Holding the book at arm’s length and under bright light, I read at the speed of an eight-year-old child. The book is a blend of autobiography and an exploration of the counterculture of the restaurant world. This charming book makes me smile for the first time in a long while.

I do some exercise on the stationary bicycle, but with the jumpsuit and sandals, it’s complicated. I also try not to sweat as much as possible. Since my return from court on Friday, I’ve been wearing the same clothes: four days with the same socks and underwear. Twenty-four hours a day in my green jumpsuit. I’m starting to smell. In here, inmates aren’t allowed to sleep in underwear; we have to keep our jumpsuit or shorts on. I haven’t received my clothing allowance yet. On Monday, I complained to the guard, and he retorted that the delivery was made last Thursday, and that I didn’t show up during the call. Indeed, I was in solitary confinement... He confirms that I should receive my clothes this week. Seven days in the same duds is long. At the Miami detention center, an inmate receives the following wardrobe: two jumpsuits, three t-shirts, three boxers, and three pairs of socks. No shorts, you have to buy those. I finally receive everything on Wednesday afternoon in a mesh bag. On laundry day, I put my dirty clothes in the bag and drop it into a large blue bin. It will be returned to me the next morning, clean but damp. Laundry in prison involves tossing the bag filled with clothes into a massive washing machine. Then the bag is wrung out and quickly dried, so the clothes still reek of dampness.

I finally received a deposit into my account from my family, but I still can’t call them because my counsel hasn’t given me my phone code. Tomorrow, the State will be able to know who I communicate with and will record all conversations. Nevertheless, I now have access to emails. I write to Sara first, expressing my love, sadness, and anxiety. I also ask her to tell the girls that I love them. They need to be strong and realize that even though our life will change, our family will remain united. After four hours of waiting, the time required by the prison to review outgoing and incoming communications, I receive Sara’s reply. A note of encouragement and relief. She wants to know why I’m here, but she understands that our emails will be read by the prosecutors and that I can’t express myself freely. We have nothing to hide, although writing about Clover’s clients in a messaging system reviewed by the authorities would be a crime in the Caymans. Moreover, who knows how my messages would be interpreted? Over the next few days, we’ll share our thoughts, a few lines at a time. Sara informs me that news of my arrest isn’t public yet, and few people seem to question the absence of the Clover folks. Finally, she asks me a series of questions about what she should do. Since I have little information, I simply suggest she do her best and that I will never blame her for her actions. Also, we decide to put our house up for sale well below market value.

Aaron Scharttz arrives for our meeting around 9 PM on Tuesday night, still accompanied by his assistant. He first informs me that to his great surprise, the judge granted bail to David earlier today. According to him, it’s good news as this decision gives hope for bail for me. I disagree; it’s bad news. It implies that he has become an informant. I remind Aaron that I had been very clear about our strategy in our previous meetings: it was crucial for me to be the first to cooperate with the IRS. He insists I’m wrong, but I don’t believe a word of it. I’m furious and urge him to initiate negotiations with the prosecutor. We’ve wasted enough time, and the deadline requested by his firm before my appearance in court is now haunting me. He assures me he’ll call the prosecutor tonight and informs me that Sara has made a deposit of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Only the final fifty thousand dollars is missing for everything to be in order. I emphasize that it’s a sufficient amount to start working; the sooner, the better.

We discuss Thursday’s appearance. The prosecutor has demanded my transfer to the Virginia district since that’s where the indictment originates from. Why Virginia, a place I’ve never been to? In their trap, the agents had asked Jean to deliver documents there to be able to charge us, as the sentences are much harsher there. A manipulation of the system, as I’ll see many more of in the coming weeks. We could contest my transfer, but that would only delay the process and worsen the situation with the prosecutor. If we manage to negotiate bail with the IRS, it will be approved by the Virginia judge.

Finally, he hands me a series of email exchanges between the prosecutor and him, in which some portions of the recordings between the IRS agents and me have been transcribed. I quickly skim through them, focusing my attention on the transcript that reports my words. My fears are confirmed; the recording incriminates me:

IRS Agent: “You know how sensitive these funds are. If it were an ordinary investment, it wouldn’t bother me. This money, I’m afraid the bank people or the bankruptcy people might come looking for it. The guy who made the loan at the bank got fired. This money is... how should I put it? Hot, hotter than your pink shirt. I don’t think there’s a way to retrieve this money; we’ve given the invoices and paid the subcontractors.”

Me: “I don’t want to know. The less I know, the better for you and me.”

There’s no doubt that this recording makes me look guilty. However, some elements are missing. Jean, the lawyer, and I had decided not to accept any more funds until clarifying the situation at the next meeting. Therefore, the authorities had to arrest us before discussions about the source of the funds could take place. I now understand how the prosecutor was able to convince the grand jury to issue an indictment.

ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

(Bob Dylan)

During the summer of 1994, the CEO of Titan gives me a call to share some big news. Our family of funds has been acquired by CapMutuel Fund. This is a division of Capital Global Asset Management, one of Canada’s largest asset managers. My feelings about this change are mixed. On one hand, I’m excited to work with a structured team capable of serving French-speaking clients well (at Titan, I was alone in my office, and it was challenging to get materials in French). On the other hand, CapMutuel already has two representatives in Quebec, so now there will be three of us sharing my territory: the pie is getting smaller. I console myself by thinking that CapMutuel has an excellent reputation in Quebec as the only significant French-speaking company in the country.

My relationship with CapMutuel starts off on the wrong foot. My base salary is reduced by ten thousand dollars to standardize the income of all representatives. This is unacceptable, so I request a meeting with the CEO. Now I’m a salesperson; let’s see if I can sell him my idea. The CEO is fair, honest, and straightforward, but also not the easiest person to approach. He intimidates me a bit, but I didn’t venture into the investment world to see my income decrease. I muster up courage and first congratulate him on the acquisition. Flattery often gets the attention of a leader. Then I inquire about his expectations from the Titan team. He candidly confides that he hopes we will energize his sales team. While CapMutuel has a significant market share in mutual funds sold through financial planners, they’ve struggled to penetrate the brokerage market. At Titan, it’s the opposite, and he wants the amalgamation of the two sales forces to help us gain market share across all sectors of the industry. I agree and suggest that the merging of the two groups should provide him with what he’s looking for, as long as the Titan team remains intact. Seeing his skeptical look, I explain that Titan’s representatives aren’t necessarily thrilled about working for a relatively unknown French-speaking firm outside of Quebec. I add that after the transaction, several of my Anglophone colleagues have already been approached by competitors. Finally, I admit that the announced salary reduction is causing some resentment among the newcomers. He sits there, thoughtful, behind his large desk. Me, standing like a beacon, waiting for his response. His silence seems to last forever; have I gone too far?

“Eric, what would you do in my place?”

“I would treat all the salespeople the same way. I’d raise everyone’s salaries to sixty-two thousand dollars. Then, I’d evaluate each person’s performance over six months and appoint Titan’s salespeople I want to retain as vice presidents, the same title as the current CapMutuel representatives. Those who haven’t been promoted will know what they need to do.”

“Do you have anything else to add?”

“No, that’s it. Thank you for your time.”

Two weeks later, CapMutuel announces that the annual base salaries of all representatives are raised to sixty-two thousand dollars. The news spreads quickly, and some suspect that my intervention is behind this turnaround. I earn the respect of CapMutuel’s representatives, who see their income increase by 20%. Three months later, I am appointed vice president.

I become responsible for broker sales in major centers and all Anglophone representatives in Quebec. It’s the same job I held at Titan, with a grander title but a smaller territory... It’s amusing to be considered the most Anglophone in the group, even though my command of the English language is far from perfect. The other representatives in Quebec don’t envy me; they consider my position a poisoned gift. No one has ever managed to break into the brokerage world at CapMutuel, and everyone believes it’s only a matter of time before I also hit a wall. On my side, I see this new territory as an exciting challenge; I am now responsible for the area with the most potential.

It’s at this moment that an exceptional guy enters my life, Stéphane. We call him Steph. He’s a go-getter. Steph is hired at CapMutuel to replace André, who stayed at SFC during the Titan acquisition. Steph has just finished his finance degree and has a passion for the financial markets. Unlike most people in finance, Steph is a natural-born salesperson. As a teenager, he was already running all sorts of businesses. We complement each other. He makes phone calls twelve hours a day and never takes no for an answer. Steph and I are going to change CapMutuel’s history. Two confident guys with perpetual smiles, we challenge other sales teams, bet on sales volumes, and create that friendly competitive spirit so crucial to the success of a distribution company. At the beginning of our collaboration, our territory is the least performing in Canada. With hard work, we increase mutual fund sales every month. Slowly but surely, we approach the top teams in the country. After six months, we’re third out of twelve teams. In 1995, we sell over a hundred million dollars in CapMutuel funds in the Montreal region. No other sales group has reached such an amount. We’re number one. I’m incredibly proud of what Stéphane and I have achieved.

Just like at Titan, money flows to maintain our growing client base. There’s a particular place I like to take my clients for entertainment. Under Montreal’s Jacques-Cartier Bridge is one of the oldest former prisons in Canada. This historic monument, now called Au-Pied-du-Courant, has a troubled past. It’s where Quebecois patriots were detained and hanged during the 1837 rebellion, a historical tragedy considered by some as the birth of the Quebec separatist movement. Today, Au-Pied-du-Courant rents its rooms to the private sector for events and has transformed the old cells into private wine cellars. Our boss, Philippe, and the CEO of Capital, Jacques, share the rental of a cell for their personal wine cellar. CapMutuel occupies part of their space and stores fine wines there to entertain their clients. Steph and I regularly invite groups of three or four brokers for wine and cheese tastings. Being in a cell over two hundred years old, five meters underground, drinking a good bottle of wine magically transforms a business acquaintance into a friend.

I remember an evening when we had “slightly” indulged in CapMutuel’s generosity. After drinking more than a dozen bottles, at the point when I usually ask my clients to head home, one of them said, “One last for the road?” Tired and tipsy, I made the mistake of asking the broker to fetch the last bottle of the evening from the cellar himself. Upon his return, he handed me his find so that I could open it. I’m not a wine connoisseur, and I was even less so back then. Before opening the bottle, I read aloud the name of the nectar we were about to enjoy. As I pronounced the name of the wine, Pommerol, a light went off in my mind. This name was familiar. Where had I heard of this wine? I had no idea, but something was off. Trusting my instinct, I declined to open the bottle and asked the broker where he found it. He got up unsteadily and assured me with a smile that the Pommerol was from CapMutuel’s reserve and not my bosses’. I knew very well he was lying as naturally as he was breathing. I decided to put the bottle back in the cellar and get another one. All the brokers called me a miser and a “party pooper.” Not wanting to lose face, I turned around and threw them a challenge: “The first person to sell two million dollars of CapMutuel funds this year will receive this bottle as a gift.”

They all accepted the challenge, and I put the bottle in my bag to take home. We continued the evening by drinking another bottle.

The next morning, despite a strong hangover, I arrived at the office at 7:30 AM. At 10 AM, I was summoned to my boss’s office. It was a first, and I wondered what he wanted. A promotion? I entered his office with a big smile.

“How can I be of service?” were the first words that came out of my mouth.

He stared at me and angrily asked:

“Yesterday, a three-thousand-dollar bottle disappeared from my personal collection. It seems you were in CapMutuel’s wine cellar with clients last night. Who took the Pommerol?”

I had forgotten that I had stored the bottle in my bar the previous evening. The first thought that came to my mind was, “I hope Sara won’t make a beef bourguignon today!” How he learned about the missing bottle so quickly remains a mystery. I told him about the evening and confirmed that the bottle was safe and sound at home. He retorted in a chilly tone that if any of the brokers reached their goal, I’d have to replace the bottle at my expense. For the only time in my life, I rejoiced in not reaching a given sales target.

Our successes are confirmed in 1995 and 1996. The competition between the sales teams benefits CapMutuel. The other two Quebec teams also present excellent results. Camaraderie and a competitive spirit prevail. It’s during this time that I’m offered the chance to become a shareholder of the company. To do so, I have to take out a loan from the bank, which will be guaranteed by CapMutuel. The company also commits to paying the interest on the loan, and I will repay the principal from a portion of my annual bonuses. I accept their offer. It will be the best investment of my life.

The province of Quebec accounts for over 50% of CapMutuel’s sales, even though it represents only 20% of the Canadian population. To become a major player across the country, CapMutuel needs to penetrate the Ontario market, the most populous province. One evening, as I leave the office late, I overhear CapMutuel’s number two speaking vehemently. He’s complaining about Ontario’s poor performance. I walk into his office and, on a whim, ask him if he would like me to move to Toronto to solve his problem. He slowly hangs up the phone and looks at me without saying a word. He’s weighing the pros and cons in his mind. My boldness might have just altered the course of my career.

“Are you sure you’re ready to move to Toronto?” he questions.

“It depends on the offer and my girlfriend.”

Over the past few years, Sara has continued to climb the ladder at SFC. She now works directly with the Vice President of Sales for the province and is just one promotion away from becoming a Vice President herself. I’m proud of her achievements and want to ensure that a move to Toronto won’t end her career. Number two wants to know my requirements for accepting the position of Director in Toronto. I go all out and demand a 50% salary increase, my own sales territory, and a bonus on all province-wide sales. He leaves his office and goes straight to Jacques, the CEO of Capital. Thirty minutes later, it’s confirmed – the company is offering me the position of Director for Ontario and the Maritime provinces. All of this happened in less than an hour. Toronto isn’t quite the exotic adventure I was seeking, but it’s a step in the right direction. That evening, Sara and I discuss the impact of such a change on our careers. She informs me that it will be easy for her to find a similar job to the one she holds in Montreal. By morning, the decision is made. Off to Toronto.

My English has improved over the past few years, although I still have many gaps to fill. The company offers me private lessons during the two months leading up to my move. To ensure a string of successes in Ontario, I ask Steph if he also wants to take up this challenge. He eagerly accepts my proposal. The two migratory birds show up at the Toronto office at the beginning of the autumn in 1997.

AUPRÈS DE MON ARBRE

(Georges Brassens)

On Thursday, March 21st, I’m awakened at 5:30 AM for the long and arduous transport to the Miami courthouse. This time, I’m appearing before a new judge in a different courtroom. Aaron Scharttz introduces me to another of his partners, Ari Goldeen. He goes over the process of the appearance with me again, and Aaron informs me that the IRS agents and the prosecutor want to meet with me for an initial interview next Wednesday. This news is reassuring – at least things are moving forward. The appearance goes as planned. I’ll be transferred to Virginia in the coming weeks. After lunch, I’m returned to West Block 8.

I’ve added several people to whom I’d like to send emails to my contact list, and I regularly write to family members. I have access to the computers for only fifteen minutes at a time before being blocked for an hour, so I frequently return to the computer room. Noticing my constant back and forth, a fellow inmate informs me that one of the computers doesn’t measure the time between sessions. So, I can finish one session and start a new one immediately. I thank him and strike up a conversation. His name is Jason. An easy name to remember, as he looks just like Jason from the movie Friday the 13th. He’s about six and a half feet tall and weighs around 330 pounds. He’s in his early fifties, the kind of guy people call “Mister.” Since he seems friendly and I wouldn’t mind having an ally with such a stature, I continue the conversation. Jason is a Florida native who lives in the neighboring county. Unlike most inmates, he’s not in transit or awaiting trial. He’s serving his sentence at the detention center, which is quite unusual. It’s his second time behind bars. Both times, he got caught for narcotics trafficking – illegal sales of oxycodone. This drug is quite popular, judging by the number of people incarcerated for trafficking it. Doctors prescribe it for back pain, even though it’s addictive. When the prescription runs out, many patients turn to the black market to obtain it. At dinner, I sit near him. He’ll become my mentor in Prison 101. He’ll also lend me a bowl for my morning cereal, asking for nothing in return except to share my story with him. Here, people look at me curiously – I’m white, educated, tanned, and speak with a strange accent. I don’t fit the prisoner stereotype. Inmates love to discuss the reasons for their arrests. The more exotic the story, the more interesting it is. Without giving too much away, I explain to Jason the charges against me. I also confess my reservations about snitching. He tells me the story of a fellow inmate he got to know last year – a banker from Panama.

Panama, like the Cayman Islands, is a tax haven often used to reduce or eliminate taxes for individuals or companies. Mitt Romney, the Republican Party leader in the 2012 US election, deposited hundreds of millions of dollars in a Cayman Islands account, all legally. The majority of offshore account holders are citizens and primarily companies that take advantage of loopholes in their country’s tax laws. It’s a privilege for the wealthy who can afford the services of specialized accountants, tax experts, and lawyers. In my world, they say that the difference between tax evasion and tax planning is a good lawyer.

The prisoner Jason knew was a Panamanian banker charged with money laundering. During negotiations with the IRS, the prosecutor offered the banker a light sentence of eighteen months in exchange for the list of the bank’s American clients. Believing he was innocent and would win his case, the banker rejected the prosecutor’s offer and opted for a jury trial. He ended up with a twenty-year sentence. After sharing this story with me, Jason looked at me and asked, “Do you know how many of his former clients send him a gift at Christmas? Zero. Eric, you can do what you want – it’s not my business – but know that nobody will be there to help you after your conviction.”

On Friday afternoon, I finally receive my phone code. I can finally call Sara. I wait my turn at the phone and dial her number. After three rings, she answers:

“Hello, it’s me.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s me, your prisoner, Eric.”

After a long silence, Sara inundates me with all the questions swirling in her head. This is the first time we’re talking in ten days. We have so much to say to each other. She’s holding back tears but the pressure is intense. She informs me that the story of my arrest is in all the newspapers, that the bank accounts of my companies have been frozen, that even our personal assets have been blocked. She has only her Canadian credit card to survive on. The list of calamities hitting her continues for several minutes. After this litany of very real problems, she ends by asking me a simple question: “Have you done something dishonest? Are you guilty?” I know the Fed is listening to my call, that everything is being recorded. I don’t want to discuss the details over the phone. I affirm that I’m not guilty, but that the Fed has dozens of hours of recordings, and I might have said one or two compromising things when taken out of context. However, I mention that David has been spouting nonsense in meetings I wasn’t present at. Since David and I are jointly charged with conspiracy, it’s possible I’ll be found guilty by association. Sara then asks me about my prison conditions. I avoid telling her about the hole or the state of my cell, just reassuring her about my health. I confide in her how much it hurts to see her so helpless. The words get stuck in my throat, as if I’m about to vomit; I feel so terrible subjecting her to such agony. Locked in a cage thousands of kilometers away, I’m powerless. After thirty minutes of regulated time, the line cuts off. I realize I’ve fallen to my knees, collapsed, holding back my sobs. Sara will leave the Cayman Islands the next day to be close to her family in Quebec.

In the evening, Ari Goldeen, the lawyer I met on Thursday, writes to inform me that he will come to see me on Monday instead of tomorrow. He also mentions that he will be accompanying me during my interview with the IRS next Wednesday. To my great surprise, the next morning, I’m asked to prepare to meet a visitor. Since I haven’t yet provided the authorities with the list of people who will be visiting me, I know it’s not a family member. Therefore, I expect one of my lawyers to show up with important news. Anxiously, I wait in the visitors’ room. I envy the other inmates who receive their partners and children. I read a large sign on the wall: “Only one hug and one kiss upon arrival and departure,” as if too much love could turn us into wild beasts. Each couple has their own table, many ignore the rule and touch each other with the tips of their fingers. It’s a tender sight to see these ladies who have made an effort to look beautiful for their loved ones and these smiling, carefree children running around.

A well-dressed man appears at the door and loudly mentions my name. I signal to him, and we sit at a table between the couples. Mr. Smith is a senior consular officer for Canada. He represents the Canadian government in Miami. He wants to ensure that I’m being treated well and see if he can help me. I summarize my arrest and imprisonment for him. The consulate can’t provide legal advice, but as his business card indicates that he’s a lawyer, I ask him to set aside his consular hat and tell me what he would do in my shoes. Unexpectedly, he agrees. According to him, whether innocent or not, the best course of action is to make a deal with the prosecutor. He specifies that the federal government has spent enormous sums for my arrest. A secret operation that took place in two countries and lasted over a year must yield results. The prosecutor will do everything to get a guilty verdict. A loss would be disastrous for her career. She’d lose face and have to give up her dreams of a lucrative career in the private sector. The U.S. justice system is just in name only. Then, Mr. Smith wants to know if I expect a prison sentence. I respond that it’s the opinion of my lawyers. According to him, a charge like mine will likely result in a sentence of eighteen months in prison, after receiving cooperation credits. Strangely, he never asked me if I plan to cooperate, assuming it goes without saying. We discuss my lawyers; he knows them but would have preferred if I chose a group that exclusively works with Canadians. This seems odd to me, as nationality has nothing to do with the sentence. The prisoner’s origin only comes into play when discussing the place of imprisonment. Finally, he questions me about the price charged by the law firm, and there he is very clear: I paid way too much. The normal price for such a service is thirty to sixty thousand dollars. He leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth.

BROWN EYED GIRL

(Van Morrison)

The St-Cyr family settles in Oakville, a suburb to the west of Toronto, a pretty little town experiencing rapid growth. We purchase a property north of the famous Glen Abbey golf course. I, who thought I had struck the deal of the century with this new job, realize that the cost of living in Toronto is considerably higher than in Montreal. My daily commute downtown presents challenges as well. Although our house is theoretically only twenty minutes away from my workplace, it can take up to two hours to get to the office during rush hours. The train would be a faster and more cost-effective solution, but my daily appointments in brokerage houses require me to use my car.

At CapMutuel Toronto, I inherit a lethargic and negative team. The arrival of a French-speaking boss from the head office doesn’t improve the situation. I’m a foreigner arriving from another country to straighten out a situation that’s going nowhere. It’s a bit like if Toyota sent a Japanese executive to manage the American market. I understand and accept that my presence is poorly perceived. Right from the start, I adopt a positive attitude. I facilitate many changes that the employees were expecting and gradually earn the team’s trust. I strive to build a bridge between the Toronto and Montreal offices. I discover that the bitterness of Ontarians has grown over the years because they feel like the head office treats them as second-class citizens.

The cultures of Quebecois and English-speaking Canadians are quite different. There’s a certain xenophobia on both sides. The “anglos” and “francos” of Montreal have influenced each other over the decades, creating some harmony. The further one gets from Montreal, the worse the situation becomes. The lack of contact between Quebecois from the regions and English speakers has reinforced the negative and ancestral perception of the English. They feel exploited by the rest of Canada, which may have been the case in the past, but it’s no longer true today; since the early 1990s, it’s Western Canada that financially assists Quebec through equalization payments. The Quebecois from the regions often believe that national policies have always been put in place to “screw over” Quebec. English speakers outside Quebec aren’t much better. They look down on Quebecois culture. I suspect them of being somewhat envious of the Latin character and joie de vivre of Quebecois; the ant envies the grasshopper.

By accepting this promotion, I thought I could alleviate this discomfort between the two solitudes, as if one man could erase two hundred years of history and bitterness. I was quite naive. What I didn’t anticipate was that by aligning myself with the Toronto team, I would irritate the Montreal leadership, becoming a traitor to the cause. In addition to encountering resistance from the Montreal management team, I find myself in an uncomfortable situation with my Toronto team. I no longer belong to any team; I’ve lost my identity. I’m treated with respect and politeness, without being fully accepted. In hindsight, I realize that this cultural experience, despite its failure, has taught me a lot and will be very useful in my adventures in the Caribbean.

At the office, despite my efforts to recreate the camaraderie and chemistry that were the foundation of our success in Quebec, I can’t achieve it. However, my efforts to increase sales activities do bear fruit. Assets are on the rise, and the executives are satisfied. From an outsider’s perspective, my transfer to Toronto is a success; for me, it’s a failure. My goal was to surpass Quebec’s sales volume, which I unfortunately don’t achieve; we occasionally take the lead only to lose it the following month. At least the growth of national assets proves to be positive for the value of my personal shares.

My little Zoë is now seven years old. She’s adorable, insightful, and demands a lot of attention. Zoë didn’t sleep through the night until she was four years old. Sara and I found her early years so challenging that we decided to have only one child. During a vacation trip to Cuba, Zoë approaches both of us with a pitiful look on her face and asks us for a little brother or sister. How can we refuse her such a thing? Ten months later, Tiffany is born, a beautiful, chubby baby with fair skin, black hair, and hazel eyes.

As has happened too often in my career, after two years in my position, I start to get bored. My motivation decreases, and I have less and less fun working with my team. Toronto doesn’t bring me the exoticism and adventure I was searching for.

LET HER GO

(Passenger)

On Monday evening, Ari Goldeen and Aaron Scharttz arrive for our meeting. Still shaken by my discussion with the Canadian consular agent, I speak up. — The people from the Canadian consulate visited me on Friday. According to them, your firm is charging me way too much for the services you’re providing. The costs for a defense in a case like mine should be between thirty to sixty thousand dollars. So, you’re charging me up to five times more than the market rate. An uncomfortable silence settles in. Ari tries to interrupt me, but I cut him off sharply.

— I work in a similar field to yours. I know how rare talent and experience are in the professional services industry. I accept that the top 10% in their field can charge whatever they want, as long as they deliver. I’m willing to pay your rates, but I expect to get value for my money. If I buy a Ferrari, I don’t want the performance of a Hyundai. I paid for the Ferrari, and I’m still waiting for you to start the engine. So far, everything I’ve asked for hasn’t been delivered. David was the first one to cooperate, I don’t know where I stand with my bail, and you haven’t even managed to get me a pair of glasses!

Ari tries to reassure me about their fees, saying that their firm usually charges much higher amounts to defend a client. So why did they decide to reduce their fee for me? He quickly responds that they wanted to ensure they were retained, that it’s an interesting case. Translation: it’s a case that will receive a lot of media attention, perfect for promoting a young group like theirs. Aaron adds that the Ferrari analogy is good, and they will deliver. I need to be patient.

We then discuss my bail. The prosecutor has shown some openness, and an agreement is likely. The amount will be high, and I’m considering it. I could have a certain level of freedom, rent an apartment in Alexandria or Washington DC.

Ari also explains what to expect during my IRS interrogation in two days. He presents this meeting as an interview. The goal is to assess my honesty, my willingness to work with the IRS, and the amount of information I possess. His recommendation is to be an open book, to share everything without reservation. I must answer all questions without omitting any detail. If the prosecutor is satisfied with the meeting, I’ll take a flight to Virginia the next day; if she’s disappointed, I’ll be transported by bus, which can take more than two weeks. Finally, we discuss the Cayman Islands. Aaron confirms that all accounts have been seized, both corporate and personal. He admits that Sara is distraught. No words come out of my mouth. I meet Aaron’s gaze, tears running down his cheeks. This confirms my choice; Sara’s chosen legal team genuinely cares about our situation. We part ways. I’ll see Ari again on Wednesday during the government interview.

On Tuesday afternoon, I call Sara again. We’re both less emotional now. I need her to check some details on the investment platform to prepare for my meeting with the prosecutor on Wednesday; my lawyers told me that the government agents are particularly interested in my relationship with certain banks. Sara tells me she herself has removed all my access to our clients’ accounts to avoid being accused of anything. I sigh; this puts an end to my elaborate plan in the hole. Without access, we won’t be able to sell all the securities and receive commissions as I had planned. The Cayman government will soon take control of my firms, and I have no doubt that the fees charged by all the external experts engaged to liquidate my companies will wipe out any chance of profit. All the clients’ money is in their account; I haven’t taken a dime. Since I’m now perceived as a criminal, everyone will think I dipped into the clients’ accounts. The government and the external accounting firms will scrutinize every cent. Everything will have to be seen, reviewed, and analyzed. It will take weeks and destroy everything I’ve built. Clover will have to close its doors, and the assets within it will disappear into professional fees. The liquidators will charge exorbitant amounts, first depleting the company’s accounts and then the clients’ accounts. The vulture industry that surrounds struggling firms is merciless. I have to say goodbye to the capital of my companies and their market value, a hard financial blow... Just as I inquire about our daughters,

Sara says to me, “You know that I love you, but I have to think about the girls and myself first. Everything I do, I’ll do it for the good of our family.” I immediately grasp where this conversation is headed. She couldn’t have been clearer: she wants a divorce. I don’t understand; I’m left speechless. She sobs and hands the phone to our nephew Marc, with whom she’s been staying since arriving in Quebec. Marc and I are very close friends. Despite a ten-year age difference, we share the same character traits. We don’t need to talk to understand each other. He tries to comfort me, assuring me that my wife’s decisions are made for the good of everyone, that a divorce is just a piece of paper. My head understands, but my heart doesn’t believe it. I know people change over time. I reply to him:

— Marc, I understand that Sara wants a divorce to protect the family. I know her intentions are noble. But in the coming months, she’ll develop anger towards me. She’ll look for someone to blame for the situation she’s in, and that someone will be me. It’s in human nature to seek blame; it’s inevitable. When her rage subsides, her feelings for me will have changed. After a year alone, with no one to share her daily life, her loneliness will become unbearable. At that point, all the beautiful words and intentions will be forgotten, and the divorce will take shape in full force.

Marc asks me to trust him, not realizing that time will destroy the love between Sara and me. I have to do everything in my power to get out of prison as soon as possible.

LEAVING ON A JET PLANE

(John Denver)

After two years at our Toronto offices, my colleague and friend Stéphane leaves CapMutuel. He’s decided to further his studies to advance his career. He’s relocating to England to pursue a master’s degree in finance. I will miss him. On my end, I’m combating the boredom of routine by immersing myself in learning investment techniques. Since I frequently travel with CapMutuel’s fund managers, I have the opportunity to ask them many questions to understand the mechanics behind portfolio management.

The more I learn, the more surprised I am by the various approaches of each manager. Each has their own recipe, and they hardly exchange ideas with one another. It seems that for them, outperforming their colleagues is more important than beating competitors’ funds. In addition to using diverse techniques, they have widely varying levels of professionalism. Some are very meticulous, using a system developed over years that they continuously refine. Others have no discipline, relying more on their intuition. What’s even more astonishing is realizing that a manager’s performance has nothing to do with their investment philosophy, stock selection techniques, or professionalism. All of this leads me to question the key to success. What is the essential element for success in this sphere of activity? The job of a portfolio manager is to select securities that, as a whole, will outperform the market. Mutual funds found in financial institutions, whose proper name is mutual funds, consist of investments. A fund is like a large bag where investors pool their money and entrust it to a manager who chooses where to invest it. Investments are usually stocks or bonds, but today, there are mutual funds for almost everything that exists, from oil to currency baskets. The fund manager must add value to the fund by choosing stocks or bonds that generate above-average returns. If the Canadian stock market produces a 10% return in a year, a good Canadian stock manager who delivers should achieve a performance exceeding that 10%. Documents about mutual funds as well as fund salespeople swear that the secret ingredient of success is the manager’s investment process. Our firm manages over sixty billion in mutual fund and pension assets. We are one of the largest firms in Canada. More than two dozen well-paid managers are employed. By analyzing their working methods, I expected to discover iron discipline and a structured approach. That’s not the case. Even more surprising, individuals who appear to have a solid approach and superior intellect often exhibit the most mediocre performance. Could portfolio management be more of an art than a science?

I recall a manager we hired to improve the performance of our Canadian equity division. With an extraordinary track record, his results were well above those of the Canadian stock market, year after year. In less than a month, our marketing department had created a buzz around his arrival; he was the savior of Canadian equities at Capital. With such publicity, my team and I took advantage of the opportunity to capture additional market share by promoting the merits of this new messiah. It was easy. We only had to inform our clients of the manager’s previous performance at our competitor, implying that he would do the same for them. It’s common for a fund representative to parade their managers in the top brokerage offices. In person, the broker can better understand the manager’s approach and get answers to their questions. With a manager by their side, doors are always open. On a beautiful sunny summer day, one of my colleagues accompanied our new star to one of the largest brokerage offices in Canada. My manager didn’t disappoint and delivered a thunderous presentation. Very handsome, he spoke with humor and charisma. For over an hour, the brokers hung on his every word, an achievement in our field. Our representative was already counting his millions in new sales. Suddenly, a young broker asked our star manager a simple question. The kind of question an experienced broker would never dare ask for fear of revealing their lack of knowledge. He wanted to know the nature of the business of one of the major holdings in the portfolio. In other words, he wanted to know what the company that my manager had invested millions in actually did. Slowly, the star’s smile faded. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. After stammering, he admitted his ignorance and abruptly left the presentation, citing another appointment. What he had just confessed in front of all the brokers was that his fund had invested over three million of our clients’ money in a company about which he knew nothing. His sudden departure caused us a lot of trouble. As expected, his response had angered the brokers, who wondered how a professional could invest in a company they knew nothing about. Our firm was never invited to that branch again. The credibility we had built over the last two years had been destroyed in two minutes.

I later learned that our famous manager, who earned several million per year, chose his stocks using only one criterion: if the stock was rising, the fund bought it; if it was falling, it was sold. His investment technique was as simple as that. Let’s not forget that our star gentleman was one of the top-performing managers in the country. What I actually learned from this was that a manager’s success, especially when analyzing their results over five years or less, is primarily due to luck.

Over time, I develop affinities with the managers of Capital International, which is the smallest business unit of Capital. The group is responsible for selecting securities outside of the Americas, managing all structured products, derivatives, and non-standard investments. In short, Capital International handles all assets with a high level of complexity.

The managers in this group have two things in common: remarkable intelligence and an entrepreneurial spirit. The quality of their research is exceptional, and the level of discussion among the international team members surpasses what I’ve observed in Canadian equities and bonds. The flip side: the team members’ inflated egos and the poor performance of their funds. After the unit head offers me a position with the group, I leave CapMutuel and become Vice President of Business Development at Capital International.

It’s a perfect promotion for me. The work and my colleagues stimulate me, and I oversee the international distribution of Capital to our offices in Geneva and Hong Kong. I become a jet-setter, and my dream of adventure finally comes true abroad. The real adventure is experienced overseas.

I WANT YOU TO WANT ME

(Cheap Trick)

I’m being led in chains to the courthouse. It’s there that I have my encounter with the IRS. Throughout the evening and the night, I’ve devised a plan of attack. Just like in my interview with Titan over twenty years ago, I intend to take control of the meeting and set the agenda. I’ve prepared several pages of notes:

- Clover’s history - List of our institutional clients in the financial sector - Overview of offshore banking strategies to expand clientele, particularly at international conferences or on the internet - Diagram of the key players at our largest client, an Antilles bank that accepts American clients.

If my approach works, I’ll be able to persuade the prosecutor to work with me, accumulating credits toward my sentence. The goal is for me to become an essential tool for the IRS in its quest to dismantle tax havens.

At ten o’clock, two IRS agents pick me up from the court cell. I recognize John, the officer who arrested me, the “bad cop.” He’s much smaller than I remember. John is accompanied by another agent named Brent, who also worked on my case in recent months. I awkwardly shake their hands, chains and handcuffs in the way, remembering the first lesson I learned in this place: always stay polite. John and Brent are courteous and smile at me, as if I’m a partner. We head into a small room. Ari, my lawyer, is already there and wants to speak to me privately. He’s nervous, as this meeting is crucial. If I fail, we’ll go to trial and I’ll face a long prison sentence. I show him I’m prepared and ask him to let me speak first. I reassure him that I’ll follow his advice: tell the whole truth, just the truth, nothing but the truth.

Ari fetches the prosecutor and the two agents. I’m surprised to see that the prosecutor is a man, not a woman. His name is Teddy, and Ari explains that three prosecutors are assigned to my case. I’d really like them to remove the chain around my waist, as well as the handcuffs and leg irons. John informs me that it’s court protocol, but since it’s just the five of us, he’s willing to bend the rules and remove the chain and handcuffs.

I sit to Ari’s right and begin to speak, offering to provide them with Clover’s history since its inception. Teddy nods, and I start my presentation. My years of experience as a presenter come in handy. I speak for three hours, only stopping to answer various questions and clarify some technical aspects. I learn a lot from the questions they ask. The prosecutor and the agents want to know how banks recruit the clients they send to us, which tax structures these clients prefer, how each link manages to abide by its own country’s laws when the whole activity appears dishonest. It becomes evident that their knowledge of offshore structures is limited, and they mix up legality and honesty. For example, they don’t know that an American who physically holds precious metals, such as gold bars, doesn’t have to report this asset to the tax authorities. This loophole in U.S. law has led to a flourishing trade in safe deposit boxes in tax havens. We also discuss clients who, with the implementation of FATCA, hurried to buy multi-million dollar properties with the money from their bank accounts to avoid being reported to the IRS by their financial institutions. Similar to gold, a foreign-owned property doesn’t have to be reported to the IRS if it generates no rental income. This explains why there are so many vacant condominiums on Caribbean beaches. The prosecutor is also unaware of the most commonly used trusts in the Cayman Islands. This is good news; it increases my value in his eyes.

We pause for lunch. Once again, Ari wants to speak with me privately. He’s now all smiles, and I feel like he wants to give me a hug.

— You’re doing a fantastic job. They’re really pleased. It’s written all over their faces. I’m amazed by your knowledge of the sector, and even more by how effortlessly you can simplify everything.

I thank him and get down to business: — Can you go get us some lunch? The prison food is terrible!

After a turkey sandwich, a Crunch chocolate bar, and a cup of coffee, we continue our discussions for another two hours. When the meeting ends, I suggest that with the contents of my computer, I could provide them with much more detail, especially about the banks we do business with. The prosecutor confirms that we’ll meet next week in Virginia with my computer. This means that my services as an informant have been accepted. John and Brent take me back to my cell. They’ll pick me up the next morning for my departure to Virginia. We’ll take a flight to Miami and then head to Ronald Reagan Airport, just a few minutes from the Alexandria detention center, my new home.

When I return to Block 8 West, I receive an email from Ari informing me that we’ve reached an agreement with the prosecutor for my release on bail. The amount is two million dollars, requiring a cash deposit of three hundred thousand dollars. The bail conditions stipulate that I must stay in the city of Alexandria or Washington and wear a GPS ankle monitor. This news doesn’t bring me much joy, as all my assets have been frozen in the Cayman Islands. I’m penniless. Since the crime I’m accused of spans two countries that communicate very little with each other, each decides the course of action on their territory without contacting the other. The Cayman Islands freeze my assets while the United States asks for a bail deposit for my release.

In the morning, I’m pulled out of bed once again at 5:30 a.m. and begin my “court ritual.” In the dressing room, after being stripped and searched, I’m given a uniform. It’s the same brown t-shirt and underwear as before, but this time, I’m given a different pair of pants. They’re made of paper and electric blue in color, the material similar to that used for vacuum cleaner bags. I already knew that as a prisoner, I was considered society’s waste, and my “Hoover” pants confirm it. I put them on and realize they’re way too big. They’re a size 3X, while I now only wear medium. I ask for a smaller size, but no luck – the detention center only has this size: One size fits no one. I hand over my “amazing” flip-flops to the guard, which are replaced with lime green socks that have rubber soles glued to them. I expect to receive a jumpsuit or a coat, but I’m mistaken; this is all I’ll have on during my journey. In March in Virginia, temperatures often drop below freezing, and they’re sending me there in just paper pants, underwear, and a t-shirt. John and Brent arrive at the detention center at 9 a.m. My leg irons, chain, and handcuffs are removed, and they’re replaced with a wide leather belt in reddish-brown, to which the handcuffs are attached. Taking pity on me, John puts his windbreaker on my shoulders. I sit in the back of a two-door sports car, and we head to Miami Airport. The agents inform me that this vehicle was recently seized by the IRS and that they can use it for a few days. I look at myself in the rearview mirror:

I can’t believe that the U.S. government will parade me around like this on a commercial plane in front of civilians. Dirty hair, unkempt, unshaven, dressed like a clown, in paper pants and a t-shirt, chained and handcuffed – I look terrifying. I look like a real killer.

After passing airport security, we sit near our departure gate. I take the opportunity to learn more about my two bodyguards. Both are small men. They’re barely five feet tall and don’t have the build of typical police officers. John explains that most of the agents in his department are accountants by profession. When they join the IRS enforcement division, they undergo a six-month training as law enforcement officers. During our wait, no less than three marshals come over to greet us. They’ll be on the plane with their guns to prevent any incidents during the flight to Washington. It seems that all flights to the capital board up to three armed agents in civilian clothes to ensure passenger safety. The September 11 attacks really influenced security rules in the United States. Nowadays, the government pays five agents dressed in plain clothes to prevent any attacks on the plane. The flight proceeds without incident, except for the fearful glances from other passengers who notice my handcuffs. The two-and-a-half-hour flight, handcuffed, seated by the window, at the back of the plane near the restrooms, feels like an eternity. We arrive at the Alexandria detention center around 4 p.m.

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

(Led Zeppelin)

My first few months at Capital International are dedicated to perfecting my knowledge of the products and markets served by this division. My role involves promoting our investments to Canadian pension funds. I’m also responsible for overseeing the sales teams in Geneva and Hong Kong. My travels take me regularly to Europe and Asia, and I love this life filled with new experiences, allowing me to discover unfamiliar cultures. Finally, my childhood dream is coming true. I work during the day and explore the city at night. Hong Kong is extraordinary – I can wander for hours in the public markets, open-air souks where everything imaginable is sold, especially clothing and small electronic items. I buy countless trinkets for my daughters. The energy exuding from this place intoxicates me. The streets are crowded with people at all hours, a stark contrast to America. Even at two in the morning, the crowd is still present, as if space is so limited that everyone has their assigned time to shop. Here, consumption is a national sport, and everyone participates.

Asians eat anything that breathes. Nothing escapes them – insects, crustaceans, and fish seem to come from another world. Offal, dog, snake, or rat – anything is fair game for a meal. I try a bit of everything, aiming to immerse myself in this culture, to become one with it. I’ve never felt so alive, yet something is missing from my happiness. All these experiences, pleasures, sensations – I’m living them alone, without Sara and the girls. Just as I’m achieving my goal, I realize that happiness is primarily about sharing experiences with those we love. I promise myself to return to Asia with my family.

The more I learn about Capital International, the more it confirms my theory that the brightest individuals often deliver the worst performances to investors. Over time, I understand why superior intelligence can often be a disaster for a portfolio manager.

Once again, it’s important to understand that a portfolio manager’s primary goal is to outperform the market. If they succeed, their bonuses will far surpass their base salary, but if they fail for several quarters, their job will be at risk. To achieve better performance than the market, they must attempt to predict the direction the market and the securities in their portfolio will take. For instance, a manager with strong analytical skills could have predicted the housing bubble that led to the 2008 economic crisis as early as 2005. In that year, U.S. house prices were well above historical norms. For several years, the value of residential properties was increasing much faster than inflation and people’s incomes. Houses were becoming less affordable; to buy one, an individual had to borrow larger and larger amounts and was at the mercy of interest rate hikes. A loan that cost five hundred dollars a month could easily jump to seven hundred fifty dollars. In such circumstances, people ran out of money and had to hand their houses over to the bank. If thousands or even millions of people find themselves in this situation, the economy collapses, and banks risk going under – this is what happened in the 1929 crash.

A brilliant manager who noticed the formation of this housing bubble would have decided to sell the stocks in their portfolio to protect the gains from previous years, as a collapse in the real estate market would undoubtedly lead to a stock market disaster. This decision seems perfectly logical, except it doesn’t take the human factor into account: investors tend to buy stocks when a strong increase has already been observed. This enthusiasm for quick gains allows for further price hikes, convincing more investors to join the “party.”. Following this principle, house and stock prices continued to rise between 2005 and 2007, defying all logic. A manager who sold their stocks in 2005 would not have participated in this increase. They would have ended up with a poor performance and a boss pressuring them to change their strategy. The manager might have started doubting themselves, and clients would have slowly left their fund. Under pressure, they might have panicked and reversed course. Toward the end of 2007, they could have repurchased stocks. In 2008, as everything crashed, their fund would likely have suffered a 50% drop in value without benefiting from the positive performances between 2005 and 2007. The boss would have been furious, firing this brilliant manager. They would have foreseen the crisis but not pinpointed the precise date of the crash. Meanwhile, a less logical and analytical colleague, blind to real estate signals, would have kept investments throughout the period, providing investors with a similar return to the market. They would have kept their job and continued to receive their performance bonus each year. Contrary to popular belief, strong analytical skills are often a handicap in portfolio management.

At Capital International, I’m surrounded by intelligent people with pitiful performances. When I joined the group, I believed that my previous experience, where my sales techniques had generated good results, could be adapted to selling my new products. I was wrong. Capital International’s target market is pension funds. Institutional sales would prove very different from broker sales. Investment decisions for pension funds are made by a committee composed mostly of firm employees who follow the recommendations of an external consultant. This consultant, often hired at a high cost, is usually a conservative financial specialist. Their selection criteria, in order of importance, are:

1. Past performance; 2. Risk management; 3. Investment process.

Capital International probably has the best investment process in the Canadian industry. Our performance is weak, and we also lose points in risk management, even though it’s the most thorough in the industry. Clients have the impression that using derivative products, complex financial instruments, involves an additional element of risk. Despite my attempts to explain that we use derivatives to reduce portfolio risks, nothing changes. It’s much easier for the consultant to recommend a firm with strong performance and a conventional approach rather than an innovative group with lackluster performance.

I must give credit where credit is due. Capital’s CEO, Jacques, had warned me about the challenges I would face, strongly recommending that I stay at CapMutuel.

In 2000, after two years of failure at Capital International, I explore other avenues to increase our managed assets. I’m paid to sell, but I’m selling very little.

As I mentioned, SFC owns a significant portion of Capital’s shares. During the acquisition of these shares by the bank, an agreement stipulated that Capital would manage all the bank’s discretionary assets, meaning all portfolios where a manager makes decisions on behalf of the client. Capital thus received substantial sums of money to manage from the bank: all mutual funds, private management portfolios, and pension funds are now on our books. All except for a one-billion-dollar portfolio located in the Cayman Islands. Just like the indomitable Gaulish village of Asterix, the Cayman Islands division has consistently resisted Capital’s pressure. The Cayman Islands assets seem like the low-hanging fruit to me; I focus my efforts there. I pay multiple visits to the bank’s management in the Cayman Islands, and I push Capital’s leaders to discuss the situation with SFC’s president. I realize that the Cayman Islands division refuses to transfer its assets to us to protect local jobs and maintain personalized service on the islands.

On the other hand, Capital wants everything repatriated to the Montreal head office and the Cayman Islands office closed to achieve economies of scale. Capital’s leaders, in their attempt to save hundreds of thousands in salary, are leaving millions in revenue on the table. The solution is clear to me: Capital needs to integrate the Cayman Islands team into its investment group by opening its own office in the Cayman Islands and absorbing the team. This way, we increase our assets by one billion, and changes will be minimal for the Cayman Islands bank. I present my plan to both parties, and they accept it in early 2001. The value of Capital International’s shares increases by 15% on the day of the transaction – my first victory abroad. To cap off this transaction in style, the Cayman Islands division insists that I be transferred to their offices to oversee a smooth transition of their operations. My efforts of the past fourteen years are finally paying off.

FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES

(Garth Brooks)

John and Brent leave me at the prison entrance and mention that we will meet again during my next meeting with the IRS. The Alexandria agents take over, and they will now be my new “masters.”. Upon arrival, I notice that the atmosphere here is much more relaxed than in Miami. They remove my handcuffs and direct me to the registration office. I walk down the corridor where I count about twenty cells of different sizes that accommodate one or more prisoners. These are drunk tanks, cells used for sobering up. When someone is arrested for being drunk or causing a disturbance at night, they are placed in a cell like these until the morning, allowing the effects of drugs or alcohol to wear off. My registration process follows the same course as in Miami. They take my fingerprints, my photo, and ask me the same questions. I then meet a nurse with long fluorescent acrylic nails. She kindly asks if I would prefer to answer a new set of questions or if I want her to obtain my file from the Miami center. I tell her to choose what works best for her, I don’t care. She then asks me the usual questions about my health. When we get to the section about my mental health, she wants to know if I have any suicidal thoughts. I joke:

— Not yet.

She looks at me with her big brown eyes as if I’ve just announced a calamity. She stands up, closes the office door, leans towards me, and whispers:

— Never make jokes about suicide and never repeat what you just told me. If the administration finds out you made such a comment, they will put you under 24/7 surveillance. Believe me, you don’t want that!

I thank her and confirm that I don’t have suicidal thoughts. That’s not entirely true. I don’t want to take my own life, even though I’ve considered various possible ways to do it. You never know, maybe I’ll get twenty years. In Miami, hanging oneself using a towel or clothing seemed like the easiest option. In Alexandria, after surveying the place, I’ll consider stealing the cable wire to hang myself by jumping from the terrace level. It’s the best plan that has come to mind. I’ve also thought about suicide by police intervention, but since the officers aren’t armed inside the walls, this attempt could only happen during my transport.

Finally, the nurse wants to do the subcutaneous tuberculosis detection test. This involves injecting a substance under the skin of the left arm that will react to antibodies developed against the tuberculosis virus if the inmate is infected. Since I had this test done in Miami a few days ago, I fear that a second test in such a short time could produce a false positive result. I question her about this, and she admits her ignorance. I then ask her to obtain my Miami result. The last thing I need right now is to be quarantined due to a false reading from a medical test.

I am then locked in one of the drunk tanks and informed that I will join the general population when my entire file is complete. So, it seems that these cells also serve as a waiting area for all prisoners. They give me a two-centimeter thick mattress and two blankets. I settle on the floor and observe my surroundings. The cell is larger than the one in Miami’s Block 8. There’s no bed, just a concrete bench at the back of the room where a young bearded man sleeps. The light is dim, and the large windows facing the corridor provide no privacy. I find my beloved toilet. The bearded man opens an eye, greets me, and asks me for the time. He’s part of a group of seven young people involved in trafficking oxycodone. Three boys and four girls who, to make money, forged prescriptions, obtained the drugs from pharmacies, and resold them at high prices on the streets. Later, another member of the group will tell me that they made over ten thousand dollars a week for a few hours of work. They all received sentences of five to ten years of imprisonment. I found this sentence outrageous; they’re just kids, younger than Zoë. They didn’t commit any violence in their crime. How will they be able to reintegrate into society after their release? Who will employ them? The American prison system has only one goal: to punish as much as possible. It couldn’t care less about the inmate’s reintegration. It’s very sad to see so many lives wasted.

I stayed locked in this cell for several days. I’ll learn when I get out that I spent four days and four nights there. No light and no way to know what time it is. At some point, I completely lost track of time, not knowing whether it was night or day. The only possible escape: sleep.

My only outing was a short visit to court for the approval of my bail. Still dressed in my paper pants and lime-green socks, I smell so bad that the guards avoid me; four days without a shower in the same clothes, I’m starting to leave an olfactory trail. My bail is approved. I consider this exercise a waste of time because I don’t have the money requested for bail, and even if I did, I would still remain in prison. It’s important to note that time spent in a detention center is subtracted from the final sentence time. Time spent on bail, despite its constraints, doesn’t count. I take some pleasure in imagining David, who can’t sleep at night thinking about the time he’ll have to serve in the penitentiary. My stay in prison has taught me something that will stay with me for the rest of my days: the fear of suffering is often worse than the suffering itself.

After what feels like a few days, I demand to know why I’m still being kept in this cell. My companions from the last few days have come and gone after twenty-four hours. There must be a reason why I’m still not in the general population, with the main group of inmates. The guard sends the head nurse. A sixty-year-old witch with pumpkin-colored hair and Halloween makeup appears at my door. In a dry tone, she explains that I caused the delay in my transfer by refusing the tuberculosis test. If I’ve been here for four days now (meaning it’s Monday), it’s because the center hasn’t received my results from Washington DC yet. I look at Miss Pumpkin with anger and respond condescendingly:

— You’ll be waiting a long time, I wasn’t in DC but in Miami. We’ve wasted enough time! Give me your damn test.

I undergo the test a second time. Then, they take me to the shower, give me clean clothes similar to those in Miami, and lead me to Block 4CF, cell 4C7.

The Alexandria detention center presents an unusual situation. It’s a county jail that operates in partnership with the federal government. Something of a hybrid between a detention center and a prison. So, it houses all sorts of prisoners: federal detainees like me, as well as men serving lesser sentences for offenses like drunk driving or violating probation conditions. Due to our proximity to Washington DC, we also have terrorists arrested by the United States in other countries, and finally, several violent detainees awaiting trial. In Alexandria, homeless people, pedophiles, murderers, and drug dealers all rub shoulders and share the same space. The ethnic composition of the prison is slightly different from what I observed in Miami. African

Americans make up 70% of the cells, and Latinos about 20%. The remaining 10% is a representation of the United Nations. There are more foreign inmates here than in regular detention centers. In my unit, there are Colombians, Salvadorans, Moroccans, Spaniards, Pakistanis, and a Canadian, me. Most of them were arrested in their home countries and deported to the United States. If any shenanigans touched the States in any way, the culprits will be hunted down until they can be tried in the United States. Many of my cellmates have been forcibly abducted by bounty hunters and brought back to Uncle Sam. The Spaniards constantly complain about the quality of the place. In their country’s prisons, they are entitled to a private cell with a television, an espresso machine, and light beer for dinner. The Saudis, on the other hand, thank Allah for being here; they talk about the horror of their prisons where conditions are unbearable and torture is the norm for everyone.

The Alexandria prison is also overcrowded. My block was designed to accommodate forty-six inmates, but we’re more than ninety sharing the space. The cells are small. Designed to hold one inmate, they are all occupied by two prisoners; one sleeping on the concrete bed at the back of the room and the other on a plastic bed placed on the floor less than a meter away from the toilet, a kind of PVC beach chair covered with a thin plastic mattress. When locked in their cells, the detainees have no choice but to lie on their beds. There’s no space for a chair, let alone a desk. Each cell has two small windows about fifteen centimeters wide allowing daylight to pass through. It all looks more like a medieval prison dungeon than a detention center for someone who hasn’t yet been proven guilty of a crime.

I share my cell with a big African American who has just received a significant sentence. He seems depressed and spends his days sleeping or listening to the radio. We talk very little, almost ignoring each other. Time passes slowly, very slowly. My money from Miami can’t be transferred to Alexandria, and I have to wait for my family to send a bank draft by mail before I can buy anything.

Fortunately, I’m allowed two notepads. I start writing this book. After twenty years of word processing on the computer, it’s quite an experience to return to handwriting. No copy-paste, no dictionary, no internet, I have only my memories to write my life. To maintain my privacy, I don’t write in English. Returning to French poses difficulties, and I have to stop regularly to wait for the translation of a word to come back to me. I use one notepad to write my first draft and the second one to clean up my work. The goal is to produce a version that can be read and digitized so that I can improve it when I get out. I have no idea if this book will ever be published. I’m writing primarily for my children, it’s my way of telling them who I was and who I am today.

There are two floors in Block 4CF. A ground floor with two televisions, four showers, the officers’ office, a few tables, and half of the cells. On the second floor, there’s a walkway with two more televisions and the remaining cells. From there, you can observe everything happening on the first floor. At the eastern end of the platform is my cell, in front of which Muslim inmates prostrate themselves during their prayers five times a day. During prayers, I cannot access my cell. One evening, a few days after my arrival, the group gathers in front of my cell. Their leader opens my door just as I’m sitting on the toilet. The situation is very uncomfortable. He sticks his head through the door opening and informs me that I won’t be able to leave my cell for the next fifteen minutes, the time needed for prayers. What can I say, except “OK”? I go about my business quietly, listening to the murmur of their prayers. After ten minutes, the prayers turn into chants, a very harmonious hymn. Hearing the final note, I flush the toilet, creating a tremendous noise, as if an audience is giving them a standing ovation. I step out of my cell, smile at everyone, give a little bow, turn my back to them, and head downstairs to the ground floor. That evening, as I expected, the nurse who checks the results of my tuberculosis test believes that I have the disease. Indeed, my arm is swollen. I explain the situation to her, and more out of laziness than understanding, she drops her follow-up.

The next afternoon, the correctional counselor calls me to his office. He asks me if I object to changing cells. It seems that my Muslim companions don’t appreciate my humor. I find myself in 4C10 with the only other white-collar inmate in the prison: Parker.

Parker has been imprisoned in Alexandria for seven months now. In the early 2000s, he was the founding CEO of a real estate brokerage firm specializing in hotel sales in the United States. By early 2007, his personal fortune was over one hundred and fifty million dollars. One evening, Parker had me read his indictment, in which I saw a picture of his seventeen hundred square meter house, a property valued at over six million dollars. I know that despite his exaggerations, at some point in his life, this man was worth a small fortune. Parker undoubtedly belonged to the 1% of the world’s wealthiest people. It was also by reading his indictment that I understood the reasons for his imprisonment. During the collapse of the financial and real estate markets in 2008, Parker suffered significant losses. In order to rebuild his fortune, he concocted a fraud where he would buy his clients’ properties under a false name and resell them at higher prices to pre-identified buyers. This all usually took place on the same day. Such a maneuver is illegal and contrary to professional ethics. The role of a real estate agent as a fiduciary obliges them to seek the best price for the buyer, not to pocket enormous sums without their knowledge. Each of his transactions earned him millions of dollars. With one of these sales, he pocketed over twenty-five million in a matter of hours, then the client discovered the scheme and sued Parker’s firm in civil court. This lawsuit was the final nail in the coffin of Parker’s company, which closed its doors.

After these setbacks, he tried everything to get back on track. He first set up a fake real estate firm with a website, phone number, professional card, etc. He then convinced a wealthy doctor to entrust him with the sale of a hotel he wanted to get rid of. Posing as another individual, Parker made an offer on the hotel for eighty-five million dollars, which the doctor accepted. In real estate, to secure a transaction, a seller and a buyer deposit a sum of money in trust with the broker. In this transaction, the amount to be deposited with the broker was two and a half million dollars. Since Parker was the broker and the buyer, no one knew that he hadn’t deposited the amount he received from the doctor into a trust account. Instead of following the law, Parker kept the money and transferred it to a tax haven where it disappeared. Sensing the scam, the client contacted the FBI, which was already on Parker’s trail after the story of the missing twenty-five million. Meanwhile, unsatisfied with only stealing two and a half million dollars, Parker posed as a third individual and approached the same doctor to offer him the sum of one hundred and twenty-five million for his hotel. In cahoots with the FBI, the client accepted the offer. To maximize his fraud, Parker resumed his role as the primary buyer and contacted the doctor to demand a sum of fifteen million dollars in damages and interest for breach of contract. This is where the FBI intervened, filing criminal charges against Parker for embezzlement and fraud. After being incarcerated for a few days, he was released on bail. To convince the police of his innocence, he showed an extraordinary audacity and infiltrated the doctor’s hotel to send an email to the FBI. In this message, he posed as a hotel employee who, under the cover of anonymity, explained that the situation was a setup against Parker by a former client who felt cheated. The FBI took the bait. Parker came very close to getting away with it, until a perceptive agent looked at the hotel’s video footage on the date the email was sent and discovered Parker impersonating an employee.

From that moment on, it’s a downhill slide. Parker was arrested and imprisoned without the possibility of bail. As I write these lines, Parker has just agreed to serve an eleven-year sentence, avoiding a trial where he could have faced twenty-five years. Authorities are still looking for the twenty-five million from the first scam. According to Parker, that money has already been spent supporting his collapsing business and princely lifestyle. I hope for his sake that he still has a few dollars hidden somewhere on an island; he’ll need them when he’s released.

In prison, you quickly learn not to judge people by their past. If our criteria for selecting friends are high, we can find ourselves very alone inside. In the clink, a network of friends is the most useful tool for survival. I enjoy Parker’s company. This tall, slim man with round John Lennon glasses looks every bit like an accountant. He’s intelligent, curious, and bombards me with questions about financial markets, especially currency management. It’s refreshing to be able to talk about something other than sports. Since we’re cellmates, we keep an eye out for each other to make sure there are no problems on the horizon.

Not all inmates are as sharp-witted as Parker. I remember a big prisoner named Max. His arms covered in tattoos, he demanded respect. Yet beneath his menacing appearance was a gentle soul. One day, I asked Max about the reason for his imprisonment. He had been caught with a few grams of heroin, the drug of choice for many people in the area judging by the number of dealers in Alexandria. In order to lighten his sentence, Max, like the vast majority of inmates, struck a deal with his prosecutor. Besides sharing the information he had about the dealers who had sold him the drugs, he agreed to carry out a transaction and record his conversations with the dealers. The dealers’ phones were wiretapped, and with Max’s recorded transaction, the evidence against them was solid. Everything went according to plan, and Max quickly regained his freedom. The story should have ended here, except Max wanted to celebrate his release from prison. To liven up the evening, he called the same dealers he had set up to obtain heroin. Of course, the phones were still being tapped. A few days later, during the arrest of the gang, the police also arrested Max, who was charged with conspiracy to traffic narcotics. That’s why the kind-hearted Max keeps me company while awaiting his sentencing, facing a minimum sentence of ten years.

UNE ÎLE

(Jacques Brel)

This chapter of my story, recounting my first stay in the Cayman Islands, is proving to be very difficult to write. For days, I’ve been stuck in front of a blank page. Despite my efforts and time spent thinking, the words to describe the two most beautiful years of my life elude me. I want to write a text that shares the happiness that filled my family and me during our time on the islands. But the words don’t come, as if the pain of the last three months prevents me from crafting prose filled with wonder. Yet, I must try; this period marks the pinnacle of my adventure, the time when I finally realized my dreams. This phase of my life demonstrates that with patience, determination, and a bit of opportunism, anyone can achieve their goals.

We arrive in the Cayman Islands in early June 2001. Two containers of fifteen square meters each follow us. They’ll travel by train from Montreal to Miami, then by boat to Grand Cayman. They contain all our belongings as well as two utility vehicles. We left nothing behind in Canada; our plan is set, my contract is for two years, but we don’t plan on returning to the cold country. We wanted to live the adventure, and here we are. Our first goal is to explore the Caribbean; we’ll see where the adventure takes us afterward.

The Cayman Islands are a British territory consisting of three islands. Grand Cayman, the largest of the three, houses over 95% of the country’s population. That’s where everything happens. One hundred kilometers north of Grand Cayman are the islands of Cayman Brac and Little Cayman. The latter is a true little paradise, reserved for scuba diving enthusiasts and lovers of solitude: two hundred and fifty souls, a single restaurant, and a lone hotel. It’s the perfect place for the Robinson Crusoe within us. Cayman Brac is slightly more populated with its two thousand five hundred inhabitants. It’s a remote village with little charm or attractions. These two islands, separated by less than two kilometers of rough sea, survive thanks to an economy based on tourism and the financial contributions from their big sister, Grand Cayman.

Grand Cayman spans an area of eighty-seven square kilometers. The island is just slightly higher than the water surrounding it, with its highest point being less than ten meters above sea level. During Hurricane Ivan in 2004, the waves were so massive that the island apparently disappeared from radar screens for a few seconds, completely submerged.

There are over ninety churches in the country, all Christian. The island has no synagogue, no mosque. The population, despite its ethnic diversity, maintains a strong religious and political homogeneity. Racial tensions are nonexistent, although homosexuality and common-law partnerships for heterosexual couples are frowned upon. The Caymanians are a conservative people, resistant to change. This is neither a reproach nor a judgment, just an observation.

The economy of Grand Cayman rests on two pillars: tourism and the financial industry. The island welcomes over two million visitors every year. The vast majority of them arrive by cruise ship and only stay on the territory for a few hours. They’re mostly Americans seeking sun and beaches. During the winter season, it’s not uncommon to see five or six ships disgorging their cargo of hungover Yankees in the morning, ambling aimlessly through the downtown streets. Like characters from a B-horror movie, they resemble a horde of zombies, often obese, searching for discounts, shuffling from one store to another, staring blankly at the same merchandise they saw at the last port of call and will see again at the next, regretting having bought or not bought this or that. These undead wander multiple times up and down the two main shopping streets until lunchtime, when their stomachs instinctively guide them to the downtown restaurants. They end up at Margaritaville or Breezes, two tourist traps, to savor American cuisine served with an exotic-sounding drink garnished with an umbrella and accompanied by a souvenir glass. These people will never truly know the Cayman Islands. Their memories will be nothing more than a sad plastic illusion of a reality that doesn’t exist. The downtown area of George Town, the largest settlement in the Caymans, is as unrepresentative of the island as Disneyland is of American culture.

More adventurous visitors can pay five to ten dollars for a short taxi ride to the Royal Palm Beach bar, where they’ll have to pay again to access Seven Mile Beach... a free attraction! These won’t have the regret of being scammed by the local tourist mafia. Upon their first sight of the place, they’ll forget all their troubles. Seven Mile Beach, which in reality spans just five miles, is unforgettable. Regarded as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, it has a touch of mystique. Everything is calm and serene there. No music, no advertisements, and no vendors disturb this peace. Time is suspended. The opulence of the surrounding properties, the elegance of its wealthy inhabitants, the allure of the ocean—everything is intoxicating.

Finally, the most resourceful visitors book a spot on one of the many boats or sailboats heading to Stingray City. This three- or four-hour journey will be the highlight of their vacation week. After a thirty-minute sea crossing, their sailboat will anchor just a few feet from a sandbar submerged in a meter of water. Tourists will witness a unique spectacle. Dozens of rays, some over a meter wide, will approach the boat, drawn by the noise of the engines and the promise of a squid meal. Everyone can jump into the water and observe these strange creatures with somewhat demonic appearances. Standing with both feet on the sandy bottom, bathed in turquoise water, visitors can touch the smooth skin of the rays or, if they dare, hold one in their arms for a tender kiss, much to the delight of their family, who will undoubtedly take a multitude of photos. Later on, the group will head to the coral reef encircling the island for a snorkeling session. They’ll discover the underwater world in all its splendor, with a multitude of fish in various colors, lime-green moray eels with menacing looks, lionfish with angelic appearances and fiery stings, and if luck is on their side, a shark or a sea turtle. The day will end with a sip of rum and a dose of sun. Then, they’ll embark on their return journey to their ship, where their stories will spark envy among the drunken zombies, who return with arms laden with T-shirts depicting scuba diving adventures they’ll claim as their own upon their return home.

I was fortunate to visit more than fifty countries in my life, yet I’ve seen nothing comparable to Stingray City. We loved visiting it on Sundays, a day when usually no cruise ships dock. Sometimes, we were alone, a unique experience. We would take a boat and make the journey before sunrise. I would anchor five meters from the sandbar and turn off the engines. At that hour, our boat was the only one there. While enjoying a good coffee, we awaited sunrise. When daylight broke, the rays would swim around us, and if luck was with us, several hammerhead sharks would join the spectacle. Some of these creatures are over five meters long. They would hunt until the sun shone in full force, then retreat to deeper waters.

The Caymanians prefer tourists arriving by plane rather than by boat. Since they stay on the islands for a period of one to two weeks, they represent a larger economic contribution to the local population. Moreover, they are generally wealthier than cruise tourists, not hesitating to spend over a thousand dollars a night for a room at Fits Careon or an apartment on the beach.

The second pillar of the Caymanian economy, the financial industry, has its origins in another region, the Bahamas. In 1972, the Bahamian people brought a labor party to power. This party had based its electoral campaign on the rise of nationalist sentiment among the population and promised to return the financial industry to the Bahamians. At that time, a significant portion of the financial sector employees came from the United Kingdom or Canada. Shortly after their victory, the labor party began denying work permits to foreigners. Pressures to create a completely Bahamian workforce intensified. Banks and trusts are primarily capitalist enterprises. If a local talent possesses the same skills as an expatriate, they will be hired on the spot. The reason is quite simple: the cost of a local individual is always lower than that of a foreigner. The problem is that the financial industry in tax havens is a disproportionately large employer compared to the size of the population and the local economy. There are never enough qualified local employees for the number of specialized positions available. The situation was much worse in 1972; the Bahamas’ economy was third-world-worthy and its population had a low level of education.

After a few months, several sector participants, faced with the government’s policy change, had no choice but to seek a new home for their operations. It was at this moment that the Cayman authorities had the foresight to invite these stateless individuals to settle in their little paradise. Today, the Caymanian financial industry ranks fifth in the world.

The Cayman Islands offer several attractions for investors. The country imposes no income tax, no capital tax, and no property tax. Government revenues come from an import tax on goods and the sale of operating and work permits. In the Caymans, a yearly salary of sixty thousand dollars translates to a monthly pay of five thousand dollars, from which deductions for pension funds and healthcare costs are subtracted. There is no income tax to prepare, and administratively, the system is admirably simple. Developed countries’ governments would do well to take inspiration from a similar approach.

Being born Caymanian means being born with a head start; a few hundred kilometers to the west, and it would be Jamaica with its violence, to the north, Cuba, poor and deprived of freedom. Caymanians enjoy similar privileges to Canadians without bearing their tax burden. Healthcare and education are free for locals. Knowing how to read and write makes finding a job easy, probably with the government. Like everywhere else, there is poverty on the island, except that the poor come from abroad; they are from the Philippines or Jamaica and work for meager wages they send to their families every month. It’s sad, but most of these people will say that their quality of life in the Caymans is far superior to that of their home country. Could the Caymanian model work as a whole in a larger and more populous country? Probably not. This gem benefits from its two economic pillars to accumulate significant sums and redistribute them to a very small population, an approach that would lose its impact with a population of several million individuals.

After visiting more than a dozen homes of all kinds, Sara and I settled on a two-bedroom condominium located on Seven Mile Beach, to the west of the beach. The rent of eight thousand US dollars per month is excessive (the average for a three-bedroom on the island is about three thousand five hundred per month), but the place is exceptional, and since my contract is only for two years, might as well enjoy it! The condominium development where we live is called The Pinnacle, forty-eight units spread over three floors, all with a view of the sea. We have a large beachfront pool, a gym, and a billiard room. Of the forty-eight units, only two are occupied year-round. The others serve as second residences for wealthy Americans who spend their Christmas holidays or a few months during the cold season there. So, my neighbors have invested over two million dollars in an apartment on the beach that they will only use a few weeks a year. Considering that insurance and condo fees are over two thousand five hundred dollars per month, the buyers certainly didn’t see their acquisition as an investment. This opulence astonishes me. There are hundreds of similar units on the beach. The Caymans are primarily a playground for the wealthy of this world.

At work, everything is going smoothly. I have a mature and professional team. The responsibility of the Capital office is to manage the assets of several offshore trusts belonging to SFC clients. My role is not to change anything but to ensure a seamless integration with Capital. I leave home at 8 a.m. and return at 5:30 p.m. I’ve never worked so little, real vacations. Upon my return to Canada, some people asked me if managing funds in a tax haven caused me moral problems. The reality is that I hadn’t really thought about it. I was working for a large firm, itself owned by one of the largest Canadian banks. To me, the Cayman experience was simply a continuum of my work in Canada, much like the offshore world is a continuum of the financial industry in the country.

We enroll our two daughters in a new private school located in the west of the island. I still remember their first day of class. Zoe, twelve years old, is excited to make new friends, and Tiffany, who just turned four, is anxious about her first school entry. They both wear uniforms, it feels like the fifties, but it has a certain charm.

Our family is adapting very well to our new environment. We gradually make friends during parent meetings or children’s parties. Our routine is established, and after a few months of beach and pool, I start to feel a certain boredom again. Weekends are long, and I have little to do. Sara, who volunteers her time at the little ones’ school, notices this and mentions it to one of her new friends. This friend tells her that her husband is looking for a companion for a fishing tournament that will take place in the coming weeks.

Two weeks later, on a Saturday morning at 5 a.m., I board a boat with my two new friends, Bud and Charly. The day before, we signed up for the Cayman International Fishing Tournament, an annual event offering a prize of over fifty thousand Cayman dollars, nearly one hundred thousand Canadian dollars at the time. The tournament lasts eight days, from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. So, I’m in for about a hundred hours of deep-sea fishing initiation.

Bud is our captain and team leader. He’s a tall, slim White man with an easy laugh, a fishing enthusiast. We talked on the phone twice. His Caymanian accent is so pronounced that I was convinced he was Black. Charly is the mate, assisting the fisherman and the captain, ensuring everything runs smoothly. Charly is Black, his skin tanned by the sun, and his eyes yellowed by a life of abuse. He’s a bum with an engineering background. A tough and intelligent man, but drugs, women, and alcohol have ruined his life. He now lives with his mother in a rudimentary house with a dirt floor. He’s missing part of his index finger, lost during an outing where his vision, machete, and a coconut lacked coordination. Charly has only three teeth, a reminder of ciguatera, a disease that affects the nervous system and can be contracted by consuming large reef fish like barracuda. He’ll laugh heartily at the end of the tournament when I tell him he’s the only one of my Black friends I can’t see at night when he smiles! Charly’s accent is much less pronounced than Bud’s, and during the first few days, he’ll be responsible for translation between the two White guys on the boat.

Both Bud and Charly are native to East End. Located on the eastern tip of Grand Cayman, it’s the most disadvantaged village on the island. The two men have known each other since their very first day of school, and like an old couple, they argue constantly. We can’t spend more than an hour on the boat without Bud insulting Charly for the pleasure of seeing him get angry, and curses and threats fly from both sides. Every evening, upon our return, Charly leaves us with a heated behind, vowing never to set foot on a boat piloted by Captain Bud again. Every morning, he’s back, smiling with his three teeth, as if nothing had happened. Alcohol is likely responsible for my companions’ mood swings. The first beer opens as soon as we depart, and the last one, late in the evening.

I am the fisherman of the team. As soon as the sharp sound of a line being pulled lets us know we have a catch, no one else but me can touch the fishing rod. No matter how tired or challenging it is, I’m the only one who can reel in the fish. That’s the rule. During this tournament, we chase three species: mahi-mahi (also known as dorado or dolphin, not related to the mammal), wahoo, and yellowfin tuna. Mahi-mahi is a spectacular catch. The intense colors of the fish, its acrobatic jumps, and its fight provide a unique spectacle. No two mahi-mahi have the same color. The hues of this pelagic fish range from blue to green to yellow, and if its beauty wasn’t enough, its flesh is excellent. Mahi-mahi is caught near the surface, while wahoo is fished in deeper waters and resembles a huge steroid-enhanced pike. Weighing over fifty kilograms, this fish commands respect. A bite can take off a finger or a toe. Every angler has their favorite fish species, the one they’ll spend days and nights trying to find new fishing techniques for or exploring new territories. For me, it’s yellowfin tuna. Blue and yellow with the shape of an American football, tuna is one of the most powerful species out there. Catching it offers athletes memorable battles. It’s caught both near the surface and in depth, and as it moves in schools, one catch is often followed by several others. This fish isn’t just exciting to catch, it’s also delicious. Nothing compares to fresh tuna sashimi, prepared right on the boat with a touch of wasabi and a bit of soy sauce, all washed down with a bottle of dry white wine.

During the first two days, Charly, Bud, and I don’t talk much. Cultural and linguistic differences divide us. I work as hard as possible to make a good impression. Charly teaches me a lot: how to thread ballyhoos, those small bait fish, onto a hook, how to set up the lines, at what depth to place them, etc. They’re both very nice to me. However, they treat me more like a client who has hired their services than a friend. I must admit that I’m partly responsible for this situation. As true fishermen, my boatmates are dressed in rags, while I wear expensive and sophisticated clothing. The gentleman-farmer version of a deep-sea fisherman. I even brought a fly rod, and the two Caymanians had never seen one before. With my appearance, I’m probably seen by my two boat companions as a snob.

On the third day, I change my approach. I’m in charge of lunch, so instead of bringing the shrimp and blue cheese sandwiches I served on the first day, I opt for a barrel of fried chicken. Leaving my stylish fisherman disguise at home, I settle for ripped shorts and an old shirt. I also decide to match my companions’ pace in beer consumption. A very small sacrifice, I must admit. If you can’t beat them, join them!

The atmosphere relaxes, and we have a good laugh. Our first days of fishing have been productive, several mahi-mahis, a few tunas, and a small wahoo. The catches aren’t big enough to win prizes, but our fridges are quickly filling up. I even caught a shark slightly larger than the one I saw in my youth in Maine. It reminds me of that fond memory. On this third day, it’s scorching hot, the sun is blazing, and the fish have disappeared. No bites. The only somewhat intense moment of the day occurred when Charly offered me a taste of his fried barracuda. Smiling, he hands me a big piece. With his desert-like smile, it feels like a cancer patient offering me a cigarette. I hesitate... What if I also catch ciguatera? But how can I refuse? To hell with caution, you only live once.

It’s now 5 PM, and we have only an hour of fishing left before returning empty-handed. The sun is slowly setting, and the temperature is cooling down. I spot a group of frigatebirds in the sky and point it out to Bud. Frigatebirds are large black birds that follow schools of pelagic fish high above. The small fish species being chased by predators leap out of the water to avoid being swallowed. The frigatebirds then dive onto their prey and catch them mid-air. The poor little fish have only two deadly options: perish at sea or in the air. For a fisherman, it’s a sign that fish are nearby.

Bud steers the boat towards the action, Charly and I cast four lines into the sea with fresh bait. Nobody says a word, the boat cruises slowly at seven knots, and the only sound we hear is the low-speed chugging of the two engines. The frigatebirds are now flying above our heads, so the fish are beneath our boat. Probably mahi-mahis or tunas chasing their prey, we should find out soon enough. Nothing happens. The birds move forward and gain altitude, indicating that the fish have descended deeper. The captain turns the boat around to pass under the frigatebirds again. Suddenly, a line unspools rapidly; its reel produces a sweet melody to my ears. I grab the rod, give a wrist flick to set the hook in the fish’s mouth, and start the battle. It’s a mahi-mahi, leaping out of the water. A good catch, it weighs around ten kilograms. I reel it in with difficulty, then two other reels explode at the same time. Now I have to try to catch three fish without any help. I focus on the first catch. The mahi-mahi gradually loses its breath. Bud slows down the boat, and Charly grabs the gaff, a three-meter-long hook used to haul the fish on board. He positions himself at the back, near the engines. The mahi-mahi is only about a meter away; it’s Charly’s turn to act. As he extends the gaff to pierce the fish and bring it on board, a wave hits the hull of the ship, Charly loses his footing, and the gaff slips into the sea. Irritated by all the commotion, the mahi-mahi springs back to life, leaps out of the water, breaks the line, and regains its freedom.

Bud doesn’t miss the chance to scold Charly, calling him every name: — What an idiot! Losing a three-hundred-dollar gaff like that.

I don’t have time to get involved in that. I grab the second line to my right and notice that the tension is gone; the fish must have spit out the hook. I move on to the third line; the bend in the rod indicates that the catch is still hooked. The mahi-mahi struggles and leaps out of the water multiple times. It’s the twin of the first one, same size, same battle. The fish, in its struggle, crosses from port to starboard. In big-game fishing, we often use a lead ball attached to a long wire, a downrigger, to lower the line to depth. The mate’s job is to ensure that nothing obstructs the fisherman during the fight. In the excitement that followed the three simultaneous bites, Charly forgot to reel in this wire. The lead ball is still at the bottom, and the metal wire is there, sharp as a blade. After ten minutes of struggle, my monofilament touches the downrigger wire, it snaps, and I end up on my back at the bottom of the boat.

I utter a few curses and get back on my feet. Bud has lost his composure. He starts his tirade of insults, just five centimeters from Charly’s face, who doesn’t take it lying down and fires back. It looks like one of those arguments between a coach and a referee you see on TV during baseball games, except here, out at sea, five kilometers from the shore, the referee can’t send the coach to the showers. Disappointed by the turn of events and not wanting to take sides, I silently reel in the two lines still floating in the ocean. One of them got caught in the propeller of one of the engines. As if we needed that. I could cut the monofilament, but that would mean losing a twenty-dollar lure. So, I decide to jump into the water and untangle it all with my hands. I undress and interrupt Bud to ask where he keeps his diving mask and snorkel. Both of them stare at me in silence, their mouths agape. Charly says:

— You’re not going to jump into the water, are you? Are you crazy?

In his opinion, nobody dives in a kilometer-deep water. I turn to Bud. Handing me a mask and snorkel, he jokingly says with a smile:

— The Frenchman is nuts.

I jump over the back of the boat. The sun is slowly setting, the sky turning pink, and the light gradually giving way to twilight. My first thought is that I’m far away from Saint-Marc-des-Carrières, the village of my birth.

The monofilament is entangled in the propeller, and I untangle it in a few minutes. Floating in the sea, I feel at peace, everything is calm, and I’m content. Suddenly, the line tightens in my hands; the fish is still hooked. I swim up to the surface, take a deep breath of air, and dive down again, pulling on the monofilament with all my strength. What if I tried to catch this fish here, without a rod or reel, with only my hands? A battle between man and beast. As if it sensed my intentions, the mahi-mahi dives and pulls me along with it. I’m not afraid, I remember this moment vividly. If I were to die right now, drowned by my audacity, I would have no regrets. I would have tasted these long-awaited pleasures, I would have achieved my goals. The lack of air brings me back to reality. I let go of the line and swim towards the light. My emergence on the surface triggers a torrent of shouts from Bud and Charly. The mahi-mahi has pulled me about thirty meters from the boat. My companions were afraid they had lost their Frenchman. I swim back to the boat. I climb on board, only clad in my white underwear, now transparent from the sea water, and engage in the last battle of the day. After a few aerial acrobatics, our fish flops around in the bottom of the boat. The day ends on a high note, and we open another beer to celebrate.

Since that day, my friends Charly and Bud have never seen me as a stranger again; I’m now part of the family. The rest of the week goes smoothly. We’ll finish fifth in the overall tournament rankings, an enviable position for such a diverse team. I’ll go fishing with my friends several times in the coming years, but no memory will ever replace those eight days of fishing in their company.

Two months later, the phone rings at my office. It’s Charly calling; he’s in trouble. Arrested overnight, he’s currently held at the George Town courthouse. In a brawl at a bar in East End, Charly made death threats against a man who filed a complaint with the authorities, and now my buddy is facing criminal charges. He asks if I’d be willing to sign bail for him. I agree without hesitation and head to the courthouse, just two hundred meters from my office. Upon arrival, I’m directed to a counter where I’m greeted by a charming lady. I explain the reason for my visit. At the mention of Charly’s name, she seems surprised.

— How do you know Charly?

I realize that my friend must frequent the local prison regularly. I explain that we’re fishing buddies. Noticing my foreign accent, the lady would like to know if I’m a Caymanian citizen. She goes to discuss the matter with her superior, as she’s unsure if an expatriate can legally sign the bail. I sit and wait for her return for over thirty minutes. She comes back with a big smile, my bail is accepted. This is the first time in the country’s judicial history that a foreigner has signed bail for a local. Charly and I have written a small page in the legal history of the Cayman Islands.

September 2001, Sara and I purchase a small boat, ten meters long, to enjoy the sea during our weekends. It’s just what we needed to fully enjoy our Cayman adventure. Every weekend, we fish for fish or lobsters, or we go snorkeling to discover the underwater life. Since getting the boat, new friends come our way...

At work, the integration between the SFC and Capital teams is progressing well, and everyone seems satisfied. The bank enlists my help for their offshore investment fund family from Guernsey. I become the chairman of the board for the fund family and promise to assist with their distribution.

They say all good things must come to an end. The SFC acquires the remaining shares of Capital and engulfs the firm in October 2001. The assimilation of Cayman division employees takes a 180-degree turn; now it’s the people from Capital being absorbed by the bank. For my coworkers, it’s a return to the situation from two years ago, but for me, it’s very different. Unable to reach an agreement with the bank’s management for the renewal of my contract in the Cayman Islands, with a heavy heart, I return to Montreal in June 2003. I’ll never forget those two dreamy years in the Caribbean. I won’t miss the Fits’ caviar or the expat high life; that world of artifice, I’ve had a taste of it around the globe, and it’s hollow and tasteless. That’s not adventure. Big-game fishing with the locals, goat curry by the roadside, a local beer under a palm tree – that’s true escapism, that was the adventure...

With temperatures of forty degrees in the summer, I’ll relive winters at minus forty degrees. And as if the shock wasn’t brutal enough, my tax rate jumps from 0 to 54%. “Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver” (My country is not a country, it’s winter), sings Gilles Vigneault; my salary is not a salary, it’s misery. My net income decreases by 50%. Against all odds, here I am, a banker once again.

My life of adventures only lasted two years. I succeeded once, I will succeed again. Cayman Islands, I will return.

BRAIN DAMAGE

(Pink Floyd)

After four weeks of incarceration, a routine gradually sets in. Wake up at 7 am, breakfast at 7:15 am. If Parker or I are the first to take control of the TV, we watch CNN, the American news channel, or CNBC, the financial markets channel. It’s strange to dive back into the stock market, to see these analysts talking about investments just like I was doing less than two months ago. Everything can change so quickly. At 8:30 am, an hour of stationary biking followed by thirty minutes of weightlifting, and then a shower. Around 10:15 am, I start writing my book; ideas always come to me during my biking hour. We go back to the cell at 11 am and have lunch at noon, sitting in front of the TV. If there’s a show that interests me, I might watch until 2 pm. Then, I return to writing my book until we’re back in the cell at 4:15 pm. Dinner is at 5:10 pm, and from 5:45 pm to 7 pm, we have to stay in our cells. In the evening, I continue with my book. Thankfully, my lawyers bought me a pair of glasses from the pharmacy, slightly pinker than red, which has become my most precious possession. Without them, this book might have never come to fruition. If inspiration for writing is lacking, I read or watch TV. Occasionally, I play chess with a few inmates. Back in the cell by 11 pm. I slip under the covers, read, and listen to the radio until I fall asleep. And it starts all over again, seven days a week, potentially thirty days a month, twelve months a year. I fear the day when I’ll finish my book. What will I do with my time?

Three times a week, we have the privilege of accessing the gym, which has a small room attached to it that looks out into the open. I go there on sunny days. Nothing is better than the sun on my skin to wash away the stress.

Gradually, I feel a wave of rage building up within me, as if the hatred that has contaminated the walls around me for so many years is seeping into my heart. I increasingly often have this vision, this fantasy, where I see myself strangling the inmates I can’t stand with a single hand. My soul darkens day by day, it hardens; I fear that I won’t be the same person when I’m released. The prisoners seem to sense the demons within me. They respect and fear me more than when I first arrived. They avoid my gaze. Like dogs, I can sense fear in the younger ones. This darkness has always been within me. Behind my calm appearance, I’ve always sealed off my dark side. I’ve never let this darkness overwhelm me, invade me. Today, I invite it, I swing the door wide open for it to overpower me. I’m discovering a facet of my personality that I’ve always suppressed. The yang is taking over the yin. The insignificance of my existence, of everyone’s existence around me, has never been clearer. Nothing that has happened, is happening, or will happen matters. Am I going mad? I don’t think so. To me, life is really just trivial, but the goals I set for myself had buried these thoughts in my mind. I had replaced these dark thoughts with much more materialistic concerns: how to achieve a certain goal or how to experience new sensations. Today, alone with my thoughts, I’m returning to these certainties that haunted my adolescence. We are nothing more than raindrops falling randomly without a specific purpose, toward a single destination, a single certainty: death. Without this body that screams its need for love and nourishment, I would be nothing. Yet death doesn’t beckon me, my adventure isn’t over, I’m convinced of that.

WIND OF CHANGE

(Scorpions)

Upon my return to Montreal, I am appointed Director of Business Development for the American market. This appointment represents a step back for me, even though the new CEO of the firm urges me to be patient, changes are coming. After a few months, I’m promoted to Senior Vice President of Sales and Marketing. By doing so, I become one of the two number twos in the company.

The performance of our managers continues to disappoint, and the institutional market views the merger of Capital and SFC with suspicion. It’s a popular belief that during a banking acquisition, the acquired firm loses its talent. The institutional market is conservative and dislikes change. I’m facing significant challenges.

The sales team manages to hold onto our market share as best as they can during my first year in the role. They deserve credit for that. We make significant job cuts to streamline our operations and achieve the goals set by the bank. The morale of the troops slowly crumbles, and the belief proves true: the exodus of our talents begins. Capital, or what’s left of it, suffers from a cancer where every cell that leaves us will be replaced by one of lesser quality. The patient loses interest in life, and death seeps in. Departures first hit Montreal and then spread to Toronto and the rest of the country. It’s only a matter of months before Capital becomes a mere manufacturing unit of SFC, and before my sales team and I become redundant.

On a personal note, we face one of the coldest winters in the country’s history. Sara and I spend our time supervising the construction of our dream house in the forest of Nun’s Island, a neighborhood ten minutes from downtown and my job.

I miss the Cayman Islands terribly, like an unhealing heartache. To keep harmony at home, I hide my sadness from the family. Sara made me promise on the heads of our children that we wouldn’t move for the next ten years. However, she too becomes nostalgic. The expatriate life, that carefree life under the sun, is what she longs for. During Christmas of 2004, we leave Montreal for a three-week trip to Vietnam.

On a beautiful afternoon, while we lounge by the pool sipping on a mojito, Sara confides in me:

— Forget your promise. If you ever found a new position in the South, I’m ready to sell everything and follow you.

— That’s fortunate. A headhunter has asked me to apply for a position in Trinidad. I’m not sure if the job is interesting, but if you want, I’ll go find out.

Upon my return to the country, I get in touch with Georges from Top Job International in Miami, one of the world’s largest headhunting firms. I’m quite impressed by Georges during our phone conversation, and we schedule a video conference at the Top Job office in Montreal for the following week.

The day of the interview is quickly approaching, and I’m eager to learn more. I’ve started dreaming about the sun, deep-sea fishing, and the relaxed atmosphere of the islands again. I read a lot about life in Trinidad. The place is full of attractions: the carnival, the music, the food—everything invites exploration. There’s just one shadow: the violence. It’s a third-world country, and like most poor countries, a small portion of the population holds the majority of the wealth. Nowadays, kidnappings and murders are multiplying at an alarming rate. No one is safe.

I arrive early for the interview. I first meet the Regional Director for Quebec. We know each other well; he has approached me before to offer a job at one of my competitors. He’s a true professional, so there’s no need to mention the confidentiality aspect of this meeting. He leads me to a conference room where I settle in front of a large screen hanging on the wall. It’s my first remote video conference, and I’m impressed. The screen comes to life, and a man in his thirties appears. Georges is one of the partners from the Miami office of the firm. He’s a short Latino man, all smiles. I immediately like him. We talk about various topics to get to know each other a bit. Then Georges brings up the available position in Trinidad. The conglomerate TTC, the owner of TrinidProtect of the Caribbean life insurance company and TrinidGuard General general insurance company, is seeking a director for its investment group, TrinidGuard Asset Management. With institutional assets of over one billion US dollars, TTC is looking for someone who can create an investment offering from scratch for the local population. A detailed research report by the American firm Consul One shows a huge potential for growth in personal savings among Trinidadians. In addition to managing institutional deposits related to life insurance policies, TrinidGuard Asset Management is developing a family of mutual funds and a private wealth management offering for the island’s wealthy population. The ideal candidate will have to manage clients’ capital as a whole and ensure high growth objectives are met. Excellent mastery of financial product sales techniques and an in-depth understanding of the capital market are crucial. The candidate must also demonstrate exceptional adaptability and analytical skills. My track record perfectly fits the list of desired criteria. After an hour of discussion, Georges and I conclude that a visit to the location is necessary.

A month later, I leave Canada for Trinidad. I have an interview scheduled with the Senior Advisor at Consul One the next morning, followed by a visit to the firm’s offices and a second interview in the afternoon with a panel of TTC executives. The insurance company, through Georges, has provided me with business class tickets and a hotel reservation.

I wake up in Port of Spain on a sunny Thursday morning. I dress and take a walk around the hotel to clear my mind. The Hector in Trinidad is a very unique hotel. It’s located on the mountainside, near the city center, facing Savannah, the world’s largest roundabout. Hotel guests must drive their vehicles to the top of the mountain to access the reception area. After checking in, they take the elevator down to their rooms. As I’ll observe repeatedly over the next few years, in Trinidad, the Hector embodies many things. Logic here is often different from that of developed countries. After my hike, I cross the reception area to go to the hotel café. I like to have a double espresso before an important meeting to sharpen my mind. After placing my order, I notice that the young lady serving me is looking at me attentively; to be honest, she’s staring at me. With her best smile, she asks if anyone has ever told me that I have very beautiful blue eyes. I thank her for the compliment and tell her that it has happened a few times. She then adds:

— Could you make a child with blue eyes like yours?

Someone who always has an answer for everything, I’m left speechless. Blushing, I pay the bill, leave a generous tip, and leave the café, a smile spreading from ear to ear... If I’m looking for a cultural change, I’ve found it.

My interview with the Consul One advisor goes smoothly. He admits that I’m the only candidate on his list. The afternoon visit and the second interview with the TTC committee present no difficulty. On my return flight the next day, I have a glass of wine, my mind at peace, knowing that an offer will soon follow.

After two months of waiting, Georges contacts me. TTC invites me to return to Trinidad, this time with my wife. He informs me that I should expect to receive an offer during my visit. Sara and I set off for a romantic trip to Port of Spain, without the children. I have a lucky streak. Throughout my life, every time a storm is brewing on the horizon, I manage to change the course of my story and change direction. I must have been born under a lucky star. I’m always in the right place at the right time. I’ll soon discover that true adventure is about being in the right place at the wrong time...

TTC offers me the position of General Manager at TrinidGuard Asset Management. I’m given carte blanche. I have the freedom to build the business as I see fit, and that’s exactly what I want. I’ll need to establish investment vehicles, such as mutual funds and pension funds for the local population. The only downside is that I’ll have a boss at TTC; I won’t be the sole captain. I’m assured that he won’t interfere in my decisions and will act as a bridge between the other TTC units and me. I’ll be responsible for managing and distributing TTC’s products, while my boss will handle internal policy. I’m offered a three-year contract. My total compensation will exceed five hundred thousand dollars per year. To ensure I accept, I’m offered two hundred thousand dollars upon signing. That’s more than I had hoped for. After some minor negotiations, I accept the proposed offer.

On Thursday, April 10th, I meet the IRS for the second time, this time at the Alexandria courthouse. After the usual chains and transportation, I’m taken to a small windowless room where Ari, my lawyer, is already waiting. The Alexandria courthouse authorities show more caution towards detainees compared to those in Miami. To ensure that the IRS agents won’t remove my handcuffs, they add a small plastic box between my wrists, locked with an additional padlock. This box prevents anyone from freeing my hands and further restricts my movements. Despite my limited mobility, I recommended to the IRS agents to bring my computer to better meet their expectations. But due to the regulations, arguing doesn’t help.

Ari and I discuss the upcoming day while waiting for the IRS delegation. The door opens, and a small army of officials enters with their briefcases and notepads. They’ve brought in the big guns. In addition to the usual investigators who arrested me, John and Brent, I have the honor of being questioned by an agent specially flown in from the Virgin Islands, an agent from New York, and the lead prosecutor.

There are seven of us, and the room feels cramped. I’m seated at the end of the table. Ari, my lawyer, is to my left, and Katherine, the prosecutor, is to my right. She’s around thirty years old and overweight. Dressed in a low-quality two-piece suit, she appears unsophisticated. Quite the contrast to Ari, a short man who closely resembles Rick Moranis, the actor from “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids,” and who wears designer clothes! Looking at the way they dress, it quickly becomes evident why prosecutors often aim to switch to the defense side; the income there is often ten times higher.

We start with the contents of my computer. Katherine has never worked on an Apple computer and struggles to navigate it. I try to help, but the handcuffs hinder me. Thus, I dictate each command to her, which she then executes. The convict with chains on his feet, waist, and hands directs every move of the prosecutor like a puppeteer. The situation becomes so absurd that the atmosphere of severity gives way to camaraderie.

We begin by reviewing the classification of files and emails. The agents bombard me with questions about clients, particularly focusing on the financial institutions for which I acted as a manager. They ask numerous questions about a specific bank. Who does what? Have I witnessed transactions involving organized crime (no)? Who are the shareholders? We also discuss the most popular tax structures among clients. Once again, I’m surprised by the agents’ lack of knowledge. The world of tax havens and their structures to reduce taxes seems like a mystery to them, even though all the information I share is available on the internet. The STAR Trust (Special Trusts Alternative Regime) particularly intrigues the agents. This structure, promoted by trust companies, has been in existence since 1997 in the Cayman Islands and allows the creation of a trust with an explicit purpose without having to name a beneficiary. Simplified, money, property, a company, or any other asset can be placed inside a STAR Trust, and from that moment on, it no longer belongs to anyone. Since they don’t belong to anyone, no one has to declare them. This applies to the majority of trusts, but for the STAR Trust, there’s no need to establish a future beneficiary either.

I inform the IRS that the STAR Trust structure has three unique characteristics:

1. The structure can exist indefinitely, while most other structures in the Cayman Islands have a limited duration of one hundred and fifty years.

2. The STAR Trust structure can hold assets for: A. the benefit of a person, B. an explicit purpose with or without a beneficiary.

This aspect of an “explicit purpose” is unique to the STAR Trust structure. Someone could deposit money in a STAR Trust with the explicit purpose of reforesting a forest in five hundred years. If no beneficiary is named, the money ceases to belong to anyone today and in the future. So, no one has anything to declare. The specific purpose can always be changed later.

3. The beneficiary of the trust (if there is one) has no right to demand information about the trust or to take legal action against the trust administrators. An executor can be appointed for this role by the person setting up the trust.

Of course, there are limitations to the flexibility of the structure, and each case is unique. Is it legal? Yes.

Here’s a simple example of using a STAR Trust to reduce the tax burden of a company and an individual. Laurent, a Canadian, decides to create a company that sells tires online. First, he establishes a STAR Trust within which a new company is incorporated, Tire Inc. The explicit purpose of the trust is to manage the company, and Laurent doesn’t name any beneficiaries. The trust then appoints Laurent as the “guardian,” making him responsible for the trust and, by extension, Tire Inc. The company starts and becomes very successful. As it’s located in the Cayman Islands, it pays no taxes, and since the shares of Tire Inc. are held by the trust, there’s no tax to be paid on the dividends either. However, as an individual, Laurent would like to enjoy the profits generated by Tire Inc. There’s nothing stopping him from opening a consulting company in Canada and “offering” his services to Tire Inc. Of course, Laurent will have to pay income taxes on the money he pays himself from his consulting firm. Nevertheless, with a good accountant in Canada, he can reduce this burden – perhaps using a family trust?

Tire Inc. continues to make profits, and Laurent now dreams of buying a yacht. No problem – Tire Inc. buys the yacht, and Laurent enjoys it for free. Tire Inc. can even buy a house; all Laurent has to do is pay rent to the company (effectively, himself) to avoid issues with the tax authorities. Tire Inc. can also make investments with its earnings. Eventually, the company, a legal entity separate from Laurent, can satisfy the majority of his needs.

After a few years of operation, Laurent is offered the chance to buy the company for several million dollars. The STAR Trust conducts the transaction, and the gains are non-taxable in the Cayman Islands. Laurent has nothing to declare in Canada because Tire Inc. doesn’t belong to him. Tired of living in the cold, Laurent leaves Canada, establishes legal residence in a banana republic – Panama (where he doesn’t even have to stay). He visits his family in Canada whenever he pleases, ensuring not to stay in the country for six months or more per year. Laurent spends his summers in the south of France in one of the villas owned by the STAR Trust and his winters in a condo on Seven Mile Beach in the Cayman Islands. This simplified illustration of using a STAR Trust demonstrates the flexibility and ease with which an individual can reduce or eliminate taxes, regardless of their country of residence.

Why aren’t these structures used more extensively? First, they are used far more than the general population believes. It’s estimated that now 50% of the world’s monetary flows pass through an offshore center. Hence, one out of every two dollars seeks refuge or transits through a tax haven to minimize its level of taxation. Billions end up in trusts like Laurent’s. Second, the structure mentioned above would cost about forty thousand Canadian dollars to set up and eight thousand per year to maintain. This isn’t a service accessible to all wallets. Once again, the offshore world is for the well-off.

To inform Katherine, who was absent during the first meeting, I have to repeat everything I told Teddy, another of the prosecutors. I take the opportunity to explain to her in depth Clover’s approach of offering digital accounts to financial institutions for their clients. We didn’t set up tax structures or even offshore companies. We were merely asset managers. However, the banks and trust companies that do offer these products to their clients usually lack the capability to choose stocks and bonds for their accounts. That’s where we came in. The bank would open an account with us in its own name and give us a management mandate. Some banks have over a hundred accounts in their name with Clover. I finish by stating that our approach was absolutely legal. To my surprise, the prosecutor declares:

“You know, Mr. St-Cyr, I don’t believe you’re a money launderer.”

As a Quebecois expression goes, “my jaw drops to the ground.” Looking back, I realize that at that moment, I should have asked her to explain the reason behind my incarceration. However, I remain speechless, dumbfounded by her statement. She continues her explanation, telling me that my crime is creating a system that allows Americans to evade taxes. I speak up, summarizing our approach and once again affirming that we operated within the bounds of the law. An American who would have approached us wouldn’t have opened an account at Clover; we would have directed them to a partner bank. The bank would have been responsible for all the verifications and declarations to comply with FATCA. When the account was opened, the bank would have opened an account with us in its own name, so we could manage the funds for their client. It’s the same in Canada; if someone deposits money into a mutual fund at their bank, the bank will pass the money in its name to a manager who administers it. The only difference from Clover’s case is that no document about the gains or losses from the investment would be sent to any government. The arms dealer can’t be found guilty of the crimes committed with their products; I can’t be accused of the tax crimes of Americans who deal with Clover through their bank and lawyer. But nothing changes her conviction of my guilt. Morally, she might be right; legally, she’s wrong.

Katherine changes the subject, wanting to learn more about legal methods to avoid paying taxes in tax havens. Outside of complex trust or foundation structures, I explain to her that there are two types of investment options that legally don’t require any declaration to the U.S. tax authorities:

1. An American doesn’t have to declare physically held precious metals. 2. An American doesn’t have to declare foreign secondary properties if they don’t generate any income.

After discussing the gold trade and the rapid growth of storage services in the islands and Switzerland, the prosecutor shifts the conversation back to my guilt. We both reiterate our arguments and remain firm in our respective positions.

I want to know what to expect if I plead guilty. I ask her. She can’t estimate exactly what the sentence will be, but she provides an example. On a sentence of two to two and a half years, I should expect to serve twelve months in prison, after receiving cooperation credits. These numbers are encouraging.

The interview lasts for over five hours. I return to my cell in the courthouse around 4 pm, exhausted, with bloody wrists.

On Tuesday, April 29th, an agent signals me to take a call on the red phone. Like the President of the United States and Batman, detainees at the Alexandria detention center have their own red phone. Without a keypad, this device only accepts incoming calls from lawyers. They can communicate with us confidentially. I pick up the receiver to hear Ari’s voice, telling me he has news from the prosecutors, both good and bad. They’ve sent him a plea offer. The prosecutors are willing to drop the money laundering charge, meaning they agree that I didn’t commit that crime in the past. However, they’re retaining the conspiracy charge. So, even if I’ve never laundered money, I would have taken steps to do so in the future. A crime of intent, something that’s usually proven with the help of testimonies. This significant change reduces my maximum sentence to five years. Indeed, it’s good news. Five years is better than three times twenty years. In exchange, the prosecutors want me to plead guilty to a charge of conspiring to launder two million dollars. That’s the bad news. Since the start of negotiations, I’ve been adamant that the only amount I will plead guilty to is two hundred thousand dollars. Ari explains that it will be up to the judge to decide between two million and two hundred thousand. The difference in amounts is significant and will affect the length of the sentence. According to the state, we went to Miami for an account of two million, which is true. However, Jean and I had agreed not to take that money if the client didn’t provide more clarification about the source of the funds. If a crime was committed, it was when accepting the initial two hundred thousand dollars, and even then, I didn’t intend to launder funds. Without considering the cooperation and good behavior credits, I face two possible maximum sentences: five years if the judge agrees with the two million amount, and less than four years if we manage to convince him that there’s one zero too many in that amount. This is far from the two years mentioned by the prosecutor.

My head spins, and I do quick permutations to estimate the time to serve after the deduction of cooperation credits. These credits are granted after a plea deal and aren’t always awarded during sentencing. They are subtracted from the sentence at the end of investigations, which can take over a year. Thus, it’s very difficult for me to accurately establish the sentence I’ll have to serve. My lawyer advises me to aim for a cooperation credit of between 30 and 40%. He believes my expectations of 50% or more are exaggerated. Struggling to recall my high school math skills, I create the following table with a pencil:

This is another blow; I who dreamed of being with my family for Christmas... I now face a prison sentence of two to two and a half years.

Finally, Ari and I discuss a possibility that sparks a glimmer of hope in my mind. After my conviction, I could be transferred to a Canadian prison. If both countries agree to my request, I’ll likely be released upon arrival in Canada. In the land of the cold, sentences for conspiracy carry far less severe penalties than in the United States. My lawyer mentions that one of his clients, who received a sentence of four years and three months, was transferred to Canada after a year and five months and was released upon returning. However, what will happen if Canada rejects my repatriation? I’ll end up with a sentence of two to three years.

FOOLS OVERTURE

(Supertramp)

I settle in Trinidad on June 6, 2005. The company has arranged a small apartment for me within walking distance of the main office. My family will join me in August. Upon arrival, I’m given the keys to a vehicle, as agreed in my contract. To my great surprise, it’s a brand new BMW 500 series. Once again, luck continues to smile upon me.

I work a lot during these first few weeks. Here, there’s no talk of numbered accounts or complex tax structures; everything is local. Trinidad isn’t a tax haven; just like in Canada, citizens have to pay taxes. We launch a family of mutual funds consisting of eight funds, including local equity and bond funds, as well as funds invested in US, Asian, European stocks, and more. For the first time, Trinidadians have the opportunity to invest their savings in global markets, meaning they can buy shares in other countries. My team lacks experience, but they are dedicated to the work. I change plans, bring management in-house, increase the advertising budget with the savings, and implement procedures to ensure better tracking. We want to be ready for launch in the fall. I’m bursting with energy; it’s as if all those years at the bank and Capital prepared me for this challenge. I’ve never loved my job more.

The first two months after my arrival, it rains incessantly. I’ve never seen the sky so gray; the Cayman Islands didn’t prepare me for this. In Trinidad, the rainy season is truly a season of constant rain. On weekends, when I’m not working, I take the opportunity to explore the island. I regularly get lost while driving. It’s somewhat intimidating; some neighborhoods are marked by extreme poverty. Unlike other countries I’ve been to, there’s a heavy atmosphere of fear. Trinidad is beauty mixed with ugliness. It’s as if, after creating such majestic nature that takes your breath away, God decided to infuse it with man, concrete, and pollution to balance it all out. In this country, the rich are very wealthy, and the poor are very poor. You transition from lush green jungle to shantytowns. Their residents are not only deeply impoverished, but gang violence rules; homicide rates are among the highest in the world. It’s the first time I’m facing such violence in a country. Everything feels heavy; security guards are everywhere, shop doors have electronic locking mechanisms—you have to ring a bell to be let in, even in broad daylight. The city is gloomy.

The first thing that strikes you upon landing is the country’s flora. Everything is green; even recent industrialization seems unable to contain the growth of all kinds of plants. Telephone wires are overwhelmed. A branch planted in the ground will grow into a tree quickly. A forest road can disappear in less than a year. The most beautiful scenes are in the jungle. Vines from century-old trees make you want to swing on them and dive naked into the numerous waterfalls. It reminds me of childhood dreams, inspired by watching shows like “George of the Jungle,” “Tarzan,” or “Indiana Jones.” In the western part of the island, in an area called Chaguaramas, there’s a place called the Cathedral. A bamboo forest creates a massive natural dome resembling the nave of a giant church. Being under this dome, soaking in its beauty and tranquility, is a test of faith for an atheist like me.

Trinidad’s fauna is also a pleasant discovery. The agouti, a long-legged guinea pig, is eaten as a stew. The armadillo retains its French name, a reminder of the French colonization in the 18th century, and is also a culinary specialty of the island. The numerous snakes, monkeys, and iguanas—all are excuses for a good meal. In Trinidad, if it moves, it’s food.

Here, everyone speaks English, and it’s a resource-rich country. Natural gas is abundant, and oil flows freely. The country’s economy goes through periods of prosperity and major economic crises, depending on commodity prices. During my stay, it was the oil rush. The city center was exploding with new construction: large hotels, ports, government buildings, skyscrapers. When oil prices crashed in 2015, all these grand projects came to a halt, and poverty took its place again. High-level corruption is prevalent, and the financial markets are manipulated by the country’s powerful families. In summary, Trinidad embodies all the expectations of a developing country.

After visiting several properties, I find one that’s perfect for the family, just a short distance from the office. It’s a new house, not entirely finished. The owner assures me that the work will be completed by August 1st.

With the continuous rain, I start feeling alone after already being eight weeks away from my family. My morale deteriorates a bit, even though my work still captivates me. I expected the management to try to integrate me into the team, but that’s not the case. After inviting me to restaurants several times during my visits, they’ve completely avoided me since my arrival. At least my boss doesn’t meddle in my work, but a sense of discomfort emerges between us.

As agreed, I’ve received the two hundred thousand dollars stipulated in my contract. A few weeks later, I’m asked to reimburse fifty thousand dollars in taxes. It seems the HR people made a mistake when confirming that no deductions would be made from the amount. I also learn that my salary terms are better than those of all other executives in the company, including the CEO of TTC, an expatriate like me. This is why I feel like I don’t belong in the group. Every day, I notice more jealousy from the other executives. To them, I’m a hired gun brought in to deliver results. I’m not here to make friends, only to build.

On my team’s side, the situation is different. Just like in the days of my successes at CapMutuel, the chemistry is building. Two months after my arrival, my entire team is pushing in the same direction.

The sun, Sara, and the girls arrive in early August. That’s all that was missing for my happiness. The construction of the house we had reserved is far from finished. So, I cancel our contract; we’ll have to find another place to stay. For over two months, we live in a hotel, sharing two small rooms with all our suitcases. Finally, Sara calls me one afternoon to tell me that she’s found us a dream house, which I can visit that very evening.

Sara is convinced that I’ll love the place. The property is on top of a mountain, facing the sea and Port of Spain, situated in a gated community with excellent security. No cars can enter the neighborhood without permission, and an armed guard watches over the entrance gate. The view is exceptional. At night, the city lights blend with the starry sky; during the day, the sea can be admired from all directions and all rooms. On the left, the port with its huge ships carrying oil and minerals; in the center, downtown buildings; and on the right, the distant shores of Venezuela.

The house, not entirely finished, spans over two and a half thousand square meters, painted olive green, and it’s visible from the base of the mountain several kilometers away. It looks like a Caribbean version of Norman Bates’ house from the movie Psycho. Just like at Hector’s, access to the main entrance is via the top floor. Upon arrival, visitors descend a staircase to access a small path alongside an Olympic-sized pool. On one side of the pool is a tall wall from which four lion heads spew water into the pool. Here, Psycho meets Gladiator. The effect is striking, very nouveau riche, and of questionable taste.

Both men and women have separate changing rooms with showers and toilets. At the end of the path, a door leads into the house; we’re on the third floor. The interior decoration is less excessive; Psycho and Gladiator are replaced by Desperate Housewife. The doors and windows leading outside have iron bars, similar to prison ones. At night, the last person to go to bed locks the doors, enclosing the residents of the house in a protected space. An intruder would have to work for hours to break into one of the five bedrooms on the second floor. This security system, akin to a panic room, is used in most upscale homes in the country. Thanks to this enclosure, Trinidadians can sleep in peace. For me, it has the opposite effect—the doors being closed before bed gives me chills.

Finally, on the first floor, a ballroom takes up the space, with a commercial-sized bar and another large room that could serve as a library or second master bedroom. Outside the first floor, a large patio with fountains and waterfalls leaves guests impressed. It’s not a house; it’s a small castle. There’s even a guard booth at the entrance. It’s too much, far too much, but since it’s the only available residence with a high level of security, we take it. The rise in oil and mineral prices has attracted a significant influx of foreigners to the country, and very few properties are vacant. Moreover, I canceled the lease contract for the house still under construction. We’ll move into the small castle amidst dust and paint, much to Sara’s dismay.

Meanwhile, at TTC, the launch of the mutual fund family is going wonderfully. The novelty of the products and an aggressive sales campaign generate significant assets. For the next two years, Trinidadians will entrust us with over a billion local dollars (about two hundred million Canadian dollars) to invest. My team and I will also deliver annual performance exceeding market indices for over 80% of the funds. At the end of the first year, we manage the three best-performing funds in the country. I’m proud that my approach, inspired by the managers at Capital, is working.

HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT

(Pat Benatar)

On June 26th, I meet with Ari to plan my change of plea, which will take place the next day at the Alexandria court. After several discussions about the risks of going to trial, I’ve made the decision to plead guilty to the conspiracy charge in order to launder the sum of two million dollars. It’s the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. Yet, my choice is simple. I plead guilty and face a sentence of approximately three and a half years, which should result in less than two years of actual imprisonment when considering collaboration credits. Otherwise, I risk it all and try to convince a jury of my innocence.

Disregarding procedural issues that lead to 8% of accused being released, statistics show that 99.6% of those indicted in the US federal judicial system are found guilty. Out of a hundred individuals, ninety-five enter a guilty plea to reduce the charges against them, while the rest go to trial. Among the five who choose trial, over 92% will be found guilty. So, out of a hundred accused individuals, 0.4% will be acquitted by the justice system. Since I have good lawyers, I estimate my chances of success are above average. Ari has won 50% of her cases in front of juries. However, she informs me that in my case, our chances of success would be less than 50%. According to her, a Virginia jury made up of blue-collar workers wouldn’t be sympathetic to our cause. From the start, they will have a negative perception of this foreigner, a French speaker to boot, living on a Caribbean beach, helping wealthy Americans reduce their taxes. Even before hearing a single argument, the scales of justice will tilt towards guilt. I thus hypothesize that my chances of success are 7 out of 20, far higher than the statistics, but not very reassuring.

I also suspect that my two co-defendants won’t hesitate to testify against me to save their own skin. Who can blame them? It will be my word against that of the agents and my business partners.

I have enough information on hand to make my decision. On one side, I have a document confirming that if I plead guilty, I’ll likely get two years. If I sign it, I destroy my reputation, all my businesses, and bid farewell to my life in the Caymans. Since all of that was already destroyed upon my arrest announcement, I have little to lose. On the other side, a six-shot revolver has been placed with four bullets loaded. It’s Russian roulette—I spin the cylinder, hold the gun to my temple, and pull the trigger. If the chamber is empty, I’m free; otherwise, I’m facing a sentence of ten to twenty years.

Throughout my life, I’ve taken calculated risks based on statistics. My jobs, my clients’ investments, even my fishing trips were chosen based on their likelihood of success. I find my comfort zone in numbers. The choice before me is clear—I must plead guilty, regardless of the reality.

Pleading guilty when you believe yourself innocent of the crime you’re accused of is very difficult. Tomorrow, in front of the judge, I’ll have to explain under oath how my actions were criminal, without lying. Ari and I spend over an hour discussing the content of my responses to the judge’s questions and the tone I should use. The situation is painful, and the words struggle to leave my mouth. I ask my lawyer to explain the legal meaning of the term conspiracy. Ari explains that a conspiracy is a secret plan made between several people with the intent to commit a crime. For example, if I discuss with a friend in a café how to rob a bank and this conversation takes place on multiple occasions, the crime of conspiracy is committed, even if the bank is never robbed. The only way to backtrack is to alert the authorities or unequivocally disavow the project. I had a series of phone exchanges with Jean during which we questioned the transaction and unambiguously agreed that we wouldn’t accept new funds if we weren’t comfortable with their origin. Unfortunately, these conversations weren’t recorded by the government. Ari mentions that in a conspiracy charge, an individual can be found guilty of crimes committed by other members of the group. The audio recording of the discussion between David and the agents leaves no doubt about his intentions; he clearly agreed to receive funds from a fraud. In a conspiracy, intent is what matters. I will be found guilty by association. The government will have no difficulty proving that during the IRS visit in January 2014, the agents partially revealed that the funds came from a dubious bankruptcy. What won’t be mentioned is the phone call between Jean and me.

If I weren’t the victim of this farce, I’d never believe that justice could be so twisted. This circus is even more grotesque when I consider that all the players know that I communicated with Jean after the meeting in the Caymans to demand more details about the source of the funds. The proof is an email from Jean requesting more details, sent to the IRS agent, in which my name is in the CC field. When we mentioned this email, the tax agents told us that for them, this email is merely an attempt to cover ourselves in case of trouble. Not crazy, the American justice system apprehended us before the meeting where our “clients” were supposed to clarify the source of their funds. Since I didn’t categorically refuse the transaction, for them, the conspiracy crime remains. I feel like I’m being accused of rape for desiring an attractive woman after a few drinks in a bar. Even though my prosecutor told me she doesn’t believe I’m a money launderer, the only offer that justice is making me is to plead guilty to this crime. Ridicule doesn’t kill, it imprisons! There’s no point in pitying my fate; I must focus on tomorrow.

The next day, court day. Up at 5:30 AM, at the courthouse by 8:30 AM, followed by a long wait until 1 PM. I’ve barely slept for two days. The moment I’ve been putting off is here before me; there’s no turning back now. In the next few minutes, my life will change. For the rest of my days, I’ll have admitted to everyone that I’m a criminal; “St-Cyr, the fraudster.” When I leave the courtroom this afternoon, no matter what I say or write, in everyone’s minds, I’ll be guilty. Am I a coward for refusing to fight? Is there salvation in fighting for a lost cause? Saving face at the cost of freedom? I’m not an idealist; I’m pragmatic. My choice remains. The play must conclude, and I’ll be guilty.

The hearing lasts over an hour. Judge Knight is an elderly man, upright and very precise. He asks me numerous questions: do I understand that by pleading guilty, I’m giving up any chance of being acquitted, that there will be no possibility of appeal, that all recommendations regarding the duration of the sentence and the percentage of collaboration credit are just recommendations, that he can impose a sentence higher than the one recommended by the prosecutor. I agree to each of his questions. The “Yes, Your Honor. Yes, I understand. Yes, I’ve been explained” statements follow one another. Occasionally, in the middle of a sentence, the judge stops talking. His gaze goes vacant, his mouth remains open, contemplating something I don’t know.

His pause lasts for twenty, thirty seconds, and as if nothing happened, he continues where he left off. Age takes its toll, senility sets in. This old man from another era, a man with diminished intellectual faculties, will decide my fate alone.

After seventy minutes, it’s over. My sentence will be pronounced on September 26th. I have three months of waiting before I’m led to the slaughter. I return to the cell; the other beasts of the herd, my friends, await and encourage me. Tonight, it’s good not to be alone.

IF TOMORROW NEVER COMES

(Garth Brooks)

It’s November 24th, 2005, a month before Christmas. Over the past three days, an American consultant, the same one who introduced me to sales at CapMutuel, has been working with my team, teaching them the latest industry sales techniques. After a good day of coaching, we all head to the local marina for a drink. All fishing enthusiasts gather here. As evening falls, the boats unload their catches. I love having a drink outside, watching the sunset, and listening to the Trinidadians with their beautiful island accents recount their day’s adventure. I hope to be part of their group very soon; I’m in the process of buying a boat. When darkness sets in that evening, those who remain head to one of the island’s good restaurants. At La Bastille, the French restaurant in Port of Spain, we have a hearty and well-lubricated dinner. A little tipsy, we all head back around 10:30 PM. I remind my team members that I’ll probably be late to the office tomorrow; my family and I need to undergo a complete medical examination to finish the last step of the residency process in the country.

I arrive home, park my vehicle in the garage right next to Sara’s new utility vehicle. It’s strange to have built such a large house and such a small garage. There’s barely a meter between the two vehicles. I activate the alarm system, head to the second floor, close the gate, take a quick shower, and lie down next to Sara. Around 2 AM, our little poodle, Spike, barks for no reason. I get up and look out the window. Nothing to see, except that the full moon illuminates the calm sea with its rays. I pick up Spike and place him on our bed. He takes the opportunity to steal my spot next to Sara. I fall back asleep while scratching his ears.

At 6:30 AM, I wake up, my mouth is dry, and my brain is sluggish. I had too much red wine last night. I head upstairs to make two coffees; I’ll need a few espressos to pick up my speed. Sara joins me in the kitchen with Spike, who, as always, follows her closely. She disarms the security system and takes the dog out for his morning pee. I hear her calling Spike. What’s going on with this dog? He barks at night and wanders away from the house in the morning; he’s displaying unusual behavior. This big house must have ghosts; even Tiffany doesn’t want to fall asleep alone at night, the place gives her the creeps. We just need to establish our routine for everything to get back to normal, but it won’t be today, because it’s the doctor’s appointment. I wake the kids up to get dressed while Vérone prepares breakfast. Yes! With such a big house, we’ve decided to live the “rich and famous” life and hire two employees to help us. Vérone lives with us and takes care of the housekeeping, and the gardener visits us three times a week to tend to the property’s exterior.

Around 7:30 AM, we should leave, and as usual, Tiffany isn’t ready. I decide to go up to the garage and bring out the car. Zoë follows me, two steps behind. If I start the car, the latecomers will catch up with us more quickly.

I have engaged the mechanism that operates the garage door’s opening and lean under the door to step outside. As I straighten up, a tall, slender young Black man runs towards me, holding a machine gun aimed at me. The machine gun is small, black, rectangular, with a barrel barely five centimeters long. The man holds his weapon horizontally, like in gangster movies. Our gazes meet, his eyes and pupils merge, like two icy black marbles. My initial reflex is to run towards him, shouting, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” To this day, I try to understand why I acted that way. Perhaps my paternal instinct sought to protect Zoë behind me? Or did I believe I could reason with him, show him he was in the wrong place? Why didn’t I turn around and run back to the house? What I know is that my reaction probably saved my life. I have no doubt that the intruder would have shot me if I had tried to flee.

When he reaches me, the man with the machine gun pushes the barrel of his weapon into my chest and pushes me with his free hand towards the garage. When I reach it, others have appeared, and there are now five of them around me. They shout and talk very quickly, all of them nervous. They lay me down in front of the car and search me to ensure I have no weapons on me. I don’t say a word. My sense of time changes; everything suddenly slows down. I’m not scared; I don’t feel any emotions. My brain has switched to survival mode. There are only the six of us in the garage; Zoë must have gone to warn the others. I observe, I obey, I look for a solution, an escape route. Four out of the five attackers wear bandanas on their faces; only the leader, the man with the machine gun, doesn’t attempt to hide his identity. My Trinidadian cowboys are not like John Wayne; they’re just kids, at most seventeen years old. One of them is barely twelve! My first deduction is that the bandanas seem like a positive sign; you don’t hide your face when you want to kill someone, as they’ll never be able to testify. However, the leader doesn’t wear one. Their young age worries me too – what value does life have when you’re just starting it?

They steal my phone, my watch, my keys, and my wallet. One of the bandits ties my hands behind my back. I could easily free myself from the ropes, yet I play along. The young ones close the garage door. It’s dark, and we’re very cramped between the wall and the front of the car. No one speaks anymore. With his left hand, another assailant, wearing a blue bandana, forcefully pushes my head onto the car hood. In his right hand, he holds a revolver pressed against the back of my neck. Is this a robbery or an execution? I await the impact, the pain. I realize I’m slightly urinating in my pants. I regain my senses and stop the flow running down my leg; I won’t die while peeing in my underwear. The boy with the blue bandana pulls the trigger; I hear a click, I clench my teeth, nothing happens. I’ve relived this scene thousands of times in my head. I conclude that three scenarios could explain my survival that day: my attackers didn’t want to kill me but instead sought to break my resistance by scaring me to death; the gun jammed and didn’t work; or maybe I’m wrong, and God exists... Either way, my time wasn’t up.

Seeing that his gun didn’t work, the boy with the blue bandana flies into a violent rage. He flips me back onto the car hood, grabbing me by the shoulder. I now face him. Unlike the others who only show fear and nervousness, he’s all rage and violence. A sadist, without a doubt. Looking me in the eyes, he savagely strikes me with his weapon on the right side of my face, and like a pendulum, hits me with the revolver’s grip on the left side as he swings back. I’m shaken, and yet I feel no pain. With a strong island accent, he explains that he was paid to kill me but would reconsider his mandate if I gave him money and jewelry. I ask him to speak more slowly; I’m having trouble understanding. The force of the revolver blow has fractured the bone beneath my right eye; I probably have a mild concussion; I’m dazed. Slowly, I explain to him that I’m a foreigner, that this house doesn’t belong to me, that they’re mistaken. I know that killing a foreigner poses an additional risk of retaliation; I hit the mark, as the revolver man calms down. He wants to know where I’m from. I nod toward the baseball cap that one of the younger ones just stole from a wall hook. It’s a white Roots cap with the prominent Canadian flag.

One of the boys grabs me by the hair and pulls me to my feet. The sadist asks me where the women are. I have no idea. In a weak voice, I call out Sara’s name twice. In the coming months, this call, this cry of despair, will haunt me. How could I have been so cowardly and put my family’s safety at risk?

Fortunately, no one answers. I slowly regain my composure, and with a more aggressive tone, I retort that my family must have fled during the five minutes I was being beaten. The leader is the first to enter the house; the younger ones follow him like disciples. I bring up the rear with the sadist kicking me for no reason. His rage and hatred towards me are beyond comprehension. He demands money, jewelry, and valuable items. Slowly, the group disperses, searching for treasures. We don’t keep many valuable belongings at home. All of Sara’s jewelry is safely stored in a bank vault. The boy with the blue bandana drags me from room to room. The blows keep coming for no reason. I point out where the valuables are, even reminding one of the thieves not to forget the power cord of a DVD player he left behind.

We head upstairs to the bedrooms. I expect to find the protective door locked, but it’s wide open. Where is Sara hiding? I think I have the answer; going from room to room, we discover that Vérone’s room is locked. I’m completely alert now; there’s no way I’ll betray my family a second time. The leader orders me to open the door. I tell him that we use this room for storage and that my wife has the key. Unsatisfied, he hits me in the face with the stock of his machine gun. The force of the blow cuts the skin above my forehead, and blood spurts out. They continue and drag me, panting and dripping, on a treasure hunt from room to room. For the younger ones, it’s like an Easter Sunday; every drawer holds a surprise, every cabinet its treat. When we reach the master bedroom, I sit on the bed to collect myself. It occurs to me that during my trips to Hong Kong, I collected excellent replicas of famous watches. I point out where they’re hidden to the leader. He’s delighted with this find. He’s already envisioning the thousands of dollars inprofit he’ll make from selling my possessions. What a surprise he’ll have when he discovers that these Frank Muller, Philippe Patek, and Rolex watches are worthless!

A young man quickly enters the room, showing the leader his new find: my beautiful new axe with its orange handle and black head. Axes aren’t common in Trinidad; workers use machetes to cut trees and bushes. Strangely, my tool is of extraordinary interest to the young ones. Three of them now grab and swing it in the air like imaginary lumberjacks. I shrink down on the bed. I look at my fingers and fervently hope that no one else has the idea that haunts me.

I’m bleeding profusely from the top of my head due to the machine gun blow I received a few minutes earlier. I have to wipe my eyes to see, and my shirt, covered in blood, takes on a brownish hue. I look terrifying. My condition impresses the young criminals, who ease up on their attacks against me. After a brief visit to the empty, still unfurnished first floor, we return to the third floor. I point out to the leader that my personal computer is in the office. My instinct tells me to offer as much as possible, a strategy that might spare me the worst. The machine gun man doesn’t want a damn computer; money and jewelry are all he’s interested in.

I know the invasion is nearing its end; I move my wrists to make sure I’ll be able to free myself if they attempt to kill me. I prepare for the worst. I can’t be as passive as I was when they arrived. I’m counting on the element of surprise. Back in the garage, the executioner takes my keychain out of his pocket. He opens the BMW’s trunk and orders me to get in. This is a kidnapping; I hadn’t planned for this. In 2005, Trinidad held the world record for the number of kidnappings. At TTC, I underwent training on kidnappings; I distinctly remember a statistic: when a person leaves the site of a kidnapping, their chances of survival drop below 50%. The situation escalates; the leader points his weapon at me: “Get in the trunk,” he repeats. I put my left foot in, but keep my right foot on the ground. The sadist, next to me, tries to open the garage door with my keys and accidentally triggers the car alarm; they’re all in a panic. The tension rises another notch. The leader yells something at me, but the alarm is so loud that I can’t hear anything. My eyes move back and forth between the machine gun’s barrel and the revolver’s; both are still pointed at me. The sadist is uncomfortable with his gun in one hand and my keys in the other. He tosses my keys to a younger one. The car alarm continues to blare, and if it goes on, the guard further down the street will soon show up. I take control of the situation; I undo my restraints, snatch the keys from the young one’s hand, and stop the alarm from sounding.

“I still have one foot in the trunk (or is it in the grave?), the other on the ground, my keyring with its multiple controls in my hands. I realize that, for an unknown reason, the advantage of the situation has shifted in my favor. I have become an authority figure once again, a forty-one-year-old man facing a group of teenagers. All eyes are fixed on me, and the garage is plunged into total silence. With an authoritative voice, I shout, ‘Sacrament, what do you want now?’

The sadist orders me to open the garage door. Using the remote control attached to the keyring, I activate the mechanism of the door without saying a word. Before it’s fully open, all the youths scatter, carrying their loot in our pillowcases, like little Santas with their sacks.

I find myself alone, still with one foot in the car trunk. Not knowing what to do, I put my leg on the ground, close the trunk, and lean against the car. I sigh, we have survived. I return home and lock the door behind me. I go downstairs to the second floor and knock on Vérone’s door. No response. No matter how much I indicate that I’m alone and the thieves are gone, the door remains locked. There’s a knock at the front door. I go back upstairs and look at the security camera to see the guard from the complex’s gate. He asks me through the intercom if everything is okay. I explain the situation and tell him to wait a few minutes. Before letting anyone in, I want to find the girls. They must be terrified. On the third floor, there’s only one room the intruders haven’t entered: the office. Good sign, the door is locked. I knock and insist, no response. They are behind that door, I’m sure, and to think I suggested they go there to get my computer.

I encourage Sara to open for me: no sign of life. There’s another knock at the door; the landlord who rented us the house arrives with a security guard, a tall bald man with an imposing physique. I abandon my monologue with the office door and return to the garage. The landlord is waiting for me, I step towards him and shake his hand. I thank him for coming to our aid. I’m covered in blood, my face battered, and yet, I act as if I’m meeting a new client; a bit more and I’d offer him a coffee.

I return to the office door and announce the cavalry’s arrival to my family. After long minutes, the door opens slowly. Zoë is there in front of me, huddled on the floor with Tiffany and Sara. They’re pale with fear. Vérone isn’t there; she’s hiding in her room with our dog Spike, which explains why the door was locked. She won’t come out until after several requests. Zoë will later tell me that I was staggering when I entered the office, like in horror movies, and she expected me to take a few steps and collapse on the floor, face down, a knife plunged in my back. At the sight of me, Tiffany rushes towards me. She grabs onto my leg and squeezes me tightly while trembling all over. She looks up at me and blurts out, ‘Dad, you have a potato face...’

In the end, it’s Sara who saved my skin. During my altercation with the leader while leaving the house, Zoë turned back and ran towards the house. Seeing the panic on her daughter’s face, Sara questioned her. Zoë was left speechless, frozen with fear. To snap her out of it, Sara shouted at her, ‘Speak, Zoë!’ and Zoë replied with a single syllable, ‘Guns9.’ With remarkable presence of mind, Sara led the two girls into the office and locked the door behind them. We also use this room as a training room. After telling the girls to stay silent, she handed each of them a dumbbell. She ordered them to throw them at the attackers’ heads if they entered the room. She knew that rape is common during home robberies in Trinidad. Sara asked Zoë to give her the cellphone, but there was no money left in her account. Zoë reminded her mother that the emergency number 611 worked on the cellphone even when there was no available credit. My wife contacted the police, and after several rings, an officer answered and asked for her name, the spelling of her name, her address, the spelling of her address, and so on. Sara whispered all these details to the officer, who couldn’t hear her responses and kept urging her to speak louder. It’s an understatement to say that Trinidad’s police officers are ineffective. No matter how much she emphasized the urgency of the situation, it was to no avail; our policeman took his time like a typical bureaucrat... Sara lost patience and hung up on him, before thinking of another solution. In the room, there are still unpacked moving boxes. Sara knew that one of these boxes contained a phone. After a few minutes of searching, they found it and charged the battery. The wait was interminable. Sara eventually reached our landlord, but the line got cut at the beginning of the conversation. She tried again and left a voicemail. On the third attempt, the landlord answered that he had received the message and that help was on the way.

According to the investigators, in addition to the five individuals present during the robbery, two others were outside keeping watch. When the guard started heading towards the house, they called the leader to instruct him to leave as soon as possible. Thus, Sara’s quick thinking and an old phone saved my life. Trinidad’s police officers showed up at the house two hours after the criminals left. The rest of the day is tumultuous. They take me to the hospital, where doctors diagnose a mild concussion and a fracture beneath my right eye. Back home in the late afternoon, all the office employees are there to support us. The bosses will come later when the offices close. I tell my story dozens of times. Everyone is fine, there’s no reason to worry about us. Finally, around 10 p.m., the last visitors leave.

I’m wrong, none of the four of us is truly okay. Sara can’t close her eyes at night, the girls are traumatized. We move three days later. As for me, everything goes on as if nothing happened until the fifth day. Just like during an earthquake, it’s often the aftershock that does the most damage. In the afternoon of November 30th, alone in my car, I listen to Garth Brooks’ hit ‘If Tomorrow Never Comes.’ In the middle of downtown Port of Spain, I’m suddenly struck by an amnesia attack. I don’t know where I’m going, where I am, and why I’m in my car. I tremble, I’m afraid, and I burst into tears. I park on the side of the road to collect myself. I can’t help but imagine my women being violated, reliving that day, analyzing every little detail that could have turned the tragedy into horror. I will relive these moments regularly over the next few months. Memory losses, teary outbursts that come unexpectedly, and night sweats will last for over a year. Despite our nightmare, Sara and I decide to stay in Trinidad.

“We won’t let ourselves be intimidated. Over the next two years, we will be victims of two more violent crimes. In September 2007, a few months after a car theft, Sara is attacked in her car by a man with a crowbar. She comes out unscathed, but our decision is made. With heavy hearts, we leave Trinidad at the end of 2007.

When I stop and think about it, I realize that some of the most beautiful experiences of our lives happened during our stay in Trinidad. As Charles Dickens wrote: ’... it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, the age of wisdom and foolishness, the epoch of belief and incredulity, the season of light and darkness, the spring of hope and the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us10.’ Trinidad and Tobago, these are two sister islands, different and complementary, offering exceptional beauty and exoticism. The rich diversity of expatriates living there gave us the opportunity to make many friends from all over the world. Damian, Jessica, Katherine, Kerby, Oscar, Pam, Renée, Wayde, and so on, all became close to us, and we still keep in touch with them today. It’s with them that we spent our weekends at Maracas Beach, lazing around on long Sundays doing body surfing, drinking beer, and eating shark bites. And above all, it’s with these people that we discovered Trinidad’s carnival, the world’s largest participatory carnival.

Police presence is strong, and very few crimes are committed, allowing us to enjoy ourselves with peace of mind. The celebration is grand, with one hundred and twenty thousand people dancing in the streets of Port of Spain to the sound of soca music, all dressed in feathers and glitter, men pretending to be actors from the movie 300 and women as cabaret dancers. In Brazil, at the Rio Carnival, tourists are spectators. In Trinidad, everyone can participate in the parades – children, adults, thin, overweight, young, old, Black, White, Indian, and everyone else. During ‘the greatest party on Earth,’ there’s no segregation; everyone dances, drinks, and eats together. It’s an event that left a lasting impression on me, a group communion that I had never experienced before and haven’t seen since. These precious moments will always remain etched in my memory.”

COMFORTABLY NUMB

(Pink Floyd)

“For my family, things are falling into place. The Cayman Islands government decided not to press charges against me. Despite their extensive search, reviewing all client accounts, auditing all bank transfers, they found nothing abnormal. The clients’ money was never touched, and the bank transactions show no signs of money laundering. After weeks of investigation, my personal assets were released, and Sara was able to sell our house to generate liquidity. The company needs to be liquidated. My assets in Clover will be consumed by the liquidators’ fees. Sara now lives in Quebec, and I feel alone far from my family.

Four months have passed since my arrest. The days pass and resemble each other. Sometimes, I feel like Bill Murray in the movie Groundhog Day. In prison, nothing changes – Monday, Friday, or Sunday, no difference. At the beginning of my incarceration, when I had the sensitivity of a burn victim, I wrote on a piece of paper: ‘Just as black is the absence of light, cold is the absence of heat, captivity is the absence of freedom, and above all, it’s the absence of love.’ After one hundred and twenty days inside, I now know that prison is primarily the absence of choice. Like a child, the prisoner can’t choose his waking and sleeping hours, meal times, menu, cellmate, shower water temperature, clothes, and so on.

Minute by minute, my life is being stolen from me. What a paradox to see time lingering while losing its existence! The American penal system is based on punishment. There’s no room for rehabilitation; it’s not surprising that most of my fellow inmates are repeat offenders.

My incarceration prompts me to question the effectiveness of the American penal system. Putting people in overcrowded prisons without psychological help or rehabilitation programs, does it work? Does the fear of returning behind bars convince criminals not to commit crimes again? Absolutely not. According to the serious National Institute of Justice of the U.S. Department of Justice, in the United States, one year after their release, 56.7% of criminals return to prison. Over a five-year period, this number rises to 76.6%. What a waste. When we know that a former inmate has thirteen times the risk of dying in the first year of their release compared to another person and, according to a European study, they are eighteen times more likely to commit suicide, those who truly succeed are very rare. Why so many repeat offenders? There are several reasons. Firstly, it’s very easy for a released inmate to go back to prison for breaking release conditions. The addict (over 70% of them have addiction issues) who ends up on the street, without a job or support, often has no choice but to revert to their old habits to survive. And even if they stay away from drug dealing, how long can they go without using? A surprise urine test will put them back in the hole in no time. Let’s say an individual manages to stay away from their old life, is well-supported, and complies with all the requirements of their release – how long will they accept having their job applications rejected? At what level of poverty does one decide that the risk of returning to prison is better than starving? In my opinion, however, the main reason for recidivism is the absence of a deep fear of the system. When you’ve been through it once, you stop being afraid; you’ve learned, you know you’ll adapt. Several homeless individuals, in fact, commit small crimes in the fall to be able to spend the winter warm, housed, and fed. Some of my Alexandria cellmates have already admitted to me that they’ve had to survive on cat meat in the past...

If 75% of students in a class failed their exams? If 75% of a restaurant’s customers got poisoned? If 75% of a doctor’s patients died? What would happen? Responsible people would certainly lose their jobs. So why does the government support such a poor rehabilitation rate? One might wonder if some lobbies are benefiting from all these prisoners being fed and dehumanized at great costs...

Each year, more and more prisoners transition from the public sector of the incarceration industry to the private sector. Yes, entrepreneurs have discovered a new goldmine: running prisons and making handsome profits with the dollars of ‘taxpayers.’ When a private prison opens, the company operating it often asks the state to guarantee a minimum occupancy rate between 80 and 100%. In other words, regardless of whether the crime rate increases or decreases, authorities must ensure that the facilities are occupied. How do we explain that American crime rates are dropping while imprisonment rates are rising? No, it’s not because all criminals are in prison, as evidenced by the high number of repeat offenders. It’s simply because, over the past few years, the laws have changed, particularly the ‘three strikes’ law that allows minor offenders to be sentenced to life imprisonment after their third offense. Who supports the lobby behind the adoption of these much stricter laws? The companies operating private prisons. So in a country where crime is significantly decreasing, but where the Department of Justice openly admits that the rehabilitation system doesn’t work, more and more people are being locked up with heavier sentences.

In every conversation I have with a family member or a friend from the outside, the same questions arise: ‘Are you treated well? What are the conditions like?’ I also realize that some questions aren’t dared to be asked. In order to shed some light on the unknown world of prisons, I share here my experiences and opinions on life behind bars in Alexandria.

FOOD Three meals a day – breakfast at 7 am, lunch at 12 pm, and dinner at 5 pm – all very American. That’s where normalcy ends. In prison, food is cold and drinks are warm. The textures, colors, and flavors have nothing in common with homemade meals. In this world, food is prepared without any spices, salt, or pepper. All dishes taste the same. The administration has only one idea: to keep costs as low as possible. The rumor has it that each prisoner costs the state one dollar per day in food – the price of a chocolate bar. That’s false; I learned on the internet that food costs vary widely from one facility to another. They usually range between two and eight dollars per day. In Alexandria, the budget is much closer to two dollars than eight. The basic ingredients are pasta, beans, baloney, rice, rice, and rice. Every other dinner is a gelatinous porridge of rice with tomato sauce or black beans. We accompany lunch and dinner with a portion of canned

vegetables and bread. For dessert, we receive an undercooked cookie or an apple. There’s only one meal that excites the inmates: Wednesday night’s chicken thigh. It’s the only clear-source animal protein. The other meat portions are of unknown origin – beef, turkey, or tofu – no one knows, and it’s probably better not to know. The only certainty: there’s no pork on the plates. Some inmates say that pigs are found in the uniforms. If you want to eat pork, you can always buy sausages or dried pork fat rings at the commissary. Due to its popularity, the chicken meal creates a thigh market among inmates. For two dollars’ worth of commissary food items, a prisoner can buy another inmate’s chicken thigh. If the price is lower, people will say the seller has a light thigh... Two dollars might be a paltry sum in the outside world, but in prison, it’s a small fortune, equivalent to ten or even twenty dollars on the street.

In addition to offering very unappetizing and nutritionally limited meals, detention centers serve food in questionably hygienic containers. Like 1960s TV Dinners, our meals are presented in compartmentalized trays molded from thick red plastic. These trays come from the kitchens, stacked on top of each other. The food is in direct contact with the bottom of the top tray. So, the meals arrive molded into a rectangular shape after wiping the dirt from the upper tray. It’s disgusting.

In addition to serving as a plate, the tray can also be used as a weapon. It’s the only movable item with enough weight and size to serve as a club. One day, an inmate who was educating me explained that the best way to punish an enemy is to follow them in the food service line and give them a big blow to the head with their tray full of food. The Quebecois expression ‘Y’en a mangé toute une’ (literally ‘They ate a whole one’) probably comes from a detention center...

Food is a sad affair in prison, but fortunately, the commissary and the imaginative minds of hungry men improve the situation. Every evening, a few improvised cooks concoct remarkably creative menus from disparate ingredients. From apple and cinnamon pie to noodle and baloney sandwiches, there are no limits. I particularly like the burritos prepared by the Mexicans. The recipe is complex and can take over an hour to prepare. The chef makes a tortilla by mixing Doritos chips, cooked Japanese Ramen noodles, and spicy pork fat rings, the Mexican version of Quebec’s ‘Christ’s ears.’ They grind everything to make a paste, spread it, and cook it on an empty pretzel bag in the microwave for about ten minutes. Then, they let it cool down. Before serving, they cover the tortilla with one of the components of the evening meal, such as chili, rice, or chicken, to which they add a cheese sauce made with water, mayonnaise, and cheese. Everything is spiced with the flavor packet from the Ramen noodle bags. They cook the dish a second time and finish it by adding a second portion of Doritos for crunchiness.”

THE GUARDS

What mentally healthy human being desires to work as a prison guard? Paid a ridiculous salary to spend twelve hours a day in a sad, lightless, violence-soaked environment, the guard occupies thankless roles. Never satisfied, prisoners do everything to irritate the guards. The job isn’t prestigious; it’s more akin to that of a flight attendant, handing out soap or toilet paper and ensuring inmates are in their cells when the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign sounds. One needs a domineering spirit to enjoy such a profession and find pleasure in humiliating captive men and rigidly enforcing senseless regulations, making sure no one hides an apple in their cell or conceals a fourth pair of socks in their mattress.

There are three types of guards at the Alexandria detention center: the nice ones, the assholes, and the women. The nice ones are characterized by their discernment; they apply regulations using common sense. Inmates respect them, and days pass harmoniously. The assholes, on the other hand, seek confrontation. They view themselves as superior and have no qualms about humiliating or threatening prisoners. At the beginning of my incarceration, after accidentally dropping my tray, the responsible guard made me stand in front of other inmates for over thirty minutes before giving me another. He wanted to punish me like a five-year-old child. His motivation? To demonstrate that he was in charge. The assholes are sadists who take pleasure in inflicting suffering and shame. To them, prisoners are mere animals. Women, on the other hand, are in a class of their own. More efficient and organized than men, they are also much harder to please. Every female guard I observed tended to shout and punish more than their male counterparts. For some, strictly enforcing regulations is an ultimate goal. Wielding the rule book like a pastor wields his Bible, they don’t hesitate to lock up a prisoner in their cell for twenty-four hours over trivial matters like an improperly made bed. Women guards are the most feared in prison because they’re the most unpredictable. At the risk of sounding sexist, I don’t believe it’s appropriate for a woman to guard a group of male inmates; it creates an unhealthy atmosphere prone to conflict. What woman desires a job that involves watching men urinate during their rounds? Why does prison allow female guards to search a man, while a male guard can’t search a woman? Is a male guard being fondled by a woman not equivalent to a male inmate being touched by a female guard?

SEX I don’t know of any TV series or movies that don’t exploit sex and rape when depicting prison life. It’s therefore normal for an individual to be concerned about preserving their ‘virginity’ during their first incarceration. I can confirm that, for me, the fear of rape weighed heavily during the initial days. Let me dispel this myth and reassure all future inmates: the sexual violence of Shawshank Redemption or Sons of Anarchy is fiction. Based on my limited experience, I admit and am glad to say that rape doesn’t appear to be more prevalent in prison than it is outside. The only rape I heard about during my imprisonment was committed by a guard on a female inmate at the Alexandria detention center. The story made headlines, and the guard was behind bars on the same day. He was subsequently sentenced to five years in prison.

I’m not saying that sexual assaults don’t happen in certain detention centers, but the layout of prisons and strict enforcement of certain regulations make rape difficult. Most spaces are monitored by cameras, and the showers, which have only a curtain as a door, are located right in front of the guards’ office. The only semblance of privacy a prisoner has is in their cell. However, it remains illuminated twenty-four hours a day and is under the random surveillance of guards doing their rounds. The regulations are also very strict regarding entries into cells. Under no circumstances can a prisoner enter a cell that isn’t theirs. Transgressing this rule will automatically be punished with a two-week stay in solitary confinement.

What about consensual sex between adults? Even there, the practice seems to be more a part of cultural folklore than everyday reality. I never got the impression that two inmates sharing the same cell also shared the same bed. If I had to guess, I would say that the constant proximity of a group of men without female presence significantly reduces their ardor.

The prison population is young. Urges and testosterone levels are therefore high. I’m not naive enough to believe that everyone abstains from all carnal pleasures, but the pursuit of satisfaction seems to happen in solitude. Moreover, a prisoner in Miami exploited the opportunity presented by a group of young men without partners. In exchange for food, he traded photos of young ladies in revealing attire – nothing pornographic, which is forbidden, but very suggestive photos.

Judging by the selection and quantity of photos offered, the young entrepreneur was making a fortune.”

THE CELL

Slightly larger than a mausoleum, my cell in Alexandria was built to accommodate only one individual. The limitations of space become evident when two inmates have to share it. It’s difficult to rest in such a confined place that only one of the two prisoners can comfortably stand; it’s hard to find inner peace when the neighbor urinates so close to the other that droplets spray; it’s a challenge to stay sane on days when we’re locked in our cells for twenty-four hours for trivial reasons: a holiday, an absent guard, a fight among inmates, a power outage. Anything is a pretext for declaring a lockdown. During these moments, lying on my bed, I watch time pass—twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours, and sometimes even seventy-two hours—nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing to live. The time spent locked in a cell represents the most inhumane portion of the prison experience. Without communication with the outside world, without any idea of the duration of confinement. I seek comfort and escape in reading and sleep. How I miss my computer, my iPad, and the television! If only my bed could offer some comfort, but no. Whether it’s the concrete bed or the cot, a PVC bed similar to a patio lounge chair, the mattress is too thin, and the bedding, with questionable odor and softness.

Too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, too dark during the day and always illuminated at night, I despise every minute spent wasting my life in this cage. Despite getting along well with my cellmate, we talk very little, as if everything has been said. The only way out is through dreams. Every day, every moment, I dream of my release. I imagine my first meal outside these walls, my first glass of red wine, a walk in the forest, a trip with my daughters... The mind gets lost in this imaginary world. Suddenly, anxiety spreads its black coat over my thoughts. How much time will the judge give me? How will I make a living in the years to come? All these fears, combined with my feelings of helplessness and injustice, feed the rage that I find increasingly difficult to control. In fact, I was involved in an altercation with a young inmate who had taken the phone that I use first every evening at 7 p.m. A privilege earned through my seniority. Thankfully, his buddies showed up in time and held me back. If I had hit the young man as I wished, I would have ended up in solitary confinement for thirty days, and honestly, I probably would have taken quite a beating. It takes very little to turn a man into a beast. I have a memory of a visit to the zoo from my youth. I remember a tiger that kept pacing back and forth in its cage. I wondered about the reason for its behavior. The answer seems obvious to me today. The completely unnatural tiger had simply lost its mind. Never again will I keep an animal in a cage at home.

FRIENDS FROM THE OUTSIDE

Under the hot Palestinian sun, wrists and feet bleeding, Jesus suffers, but more than suffering, it’s rage that fills him. Truth be told, Jesus is in agony... Judas betrayed him for his own gain, yet what affects Jesus more than anything is seeing his friend Peter deny him three times before the rooster crows.

The announcement of imprisonment is the public crucifixion of an individual. If Peter had access to Facebook or email, there’s no doubt he would have publicized the event, encouraging gossip. Peter reminds me of a friend for whom I found two quality jobs in recent years. He also didn’t hesitate to proclaim my guilt in public hours after my arrest. Then there are all the others, happy to help Sara, but disappearing as soon as she asks them for a letter of recommendation to positively influence the judge during sentencing. Their refusals are all similar; they read like a letter from a banker declining a mortgage loan. The reasons are numerous: fear of being targeted by U.S. customs during travel, fear of reprimand from an employer, fear of being rejected by a professional group. So many fears for so little. They’re lucky to live in Canada where healthcare is free. Their testicular transplants can be done without financial impact. Jesus forgives, I try to forget.

Fortunately, other friends from my past emerge to offer support and compassion to my family. Friends we haven’t spoken to in years write to us regularly, making sure Sara lacks nothing, surrounding her with support and listening ears. How can I explain these different reactions from people I love? Interestingly, I observe that the majority of the cowards are men in the finance industry. Where have those alpha males gone? Guys, what happened to you? Yet, working in the field for nearly thirty years, I’m certain I would have written a letter of recommendation for you.

Finally, there’s family, which closes in around me like a shield to protect me. Uncles, cousins, some I haven’t spoken to in over ten years, all are present to help my family and me get through this ordeal. If there’s a positive element to this adventure, it’s that my time in prison has allowed me to discover who my true friends are and to remember that there’s nothing like blood ties.

SEE YOU AGAIN

(Wiz Khalifa)

Deciding to leave Trinidad is one thing; choosing where to go is another.

The violence we’ve experienced over the past two years has a positive aspect. Thanks to it, I’m considering doing what I should have done a long time ago: launching my own investment firm. First, it’s going to need a name. After a few hours of brainstorming, I settle on “Clover Asset Management,” with the internationally recognized lucky symbol, the four-leaf clover (as “Clover” means “trèfle” in English). No doubt for me, luck plays a crucial role in investing. No one can predict the market’s direction with certainty. Investing a week before a financial crash or a week after significantly impacts an investor’s performance.

I’m not a fatalist; I don’t believe in destiny. Everyone is the master of their choices, everyone chooses their battles, everyone decides their life. However, I readily admit that there’s an element of randomness in life, that chance regularly alters the stakes. Occasionally, luck smiles upon us, and sometimes, it turns away. It’s during the dark times that the value of a person is measured. The purpose of life, if there is one, isn’t to win, as there is no victory; we all die at the end of the movie. The real goal is to overcome adversity, to emerge from it bigger, better. Luck has turned against us since our arrival in Trinidad; I sincerely hope that Clover, with its four-leaf clover, will set things right.

Next, I establish the firm’s philosophy and its investment process. There’s no need to reinvent the wheel; I draw heavily from my work over the past two years. The commercial success of TTC and the excellent performance of its products have convinced me of the value of my approach. A local insurance firm in Trinidad proposes to partner with us and take a stake in Clover. They will invest the initial capital and handle distribution in the Trinidad and Tobago market. That’s exactly what I wanted. I’ll manage the portfolios by selecting securities (stocks, bonds, etc.), and my partner will find clients, which should be easy as they already have several thousand clients doing business with them. I also hire TTC’s top salesperson; he will bridge the gap between the insurance company and Clover in Trinidad. To amass assets quickly, my strategy is to focus on business development in Trinidad. I’m a familiar figure in the market; I publish an investment article in a daily newspaper every week and occasionally appear on television. Clover Asset Management emphasizes Trinidad and has almost no client accounts seeking to reduce their tax burden.

Now I need to establish the domicile of my firm. Trinidad clients don’t have easy access to an offshore country despite a growing need. Not that local taxation affects clients’ performance; what Trinidad’s wealthy are seeking isn’t to evade taxes but to hide the existence of their fortunes from criminals. Several scandals have emerged in recent years where employees of major banks allegedly sold client lists and their account balances to organized crime. This explains why kidnapping rates are so high in the country.

After an exhaustive study of offshore territories, I narrow down Clover’s options to four: Antigua, the Cayman Islands, the Turks and Caicos Islands, and Saint Kitts and Nevis. All four places have no direct taxes, meaning Clover’s revenues and my salary will remain intact. The Cayman Islands, which I know well, offer exceptional infrastructure, numerous daily flights, a stable political situation, and very low crime rates. The only downside: Cayman Islands banking secrecy has been weakening over the years, and the country has committed to signing information-sharing treaties with most industrialized countries. In the years to come, if the laws are upheld, foreign governments will be able to more easily identify individuals hiding assets in the Cayman Islands. This won’t impact my Trinidadian clientele, as they’re not hiding anything from their government, but it will reduce the influx of new clients from other countries, those using tax havens to lower their taxes. Both Antigua and Nevis have strong laws protecting investor confidentiality, among the strongest in the world. However, their infrastructure leaves something to be desired. Clover can’t afford to manage clients’ portfolios with an internet connection that frequently fails. Antigua is also experiencing a significant rise in violent crime, a deal breaker after our experiences in Trinidad. Finally, the country that makes me hesitate is the Turks and Caicos Islands. I admit, I have a soft spot for these islands, which, in my opinion, have the most beautiful beaches in the Caribbean. The Turks and Caicos Islands also enjoy exceptional banking secrecy, which means I’ll have more potential clients. While their infrastructure isn’t at the level of the Cayman Islands, it compares favorably to that of the other two countries. I narrow my options down to the Cayman Islands and the Turks and Caicos Islands. Then, I thoroughly review the legislation regarding these two British territories. To establish a firm like the one I want to create with Clover in the Turks and Caicos Islands, I need to deposit $250,000 in trust with the financial authorities. The Cayman Islands don’t require a deposit, making them the final choice by default.

The entire family arrives in the Cayman Islands on January 3, 2008. As I disembark from the plane, a feeling of pride wells up within me. After five years, I’m back in the country, my country. Upon arrival, a good friend hugs me. He whispers in my ear:

— Your tenacity never ceases to amaze me!

Now, we need a house for the family and an office for Clover. We acquire a waterfront property, a childhood dream of mine. The sea is visible from every room in all its splendor. We renovate the property from top to bottom in a contemporary style, a novelty in the Cayman Islands. To do this, I hire my close friend Chuck, a local contractor. Chuck and his wife are very close to Sara and me. We got to know them during our first stay, and since then, we’ve been inseparable. Their family visited us in Montreal two years ago, and in 2007, we went on a ten-day adult-only cruise on a fifteen-meter catamaran in the British Virgin Islands. Sara and I have never been closer to another couple. I have absolute trust in Chuck, and we give him carte blanche for the work. Since he’s struggling financially with his business, our patronage should help him make ends meet. During the renovations, we stay in two apartments two kilometers east of our house. One apartment for Sara, Tiffany, and me, and a second one right next door for Zoë and Clover’s offices.

I get to work immediately. I must accumulate assets as quickly as possible and take advantage of my notoriety in Trinidad before I’m forgotten. We’ve built up a significant database of potential clients. As a starting strategy, I plan to write a monthly article that will be distributed by email and published in Trinidad’s most-read newspaper. In the days following the article’s publication, our salesperson in Trinidad will call potential clients and schedule meetings for me during my monthly visits. I intend to visit Trinidad two weeks a month to meet as many clients as possible. It’s the price to pay to ensure rapid asset growth. My first article deals with a theory I’ve developed over the past few months, which I’ve named the “champagne economy.”

My research shows that the American economy is faltering. Indeed, 70% of the United States’ gross domestic product comes from consumption of goods and services by the population. For several years, the increase in consumption, and thus economic growth, has been the result of an increase in consumer credit. Each year, the consumer increases their borrowing capacity in order to continue feeding the economic beast. Since inflation is very low and individuals’ incomes are stagnant, the only way for the government to increase economic activity is to artificially create an increase in the value of consumers’ assets. If an individual’s balance sheet shows an increase in the value of their investment portfolio or their home, they will be more confident about the future. They will also be more inclined to borrow to acquire other goods. Finally, banks will also be more permissive due to the increase in their wealth. It takes money to make money. To increase the value of consumer assets, the government has several tools, some of which it uses more regularly: artificially low interest rates, fiscal benefits for specific goods consumption, and tax cuts.

When the value of an asset increases rapidly, it creates enthusiasm among investors. They lose all judgment and invest with the promise of fantastic returns. This excitement for the coveted asset increases demand and pushes its price up, creating a “virtuous circle.” “The fresher the sausages, the more we eat them; the more we eat them, the fresher the sausages become,” as the advertising message so aptly put it. This is how financial bubbles form. Several signs indicate a bubble: the coveted asset changes hands quickly, and the investment transforms into speculation (aiming for short-term gains rather than long-term value growth); newcomers rush to participate in the windfall and are convinced of their investment’s future success; a new economy is discussed, expressions like “this time it’s different” are used.

Financial bubbles have existed forever, but in the past thirty years, they have been more numerous, and the time between each crash has become shorter. The economy is like a human; sometimes, it falls ill, especially when it has overindulged. Previously, when that happened, time and nature took care of the healing, and after a few years, the economy bounced back, stronger and healthier. Except in recent years, central banks have increasingly interfered in the economic cycle, attempting to treat the ailing economy with shock treatments instead of waiting for time and nature to sort things out. The global economy now falls sick more and more regularly, and the treatments to get it back on its feet must be stronger and stronger. It’s these medications (low interest rates, consumption tax benefits, and tax cuts) that cause the bubbles. The soaring and crashing of tech stock prices in the late 1990s is a glaring example of a financial bubble. The case of electronic currency, Bitcoin, in December 2013 is another example. Tech stocks and bitcoins saw their values skyrocket only to collapse later.

My theory about the “champagne economy” hypothesizes that the American economy, given the level of state and consumer debt, must manufacture repeated financial bubbles using the aforementioned tools to create an illusion of wealth. However, as each bursting bubble carries a more significant destructive element than the wealth effect it creates, the next bubble must be larger than the previous one. The economy goes from one bubble to another like champagne that intoxicates us and leaves us with miserable hangovers.

“My initial writings on the subject were published around the end of 2007. In them, I explained that the reduction of interest rates by the U.S. Federal Reserve in the early 2000s, coupled with the deregulation of the financial industry, had generated a new financial bubble in the real estate sector. I warned that the impending crash could be more devastating than the technology stock crash.

Clover’s sales strategy is built on an honest approach. The times ahead of us will be difficult, and Clover Asset Management will handle your assets with caution. However, this approach demonstrates a lack of understanding on my part of investor behavior. It’s the lure of profit that attracts new clients; fear, on the other hand, drives clients towards the safety of banks and their certificates of deposit. If I had simply promoted my past performances, I would have been much more successful in Clover’s launch. Yet, a part of me desires to showcase my analytical and forecasting abilities to the market. Once again, my ego hinders my success.

The limited assets under management, lack of notoriety, and Clover’s novelty are the most delicate obstacles to overcome. Nevertheless, we experience some success in the first few months. Several modest-sized accounts are being opened every week. After a few months, we manage a few million for Trinidadian clients. We charge a maximum of 2% management fee; on assets of six to eight million, the firm’s gross revenues are around one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which is very little when considering operational costs. Our asset allocation remains conservative, as I am increasingly convinced that the global economic situation is about to deteriorate and drag the world economy into a major recession. Our growth suddenly slows down when the Stanford Antigua bank closes its doors following the founder’s arrest for fraud. Antiguan investors lose everything. A few weeks later, it’s Bernard Madoff’s turn and his firm in the United States to implode, resulting in over fifty billion dollars in losses for his clients. Small management firms are no longer in favor.

This initial setback for Clover foreshadows difficult times. The second blow arrives in the fall of 2008. Lehman Brothers, a New York investment bank, declares bankruptcy. The markets panic and then collapse. No asset class is spared; the Lehman bankruptcy would mark the beginning of what would later be called the ‘Great Recession’. Our clients fare relatively well, with their portfolios experiencing minimal drops in value, much lower than the market’s. We redouble our marketing efforts, trying to demonstrate the accuracy of our economic predictions to investors. However, it’s in vain; panic ensues. Some clients close their accounts, and potential clients hesitate to invest. March 2009 brings a second crash in stock prices. The S&P 500, the benchmark for U.S. stocks, is down 50% since its 2007 peak. The index value descends to the fateful number of 666, the number of the beast. It’s a financial apocalypse.

Our unconventional portfolios, where we have the freedom to short sell securities, stand out. Their performance is mostly positive, exceeding the market’s by nearly 50%. Nonetheless, nothing seems to work; the size of our firm and investor panic crush any hope of growth. Our coffers empty quickly, and we have only six months left in the bank to continue operations. By January 2010, if the situation does not improve drastically, Clover will have to close its doors.

In the summer of 2009, Clico, the largest company in Trinidad, goes bankrupt. This conglomerate of financial and energy companies represents over 10% of the country’s economy. Trinidadian investors suffer their worst losses in their short history. Out of the fifty accounts at Clover, forty-seven are from there. My business model couldn’t survive an economic collapse in their country. The announcement of Clico’s fall should have spelled the end for my company, but once again, luck favors me in a period of darkness.

For the past few months, I have been promoting my services as a consultant at TrinidFond Corporation in Trinidad. TFC is the largest mutual fund company in the Caribbean. They have observed my approach, my successes at TTC, and they hire me to elevate their management to international standards. In December, I sign a one-year contract. My mandate is to implement a professional management approach and act as a mentor to fourteen young portfolio managers. It was just in time. Clover becomes profitable in the same month our bank account empties completely.

On a personal note, our life in the Cayman Islands doesn’t bring us the same satisfaction as our first experience. Work stress likely plays a significant role. The kids have grown, friends have changed, the magic has faded. After months of work, house renovations are completed. My friend Chuck charges us the astronomical sum of half a million dollars for all the work. Despite living on an island and facing higher labor and material costs, the amount seems very high to me. Sara always advised me not to do business with friends, and she’s right. The exorbitant renovation costs create a rift between my family and Chuck’s; I feel like I’ve been taken advantage of. Nevertheless, I value the friendship between us so much that I turn a blind eye to any price comparison. What’s done is done. Gradually, the relationship between us will return to normal.

A few months later, Chuck and his wife invite us to their housewarming in their new home. Alongside us, they acquired a house ravaged by Hurricane Ivan. The work on their property happened concurrently with ours, which caused some delays for us. However, everything is forgotten, and tonight, the mood is festive. I’m glad things are improving for our friends in business, and I’m eager to see their new home. On a beautiful Friday night, the weather is always pleasant in the Caymans. We arrive at our friends’ place with the traditional bottle of champagne. It’s time to celebrate the return of good times.

Several guests are already there when we arrive. After the usual embraces, we head to the terrace for drinks. As is often the case at such parties, the ladies chat with each other, and the men socialize separately. A group of women forms to tour the property, and Sara joins them. Fifteen minutes later, they return. Alcohol begins to work its magic. The ladies are all smiles, and the voices rise a notch. Sara brings up the rear, her expression somber. She approaches me and takes my hand. With a hint of hypocrisy, she congratulates Chuck on his beautiful work. Quietly, Sara squeezes my hand tightly; she looks me in the eyes and says, ‘Darling, since you enjoy interior decoration so much, you should take a tour of the house. I’m sure you’ll love everything.’

I leave Sara to ask the lady of the house for permission to tour her property. The lady is in the kitchen, savoring her champagne with a few friends, boasting in front of the glass brick wall above the stove. I pause to observe the glass mosaic, and I’m struck with astonishment – it’s the same tile that Sara and I chose for our house. A small indulgence that cost us a fortune due to the alleged necessary losses during installation... Hm! And these losses, they were necessary for whom? Without saying a word, I continue my tour. The house is a replica in style (a compliment!), but above all in materials (a theft?) of our property. Wherever my eye lands, I see several elements identical to those used in our house renovation. Even the hardwood floor on the second floor is the same as the one Chuck installed in my house. Yet, at the time of purchase, the local distributor assured me that I was acquiring all the remaining stocks. The only thing I didn’t verify was the required quantity.

I finish my tour, retrieve Sara, and we leave, making up an excuse for another engagement. Back in the car, I remind Sara of advice Chuck gave us during our first stay on the island: ‘Be very careful with all these new friends who will come to you in the Caymans. The majority will only seek to take advantage of your naiveté to extract your money.’ This man, who has been more than a brother to me, was absolutely right.”

LIVING ON THE EDGE

(Aerosmith)

“In mid-April, four weeks after my arrival in Alexandria, I met Willy, a small man resembling that caricature of a Mexican with a prominent nose and a thick mustache. With a look of a trapped animal, he exuded a contagious sadness. Willy spent his days in front of the television, drinking eternal coffee, his gaze vacant. He had none of the attributes of a hardened criminal; he did not belong to that world. Like the ugly duckling, he was all kindness in this hostile and selfish world. A Greek Orthodox by birth, Willy had converted to Catholicism and practiced his religion fervently. Regularly, I would sit next to him to talk. He told me about his life. Willy hadn’t committed a crime; he hadn’t harmed anyone; Willy was a heroin addict. He wasn’t part of a gang; he didn’t sell; he only consumed. For over thirty years, he fought this addiction, going from victories to defeats. Clean for a few years, everything collapsed for him last summer. His descent into hell had started with his mother’s death after a long illness. She died in the hospital, in his arms. In her final moments, she asked to be alone with him, excluding all her other children. This decision sparked resentment from her brothers and sisters. He was thus left alone to organize the funeral of the deceased. The will asked that the coffin be vacuum-sealed in a vault. His mother’s last wishes were fulfilled, and the funeral went smoothly. Willy subsequently made a habit of visiting his mother’s remains every week to pray.

One month after her death, and still emotionally unstable, Willy showed up at the cemetery, and to his deep dismay, the stone sealing the front of the vault had cracked. From a wide crack in the marble emanated a putrid smell. The horror of the situation intensified when Willy discovered that thousands of flies had taken up residence inside the tomb. They came and went by the hundreds, depositing their eggs in his mother’s decomposing body. Shocked, he stood there, motionless, powerless, until a worker snapped him out of his stupor. The worker explained that the frontal stone had likely cracked due to the strong pressure caused by gases escaping from the decaying body. He concluded by saying that there must have been a problem with the vault’s hermetic seal.

Trembling, Willy ran back to his home for refuge. He didn’t emerge until two days later to dispose of his trash. Unluckily, he stumbled upon a dead cat left on the side of the road. The carcass was covered in white larvae, little cousins of those ravaging the body of the one who had given birth to him. Too fragile, Willy broke down. From the circle of life, he sought refuge in the vicious circle of drugs. In a matter of hours, artificial paradises replaced the Christian paradise. A few months later, hitting rock bottom, Willy contacted his priest to beg for help. To save his soul, the priest sent police officers to pick him up from his home. He was arrested in the spring for heroin possession. Without treatment, he was cold-turkeyed off his addiction, in isolation, before being integrated into my block.

Once a prosperous businessman, drugs had stolen his life. This was Willy’s third time in prison. When I met him, he was awaiting transfer to Fairfax prison, a wretched hole where he would serve a one-year sentence.

Two weeks after meeting him, about a month and a half into my incarceration, I finally received a bank draft from my family, allowing me to stock up at the commissary the following week. The draft was returned twice due to insufficient information on the envelope. It would take a university course to understand how the prison postal system works. Alexandria’s payment system is so archaic that it cannot accept bank transfers. While waiting to use the money, Willy offered me a few coffee pouches and a small bag of cookies that I was supposed to give him upon receiving my order. This food supplement was welcome. Until now, I had always refused help from anyone, except with Willy, it was different; I saw no hidden motives, he acted from the heart and with sincerity.

Unfortunately for him, his transfer to Fairfax happened much faster than he had anticipated. He left the detention center early Friday morning before I had the chance to say goodbye.

The next day, in line for breakfast, I glanced at the mirror. My appearance had deteriorated significantly in recent weeks. A long beard, more salt than pepper, bags under my eyes, and hair in disarray gave me the look of a beggar. Darwin was right; nature adapts to its environment.

Fortunately, Saturdays were barber days, when a prisoner could get a haircut and beard trim for free. I took advantage of the opportunity and signed up on the list of sheep waiting for a shear. Little did I know, I was going to be in the wrong place at the right time this time. Around 1 pm, a guard called my name on the intercom; it was time to get cleaned up. I put on my jumpsuit, and in a matter of moments, I found myself in the elevator with a guard and five other inmates. We descended two floors. The doors opened, and facing me, attached to the wall, I saw the universal red, white, and blue sign of the barber turning. I remember smiling at the sight of this unnecessary prop, which also reminded me of my life as a free man. The salon was a small cell with four waiting chairs and a cutting chair behind which stood the barber, a bald, muscular man with a sharp smile. A prisoner like me, the barber worked for the prison in exchange for privileges like better food and more free time outside his cell. So, all six of us entered, and the guard locked the door behind us. I was genuinely surprised, as it was the first time I found myself unsupervised outside my cell since my arrest. Of course, there were always cameras, but no penal authority was physically watching over us. Even the small window on the cell door had been covered with cardboard, so no one could see into the room from the outside. I concluded that the barber was “replacing” the guard.

The absence of an officer lightened the atmosphere. The inmates talked and exchanged jokes. They excluded me from the discussions, though; I was white, had committed a white-collar crime, and was a newcomer, to boot. That didn’t bother me at all; besides, everything was happening in the African American street slang, and I had a hard time following the conversations. I felt like I was in a scene from the Barbershop series. I used the time to relax and savor the situation. Being far from home, my search for exoticism took an unexpected turn, and I must admit that in my quest to see the real world, this episode was worth many others.

When the second prisoner, a guy named Red, took his seat in the cutting chair, the inmate to my right, a giant over two meters tall, stood up from his seat and tossed a small bag onto Red’s stomach. The transparent cellophane bag contained three balls covered in pink plastic. It looked like a Halloween bag containing three candy eyes placed on the barber’s white cape. While pretending to be uninterested, I continued to pay close attention to what was happening. The giant, named Pete, asked Red if he would be willing to take this little package back to the block. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled another identical bag from his jumpsuit pocket and, in front of all of us, demonstrated to Red the art of concealment that every good prison smuggler knows. To avoid being discovered during a body search, the trick is to hide the bag under your testicles, where like meets like. Right in front of me, in an impromptu barber salon, I watched this mastodon open his jumpsuit and hide the bag behind the other bag, which had seen its fair share, I’m sure. His perfect technique probably illustrated years of practice.

Red, still seated in the chair, followed suit. He fondled himself while the barber shaved his head. Nobody said a word, as if the situation was completely normal. I couldn’t say for certain what was inside Pete’s bags, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand it was drugs. Later, in discussions with “specialist” buddies in illegal substances, I would learn that the small pink spheres I saw were called eight balls and were regularly used as containers for heroin and cocaine trafficking. Since nobody wants to think too hard in prison, I concluded that Pete had taken delivery of a significant quantity of heroin.

Finally, my turn came. I was dazzled by the barber’s dexterity, performing magic with a single electric razor (scissors, of course, are prohibited in prison). Sitting in that chair, I wondered if I would have said yes to Pete if he had asked me to be his mule. What would have been the consequences for refusing? Would I have been shunned by the other inmates? Or worse, beaten? And what would have been the consequences of getting caught with several ounces of heroin in a US federal prison? All things considered, I really don’t regret that he didn’t think of me.

During the evening, I pondered a lot about the origin of the drugs. I accompanied Pete from the block until we arrived at the barber’s. So, it was in the hair salon that he managed to take possession of the merchandise. I concluded that the barber must act as a dealer for the detention center. It’s the perfect place, the only place where all male inmates can go once a month without being questioned and without a guard watching their every move. The barber must have been the degree of separation between all of us. If he didn’t sell himself, he must have acted as a messenger for someone else. The real question was, among the prison staff, who was providing the merchandise to the barber? In a world where nothing usually happened, surprises were piling up.

On Monday afternoon, much to my joy, Willy returned, looking even more depressed than before. He confirmed that Fairfax’s reputation was well-founded; Alexandria was paradise in comparison. Through tears and sighs, Willy recounted his ordeal at the other prison. Fortunately for him, Alexandria’s police chief was a friend, and he managed to bring Willy back to my block for the duration of his sentence. During our conversation, Willy asked me if Pete had given me the fifty coffee portions he had given him when he left for Fairfax. Pete was supposed to give them to me as a gift from Willy. Willy couldn’t bring them with him because a prisoner can’t transport food from one detention center to another. I told him that Pete had never mentioned anything to me. He probably decided to keep such a treasure for himself, which didn’t surprise me at all. Willy then started crying silently; he had substituted coffee for heroin after his withdrawal. The idea of going without caffeine for two weeks frightened him. Seeing his distress, I tried to comfort him by promising to repay my debt to him as soon as Friday and also to give him half of my own coffee order. I also insisted that he ask Pete to give him the coffee he hadn’t consumed yet.

That evening, Willy told me that Pete claimed to have lost everything in a card game, an obvious lie. Willy, a non-aggressive man, simply sighed. I, however, was livid. This brute of a Pete thought he could rule and take advantage of the weaker ones, but I was determined to avenge this affront. As he was literally more than twice my weight and I had no desire to end up in solitary for thirty days, a fight was out of the question. Up to that point, I had only been a spectator in this circus of strong men and beasts. The time for revenge had come; the only way to fight unscrupulous and immoral individuals was to stoop to their level. I went to sleep that night with a burning mind, determined to find a way to punish this new enemy without risking my own skin. Few emotions stimulate the imagination and stir the heart as much as the desire for revenge.”

Upon waking up, the solution appeared simple and perfect to me. During the night, my subconscious seemed to have merged my two deepest desires, punishing Pete and getting out of here. To kill two birds with one stone, all I had to do was report the drug trafficking to the authorities and use my denunciation as leverage to reduce my sentence. To proceed, I had to let my prosecutor know the time and place of the transaction. The authorities could review the video footage from the barber salon to confirm my allegations. I thought that such a favor to the prison administration could reduce my sentence by 20 to 30%.

I discussed my idea with my two lawyers who visited me the next day. Ari opposed it, stating that the risks of retaliation from inmates and involved staff were too high. He also pointed out that it was highly likely that the prison authorities would transfer me to solitary confinement to ensure my protection, a prospect I wasn’t thrilled about. Nevertheless, I told him that I was willing to take the risk. To see my family as soon as possible, I would endure several months in confinement. Aaron, on the other hand, believed that denunciation could pay off big for me. According to him, the biggest challenge would be convincing my prosecutor to investigate. Overburdened with work and lacking enthusiasm, the last thing a prosecutor wants is to open a new case. The decision was up to me. On one hand, limitless physical risks and the possibility of prolonged confinement; on the other, several months of sentence reduction and the satisfaction of sweet revenge. As fear had faded away in me over the past weeks, the choice became easy; we were going to talk to the prosecutor.

A few weeks later, during a meeting with Katherine, I realized that Aaron had been right. After explaining the crime in detail to my prosecutor, she took some notes before confessing her lack of interest in drug trafficking. I understood that all of this wouldn’t advance her career. However, she promised to talk to a colleague to see if he wanted to open an investigation. What a farce! I was accused of a bogus crime, while they refused to shed light on drug trafficking in the prison because it wouldn’t be politically profitable. Even the American justice system is now all about image, like a reality TV show where everything that happens is choreographed well in advance.

As I write these lines, I question my motivations. Was my anger towards Pete a pretext to justify my actions? Without Pete, would I have exposed the drug trafficking to the authorities? Do I have such a strong desire for freedom that I’m willing to sacrifice the lives of strangers to save my own skin? To ask the question is to answer it. In the end, the only saintly thing about me is the name.

LE 15 JUILLET À 5 HEURES

(Serge Lama)

In the Cayman Islands, fortunately, I also formed strong and honest friendships, especially with Joël, the head chef of Fits Careon. My friend fits the stereotype of a chef perfectly; he’s a big, jolly Frenchman with a big heart. He resembles those papier-mâché chef figurines that display the daily menu on a chalkboard at popular restaurants. Being a passionate cook, I never miss a chance to cook with him while enjoying a “little glass of white.” Countless times, a stroll on the beach in front of his property has turned into a memorable dinner that lasts late into the night, after exhausting our repertoire of French songs and rum.

At the beginning of the autumn of 2009, Joël tells me about the Cayman Islands’ amateur cooking competition. The Cook Off is part of Cayman’s Culinary Week. The final will take place at Fits Careon on a Sunday morning in January in front of a crowd of over five hundred people. The winner will be chosen by a panel of renowned chefs, including José Andres, Anthony Bourdain, and Éric Ripert. To be selected, participants must create a recipe using local ingredients and submit the recipe and a photo of the dish to the Culinary Week management.

I hesitate before signing up; my two weeks of traveling to Trinidad each month take up a lot of my time. The selected teams need to consist of two individuals. I discuss it with Sara, my lifelong partner, and eventually, we register. The worst that can happen is losing while having fun.

The recipe we submit for the initial selection is a maple syrup shrimp curry. I’ve named this recipe “Crevettes Quéman,” a nod to my two homelands, Quebec and the Cayman Islands.

We are selected among the eight finalist teams. There will be three rounds. One loss, and we’re out. For the quarter-finals, Sara and I must prepare the recipe submitted in the initial selection. We refine our technique on Sundays during the day. The quarter-finals will take place the following Thursday in the kitchens of the Rouge restaurant, at Fits Careon, by far the best restaurant on the island. The winner will be determined by a points system based on taste, originality, and presentation of the dish. Competitors will have sixty minutes to present a plate to the judges. On Sunday evening, after several attempts and a few adjustments, we put the finishing touch on our dish.

I rush over to Joël’s place to get his opinion. Joël won’t be a judge for the competitions I’m part of to avoid influencing the winner’s choice. Excited like a child returning from school with a beautiful drawing for their parents, I present my plate to him. He picks up a shrimp with his fork, studies it, brings it to his nose, then to his mouth. The fork returns to the plate, gathers some rice and sauce. Then the master chef tastes again. I wait patiently for his comments; he takes his time, eyes closed, analyzing the flavor nuances. Finally, he puts down his fork, turns to me, smiles, and says, “You won’t win with this!” Papa doesn’t like my drawing, I’m disappointed. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I return home. We don’t have time to perfect our creation. All that’s left is to cross our fingers and hope for the worst... for our opponents.

On Thursday late afternoon, we arrive at Fits. I feel good as soon as we step into the kitchen. The environment electrifies me; I’ve often dreamed of being a chef. I know it’s a tough life, especially for the family. The hours are long, and the stress is high. However, the camaraderie spirit of the restaurant world is unparalleled. At home, the number one TV station is the Food Network. It’s not surprising that a few years later, one of my daughters will become a chef. Sara and I shake hands with our competitors, two friendly fellows from the region. Tonight, they will serve conch, a mollusk with an imposing shell, very popular among tourists. The competition is tough, and their meal seems more original than ours. Victory is far from guaranteed.

Disappointment is never part of a stay or activity at Fits... except maybe for an arrest. True to its tradition of exceeding its customers’ expectations, the hotel graciously serves wine and appetizers to the judges, competitors, and friends. The atmosphere is festive, and whether we win or lose, we don’t regret our decision to participate. Sara and I are having a blast. The starting signal is given, and off to our stoves we go. After fifty-five intense minutes of work, both teams present their plates to the judges, who are well-known figures on the island.

After twenty minutes of deliberation, the judges reveal their choice, and Sara and I move on to the semi-finals! With smiles on our faces, we return home. Now we need to create a menu for the following week. The level of competition is taken up a notch, and we need to step up.

Seven days later, we’re ready. After a few tries, we settle on a red snapper tartare with pomegranate, accompanied by cassava fries. Our menu is a nod to French bistros’ steak tartare and fries, all reinvented in an Antillean version. Tonight, the sixty minutes will pass quickly as we have a lot to do.

Our opponents are preparing a marinated Jerk pork loin. Jerk, a spice blend originating from Jamaica, has Scotch bonnet pepper as its main ingredient, one of the hottest peppers on the planet. Cooking with Scotch bonnets is like juggling knives; it’s only a matter of time before an accident happens. I’ve fallen victim to the potency of these little peppers a few times myself. One Sunday morning in Trinidad, while preparing a salad of grilled shrimp and mangoes, I was slicing a Scotch bonnet pepper when the urge to urinate struck. I don’t know if it’s the case for everyone, but at my home, we wash our hands after using the bathroom, not before. The oils from the pepper reacted quickly. Five minutes later, I was standing in the pool in my underwear, singing Jerry Lee Lewis’s hit, “Great Balls of Fire.”

From the moment the starting signal is given, everything goes smoothly for our team. After fifty minutes, we present our plate to the judges. The fries are crispy, the mayonnaise is creamy, and the tartare is simply perfect. I have no doubt; tonight, we’re moving on to the finals. Ten minutes later, our opponents approach with the beef fillet. Nice presentation, very retro; the plate reminds us of the fifties, like “Dad is Right.” The cooking is perfect, and the meat looks appetizing. The judge brings a fork to his mouth and savors the beef. I wait patiently for his reaction like a vulture. After a few seconds, the judge’s face turns red, and he suddenly spits out the piece of meat into his napkin. Mouth on fire, he grabs his wine glass and downs it in one gulp. That’s not enough; he pours himself a second glass and drinks it down to extinguish the fire burning his mouth. Thank you, Scotch bonnets; we’re moving on to the finals. They will take place in the third week of January.

In the meantime, Sara and I experiment with several recipes. I want to present something different, something unique. Our only limitation comes from the rule that requires a minimum of 50% local ingredients. For vegetables, we’ve discovered a new type of bean at the local market, imported from the Philippines. This bean, called the “star bean,” looks like a four-pointed, green, slender starfruit. Sliced, blanched for two minutes, and then chilled in ice water, the star bean gives us a salad that’s both excellent and original. We accompany it with a dressing made from local lime juice and pomegranate seeds. In addition to offering a unique flavor, it’s a visually stunning salad with its green stars and red seeds. For the protein, we’ve decided to serve a seafood dish. It seems obvious to me that our English, American, and Spanish judges will appreciate fish or seafood more than a portion of beef or chicken. The Cayman Islands are all about the sea.

Once again, we choose red snapper, the winner from our semi-final. The red snapper, a bottom-dwelling fish, is available all year round. I decide to prepare it simply. After coating the fillet with a spicy jelly, I pan-fry the fish in butter. I want to charm the judges by presenting ingredients that will help them discover the flavors of the Cayman Islands. To please them, I search the internet for the foods they prefer. Two of them have mentioned bone marrow as an ingredient that makes their mouths water. My choice is made; we will serve the fish on a pumpkin mash flavored with marrow.

On Saturday morning, we’re up at dawn. I pour us double espressos to go, and off we go to the farmer’s market to buy the star beans for the salad. In January, there’s a shortage of fresh fish, a vendor explains. So, he offers me frozen red snapper, vacuum-sealed. According to him, I won’t find anything better during this period. We buy twelve fillets, five for tomorrow, the rest to prepare this afternoon. In the evening, I pick up five large lobsters caught during the afternoon. Our plate evolves. We’ll serve a red snapper fillet on a pumpkin and marrow nest, complemented by tempura lobsters, all accompanied by a star bean salad. Around 10 p.m., we go to bed. I can’t sleep. How can I improve our dish to make it more appetizing, more local?

An idea comes to mind. I jump out of bed in my underwear and run outside. In the shed, I grab a flashlight, a bucket, and a net. I enter the water almost naked. Sara smiles at me from the balcony of the room and exclaims:

“Have you gone mad?”

With the flashlight in my mouth, the bucket in my left hand, and the net in my right hand, I wade into the water until it reaches my chest. The beam of light coming out of my mouth gently illuminates the calm water; I wait. After a minute or two, small fish barely six to eight centimeters long appear at the surface, drawn by the light. Arms outstretched like a crucified Christ, I wait, motionless. When the number of minnows surpasses a dozen, I suddenly grab them with the net and deposit them alive into the bucket. I’ll continue this far-from-miraculous fishing for over an hour. Tomorrow, to complete my plate, I’ll prepare sprats, small fish soaked in milk, dusted with flour, and fried in oil. They’re eaten with the head and entrails, a local delicacy.

In the morning, we leave the house for Fits Careon’s ballroom at 8 a.m. Everything is going smoothly; our opponents are two friendly young women, and they’re participating mainly for fun. They’re preparing a beef fillet with au gratin potatoes.

At 11 a.m., the starting signal is given. Almost six hundred people watch us cook. A giant screen has been hung to the right of the room, projecting our actions. A cameraman follows us step by step, capturing every knife cut, every turn of the pepper grinder, and every movement of ours, which despite all our efforts, remain quite amateurish. In front of us, seated, is the group of “chefflebrities,” joined by the editor-in-chief of Food and Wine magazine and the governor of the island. There are five of them, sipping their champagne while waiting for our creations. Éric Ripert comes over to greet us casually. José Andres, shyer, does the same. A few minutes later, it’s His Majesty Anthony Bourdain’s turn to go through a photo session with the participants. He’s bored. With a difficult smile and an impatient sigh, he refuses to play along. I take a picture of Sara kissing him on the cheek for our daughter Zoë, an admirer. He gently pushes her away, indicating that his wife is very jealous and doesn’t appreciate him receiving affection from the fairer sex. What has become of the restaurant’s bad boy?

In the hall, the atmosphere is festive. Champagne flows freely, and the buffet surpasses the wildest dreams of the finest gourmets.

Only ten minutes left before the end of the competition. The salad, the tempura batter, the pumpkin, and all other preparations are ready. All that’s left is to cook the fish and fry the lobster and sprats. Two minutes before the countdown ends, we start assembling the plates. I begin with a portion of marrow-infused pumpkin mash spread at the front of the plate with a ladle. Sara places the red snapper fillet, skin crispy and red side up. The salad is arranged behind the mash to create a color contrast. Finally, the lobster and sprats are placed in a banana leaf cone, rolled up and angled on the right side of the plate, like a cone of Belgian fries. The final presentation is beautiful and appetizing, but our menu is quite extravagant, and I miss the simplicity of the semi-final’s tartare. Hopefully, the atmosphere of excess pervading the air with all these guests getting intoxicated will influence the judges.

The deliberations begin. The master of ceremonies entertains the room while the competitors enjoy a well-deserved

glass of champagne. After questioning the opposing side, the master of ceremonies comes to us with a few questions. I hope the origin of the red snapper won’t come up. No luck, the master of ceremonies asks me in the first question about the quality and quantity of local products in the presented menu. I reply that local products far surpass imported ones in quality and that our menu, despite its complexity, contains only two foreign ingredients. Surprisingly, the second question comes from one of the judges. José Andres, with his strong Spanish accent, asks me the name and origin of these strange beans on his plate. He’s never eaten or even seen such a vegetable. Saved, I switch from the red snapper to the star beans and explain their recent arrival in the country due to the influx of Filipino workers. José Andres is impressed; he takes out his mobile phone and takes a picture of our salad. I’m confident; we’re scoring points for the originality of our recipe.

A few minutes later, we’re declared winners. I kiss Sara, and we open champagne bottles with the judges. When we return home in the evening, Sara makes me realize that we haven’t eaten anything all day. I go down to the kitchen and make two grilled cheese sandwiches, which we enjoy, exhausted, in front of the television.

LOVE THE WAY YOU LIE

(Eminem, Rihanna)

A week before appearing before the judge for my sentencing, my lawyer receives the statement of facts, a document aimed at proving beyond a reasonable doubt my guilt. It’s not enough that I plead guilty; I must also publicly admit what illegal actions I have taken. My lawyers ask me to review the part concerning my guilty plea to ensure that the changes discussed with the prosecutor have been made to the document as promised. At my next visit to the magistrate, I’ll have to sign a copy of the statement of facts to confirm the accuracy of the prosecutor’s claims and swear that the content of the document could be proven in front of a judge during a trial. Upon my first reading, I discover several errors and insinuations that are prejudicial to me. Pleading guilty is one thing, but pleading guilty to actions that never occurred or false statements is another. I inform Ari of my disagreement on four inaccurate points and tell him that I won’t be able to sign the document without committing perjury. Four elements of the evidence are incorrect.

The first statement I disagree with claims that Clover’s clientele includes a significant number of Americans. That’s false; we have no American clients. I’ve never tried to hide that some of our institutional clients subcontract our services to an American clientele; however, no American citizen directly holds an account with Clover. To a novice, all of this might seem like semantics, but the point is significant. The statement of facts also mentions that we don’t report client accounts to U.S. authorities as required by law. It’s not Clover’s responsibility to do so, but rather the banks and other intermediaries we do business with. All Cayman and U.S. laws are followed.

The second statement claims that during the first meeting on March 13, 2013, federal agents mentioned looking to hide profits generated from criminal activities. It’s true that at the bar of the Red restaurant in Miami Beach, one of the agents mentioned the illegal source of funds to David. What the prosecution seems to forget is that I wasn’t present during this discussion, as I had already moved to another table with a different agent.

The third statement that is not truthful refers to a conversation held in the Cayman Islands on the evening of January 16, 2014, during a dinner. According to the prosecutors, I allegedly stated that a foundation or a company would be preferable for money laundering, whereas a trust could be used for tax evasion. What I actually said was that a foundation or a trust would be necessary for complex cases requiring asset protection, and that a company would suffice for managing a regular account. Money laundering was never discussed in any of our conversations.

Finally, the last and most inaccurate statement refers to the same dinner where, according to the IRS, I supposedly mentioned that our management fees were higher for money laundering operations than those charged for aiding tax evasion. What I actually said was that if the requested structure had a high level of complexity, requiring time and effort on our part, we would charge the standard 2% fee. However, if the amounts were significant and our services were only required for asset management, we might offer a discount on our management fees. No client at Clover pays management fees exceeding 2% per year. We are far from the 20% charged by professional money launderers. We have never engaged in money laundering.

After receiving my feedback, my lawyer negotiates with the prosecution to make the necessary changes to the text to satisfy both parties. A few days later, during a reading of the statement of facts in front of the judge by one of the prosecutors, I’m surprised to see that none of the modifications have been made to the final document. I immediately inform the judge, who then asks me to indicate the disputed points. As I’m nervous and didn’t take any notes during the reading, all three parties agree to reread the document so that I can point out my disagreements with the prosecutor’s statements. During this review, my lawyer whispers something in my ear. Ari strongly recommends that I accept the document as is, as we now risk having my guilty plea rejected by the judge and having to appear in court next month for a trial. Besides, he adds that it doesn’t change anything; I’ve already pleaded guilty. Without really thinking about it, I acquiesce and accept his recommendation. After the second reading, I sign the document.

I regret today not having fought and not having had those four points changed. My lawyer was probably right, and all of this wouldn’t have changed my sentence; I would have pleaded guilty anyway. However, by making these modifications public, the truth would have been spread through the media. Today, no matter what I may assert, anyone can call me a liar by referring to the public documents of the Virginia court. Anything I say that contradicts my guilty plea will be perceived as an attempt to improve my image by distorting the facts. After all of this, I believed that the oversight of the changes was due to a mere administrative error on the prosecution’s part. When I discovered a few months later that Jean had also fallen victim to the same “error,” I concluded that we had fallen into a trap orchestrated by our prosecutors to enhance the credibility of their charges and to influence the judge to sentence us harshly. In addition to holding all the cards, the U.S. justice system doesn’t hesitate to cheat to score points.

WOULD I LIE TO YOU?

(Eurythmics)

It has now been four years since I’ve been operating Clover Asset Management. There has been no growth in recent months. For every account gained, another one leaves. The markets are on the rise, but investors are fearful. My consulting contract with TFC has been renewed until December 2013, and its significance in our overall revenues remains disproportionate. A huge client can act like a poisoned gift for a firm like Clover. Thanks to the generated income, the company survives, but the time and resources required to serve the massive client prevent the firm from growing properly. When TFC leaves, we’ll have to close our doors. For the first time in my career, I don’t have a Plan B. I must explore new avenues, and I’m looking into possibilities in the Cayman Islands. I let one or two headhunters know that I would be open to considering new challenges. I have a good reputation in the market, and I’ve been publishing more by writing articles for various magazines and newspapers. Last year, I finished second in a financial article competition on the Marketwatch website, a division of the Wall Street Journal. I was aware that an asset manager based in a tax haven had no chance of winning, so I welcomed this second place with pride. After receiving the submitted articles, Marketwatch asked me to join their team of writers, a request I promptly accepted. Writing for a division of the Wall Street Journal can only be beneficial for my company’s image and growth.

At the end of spring 2012, one of the headhunters I had contacted calls me to discuss an opportunity on the island. A small local brokerage firm is looking for a general manager for its operations. The challenge is to transform a brokerage firm into an asset manager. The business model of brokerage firms produces highly unstable results, as income is only generated when clients request transactions. When the markets are bullish, clients are confident and trade actively. In a bear market, the desire to trade dwindles, and revenues plummet. In an asset management firm, clients are billed monthly based on the value of their assets, regardless of the number of transactions. An asset manager generates income twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. The amalgamation of the two business models, where the firm profits from every transaction and portfolio management, offers the most lucrative proposition.

We arrange a meeting with the founder of the company to see the potential synergy between our two firms. Before the meeting, I take the opportunity to familiarize myself with the brokerage company. After a few phone calls, I learn that the company specializes in the mining sector, a volatile industry offering huge opportunities for gains, but also for losses. I’m informed that the company’s reputation is lacking. Rumor has it that some of its brokers engage in pump and dump schemes.

Pump and dump is a financial fraud. It involves promoting a stock as a great investment opportunity. This creates artificial demand that drives up the price. The fraudsters then sell their shares at the higher price before the price collapses. All of this is illegal and explains why many of these scams happen in tax havens, behind opaque financial structures where authorities are often kept in the dark.

I have no desire to associate with a firm that scams its clients, but since these are currently just rumors, I meet with them the following Wednesday. The owner, a Canadian in his thirties, welcomes me to his office. I talk about Clover, our successes, and our challenges; he does the same for his firm. His assets are significant, but the bearish market in the natural resources sector is negatively impacting his profits. He’s in the process of streamlining and has recently laid off two members of his team who weren’t meeting the standards he’s trying to establish, which implies that those engaging in pump and dump activities have left. I welcome this news. If the rumors are true, the owner seems to want to address the issue. After two more meetings, we reach an agreement. Starting from August 1st, I will take over the management of his company in exchange for 10% of the company’s shares and an annual salary of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. We agree that I can also continue to operate Clover and travel to Trinidad one week per month. I leave the country for a three-week vacation in Canada, convinced that our situation can only improve in the coming weeks. Vacation is a big word when managing client portfolios. No matter where I am, I need to stay updated on global economic developments, sell and buy stocks, and respond to client requests. I work and negotiate every morning and then take it easy in the afternoon. My family and I welcome the change of scenery that these few weeks in Quebec provide us.

My last trip to Trinidad was particularly eventful. During a weekly review of TFC’s American equity fund portfolio, I noticed a major change in the top ten holdings. Such changes might be entirely normal for a manager who conducts frequent transactions. However, I know the young man responsible for the portfolio very well. Considered one of the most talented managers in the firm, he employs a long-term approach to portfolio management. He claims to make only a few trades in the holdings. So, how do I explain significant and regular changes in the top ten holdings when the markets are stable? I question him, but his explanations are unclear. This intelligent and hardworking young man consistently fails to beat the market month after month. Therefore, I delve into the root of the problem.

Discreetly, I request a report on all of his transactions for the past three years. The answers to my questions appear in black and white. It’s disappointing to learn that one of my proteges is dishonest. A manager who trades significant amounts within the portfolio, without authorization and unbeknownst to everyone else – a sad revelation. Trying to prove himself as the best, rectify his past performance record, and claim a winning performance, he has ruined his career, even if his crime never earned him a single cent. The illegal transactions within the fund resulted in losses of over six hundred thousand US dollars for investors. After this incident, I meet with TFC’s management and present a three-point recommendation:

1. Dismiss the employee immediately. 2. Reimburse the losses to the fund’s investors. 3. Report the incident to the US securities authorities as required by law.

My instructions are met with cold reception. The individual is dismissed, but my other recommendations fall on deaf ears. On the Friday before my departure, I mention to the CEO that, legally, TFC is required to report the incident to the US Securities and Exchange Commission. He replies that the case is closed and that the situation no longer concerns me. From that day on, my relations with the firm’s leadership deteriorate.

During my vacation in Canada, at a dinner with friends, I receive a confidential phone call from one of TFC’s directors. He informs me that my contract will end this year, one year before its scheduled expiration. As I feared, the management wants to keep me as far away from Trinidad as possible to bury the scandal. A strange way to thank me for uncovering a fraud that has been ongoing for over three years. I can barely touch my meal; I remain pensive for the rest of the evening. Clover is about to lose a contract worth over half a million dollars annually. I console myself by thinking about the new income from the brokerage firm in the Caymans. We are far from making up the loss, but I need to make significant changes, and we will get through this.

Upon returning to the Caymans in late July, I contact the owner of the brokerage firm to confirm my start date for the following week. He informs me that he wants to make changes to my offer. The firm cancels the equity ownership participation, reduces my salary offer by 20%, and alters my title. On top of all that, I now have to work for one of his colleagues whom I have no rapport with. Despite the situation with TFC, I decline his proposition. A Plan A that crumbles and a Plan B that vanishes – I need a Plan C as soon as possible.

COME JOIN THE MURDER

(The White Buffalo)

September is approaching. I have already lost a spring and a summer. Who knows how many more seasons I will spend within these four walls. I miss nature; I miss Sara and my children even more. My lawyer has informed me that the government has finally reviewed the video of the narcotics transaction, and it corroborates all my statements. This is good news, and I should expect a generous reduction in my sentence. So far, no arrests have been made, which is better – I’m less likely to face retaliation from the inmates. The prison leaders are probably waiting for the barber’s supply source to show up before they clean things up. What’s the point of arresting the distributors if the source isn’t identified? I can’t help but wonder if it’s one of the agents. What a beautiful irony to be guarded by a drug trafficker!

At the beginning of the month, Parker left the detention center to be relocated to a prison in New Jersey. If none of his schemes involving buying information from a prisoner to sell it to authorities to reduce his sentence work out, he’ll have to spend the next ten years there. Over the past few months, he has become mentally very unstable. In what state will he be upon his release? After his transfer, I am now one of the longest-serving inmates in Alexandria; all my friends from the past few months have left the detention center for their respective prisons. I need a change, and for the third time, I request a transfer to Block 1CD. Rumor has it that at 1CD, cell doors are never locked, and the toilets are outside the cells – a real luxury. The prison authorities once again refuse my transfer. However, this time they explain the reason for the refusal. To be admitted to Block 1CD, a prisoner must not be facing more than ten years of detention in their sentence. My file at the Bureau of Prisons indicates a potential sentence of three times twenty years. It’s no surprise my transfer was denied three times. I inform my prison counselor that my file has not been updated since my guilty plea. I now face a maximum sentence of five years. Three days later, the authorities change their minds, and I’m transferred to 1CD. I’m on the VIP floor of the detention center. Indeed, the conditions are much better here, and the ultimate luxury is that most inmates have their own cells. What a joy to sit on a porcelain toilet with a seat; progress never stops. Upon my arrival, I am surprised and pleased to discover that Jean has returned to the detention center, and he also has a cell in 1CD. It’s refreshing to speak French and discuss our case. I learn several details about our case that were previously unknown to me. He tells me how his firm structured the transaction to hide the American client’s identity. I also learn that last summer, he had personally met with the “clients” in Quebec. To do so, the IRS had to seek permission from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. After agreeing to host them on their territory, the RCMP denied them the right to record conversations. According to him, it was a shame because the written report from the agent was far more damaging to him than anything that was said. I also realize that the prosecutors had hidden the truth from me about him, making me believe that Jean wasn’t cooperating. Like David and me, he tells me that he has been cooperating with the authorities since day one.

On September 5th, David received his sentence. He was sentenced to two and a half years in prison. He has not yet received his cooperation credits. A two-and-a-half-year sentence is excellent news. My sentence should be less than three and a half years, and that’s before the reduction for cooperation. Given the quality of the information I have shared with the government, I expect a sentence reduction of 50 to 60%, so I should be released by early April. That means I have already served more than half of my sentence.

My lawyer hands me a copy of the transcript of David’s sentencing. I am disappointed, even disgusted, to see that David portrays me, in front of the judge, as the head of the organization, and himself as a mere executor. He lies by omission by not disclosing that he, like me, owns one-third of the shares of Clover Investment Advisor. He tried to convince the judge that he was just a pawn at Clover. What a small man he is, selling me out like this, he who was my friend, he who I protected in my conversations with the authorities. He doesn’t hesitate to lie to save his own skin, it disgusts me. Our solidarity lasted for six months – a record according to my lawyer.

HIGHWAY TO HELL

(ACDC)

I cannot accept the failure of Clover and return to establish myself in Canada. I love this country too much; it’s my homeland. I take a break and analyze the reasons for my lack of success. It would be easy to attribute my failures to the economic crisis, client fear, or market volatility; however, I must admit that all competitors face these same challenges – there will always be external reasons affecting growth. The problem lies within Clover. Clover’s defeats are rooted in the weakness of our distribution.

I need to rectify the situation. To do so, reluctantly, I have to let go of my friend and partner, the Trinidadian salesman who has been loyal to us from the beginning. After a successful first year, his sales plummeted. As his income includes a significant fixed salary portion, his departure will somewhat alleviate the loss caused by the termination of the training mandate at TFC. After letting me go, TFC, probably trying to buy my silence, offers me the management of a $20 million stock portfolio. With the departure of the salesman and this new management mandate, Clover will be able to survive. However, my goal isn’t just survival; it’s success. I will be turning fifty in two months, and I must go all-in; it’s do or die. I focus on our distribution. I have the option to hire commission-based salespeople or partner with a firm that offers complementary services to Clover. With such a firm, Clover would be able to share clients and revenues. I decide to explore both options.

In the summer of 2013, I approach Arnold Livingston, an acquaintance who is the sole owner of a business services firm. These kinds of businesses are abundant in the Cayman Islands. Their main function is to guide clients through the various legal structures offered by countries. Should a client incorporate, transfer assets to a trust, or establish a foundation? Why not offer Omega’s clients to invest with Clover? Arnold likes my idea, and we decide to establish two new companies. One for management, which we will name Clover Investment Advisor, and the other for online brokerage: Traderoffshore.

Now I need to find good salespeople, and I know exactly where to turn. The brokerage firm that wanted to hire me and ultimately swindled me this summer made the mistake of introducing me to their entire team. My vindictive side takes precedence over my professional ethics. I have no qualms about reaching out to their top salesman, David. I still remember the owner’s words: “David can sell anything to anyone; he’s the best salesman I’ve ever encountered.” In just one meeting, I’m convinced. David and I get along famously. He doesn’t have extensive knowledge in asset management, but he’s not afraid to call a contact twenty times to close a deal – something I’ve never had the audacity, or impertinence, to do! Additionally, he has a significant database of potential clients and financial institutions that outsource their brokerage and capital management operations. Unfortunately, several of David’s clients are American, a nationality I have decided not to offer our services to due to the high costs of the reports that will soon have to be submitted to the US government (FATCA) and the risks that a misdeclaration could entail. Nor is it an option to accept his clients without declaring them. I inform him of all this and explain that he will need to focus on other markets. After our first lunch, my decision is made – David will be a partner with Arnold and me.

We incorporate the two companies in September. Initially, I spend most of my time negotiating an agreement with Denmark’s largest bank to acquire their technology, which will allow us to offer an online brokerage platform. During this time, David contacts his former non-American clients to offer them our management and brokerage services. Everything falls into place quickly. By November, we are operational, and clients are multiplying. With the help of Omega’s legal specialists, I define our offering of anonymous digital accounts for financial institutions. This way, American clients can use our services through banks that are willing to accommodate them. By the end of 2012, we are already the designated manager for three small regional banks.

It’s during this period that David is approached by an Ecuadorian looking to sell a $200 million government bond from Venezuela. Andres, our contact, sends us copies of the bond certificate for me to determine its validity. Our role will be to sell the bond in blocks on the global market. This transaction can earn us over two million in commissions. It seems too good to be true, and I’m skeptical. After some cursory research and a few phone calls to specialists, I’m assured that the bond exists, and the serial numbers on the certificate are authentic. Reassured, I ask for more details about the source of the funds. The last thing I want is to be accused of money laundering. I receive an avalanche of documents in Spanish. I pay particular attention to a court order instructing an international oil company to pay two hundred million dollars to a group of Ecuadorian farmers as compensation for polluting their lands. A quick internet search confirms that such an ecological disaster occurred in that country. The article also mentions Andres’ name and identifies him as one of the leaders of the group demanding significant sums from the oil company for the contaminated village. My level of trust increases by a notch. I leave the islands with my family for a photo safari in South Africa during the holiday season. Even on the other side of the globe, I can’t help but work. In the evenings, after fourteen hours of safari, I organize the opening of Andres’ account, find buyers for the bond, and finalize the transaction setup.

Upon my return in January, I remain skeptical about the bond sale. My instinct tells me that something is off. Why did the oil company transfer its bond to Andres instead of making a cash payment? I discuss this with a friend who is a director at one of the banks associated with the transaction. To help me, he introduces me to a client of his who has strong contacts at the Central Bank of Venezuela. This is where James Deer comes into play, a fifty-year-old American. He’s an affable man with silver hair and an imposing physique. James owns a company specialized in importing and selling natural resources. Throughout his career, he has developed an impressive network of international contacts. He’s the kind of person who always knows someone, no matter the service needed. I send him copies of the documents, which he promptly forwards to the Central Bank of Venezuela. A few days later, James calls me with bad news from his contact. The documents are fake; it’s a scam. The specialist also informs us that there would have been no way for us to uncover the truth. The forged documents were the work of professionals and might even have originated from employees of the Central Bank of Venezuela. Disappointed but not surprised, I wonder. Something typical of all scams is missing here. No one has asked us for any money. In such frauds, the victim is always asked to pay an amount to grease the wheels of administration or to fix a last-minute hiccup. In the case of Andres’ bonds, nobody demanded money from Clover. Since it was impossible to sell a bogus bond, no payment could have been made. The criminals weren’t targeting Clover in the transaction. After discussing this with Andres and seeing his distress, I conclude that the fraud had already taken place at the expense of the Ecuadorian farmers. It’s highly likely that at some point in the transaction, someone managed to switch the amount paid by the oil company and replaced it with a bogus bond. Over the next twelve months, six similar transactions will be presented to me. None of the fake bonds come close to the quality of Andres’ and in each case, a sum of money was demanded from us – a sum we never paid. The demands became so frequent that we started requiring a fee to open a file. A fee that we committed to refund upon the sale of the bond. Through these experiences, I transitioned from a novice to a specialist in Venezuelan debt and economics. This distraction would also earn me a new friend, Mr. Deer, with whom I would experience other adventures.

In March 2013, David organizes a trip to Miami to meet some of his contacts. Promoting our services in the US doesn’t excite me, but I keep my feelings to myself and commit to accompanying him to support his sales efforts. David trusts me with portfolio management, and I must extend the same trust to his distribution approach. Since the establishment of our partnership, I have once again found enjoyment in my work, something I hadn’t experienced in years. I focus on what I love and give David the freedom to handle sales. The only downside is Arnold’s lack of commitment – he hasn’t done anything since the launch of the two firms. If this continues, David and I will buy out his shares. I like Arnold, but his inaction and passivity increasingly irritate me every day.

The main meeting of the trip will be held at the Fits Careon in Miami Beach. An accountant that David has been “working” with for several months will introduce us to two of his clients – a steel tube manufacturer and a construction entrepreneur. I would later learn during my imprisonment that at his previous job, David had advertised offering offshore credit cards for clients who wanted to spend their hidden fortune abroad without being caught by the IRS. Not exactly a subtle approach. An IRS agent reportedly received this advertisement and subsequently contacted David to learn more. Without ever opening an account, the “client” regularly communicated with David, and a certain friendship seemed to develop between the two when David joined Clover. It’s during this meeting that my saga with the US Internal Revenue Service (IRS) will begin. At the start of the investigation, the IRS’s target was David and his former employer. Clover and I were only involved in this by association. It’s always strange to see how the unexpected consequences of our actions come back to haunt us later in life. The fraud I discovered at TFC led to the termination of my contract, which prompted me to expand my distribution by partnering with David – a decision that would lead to my arrest. As the English say: “No good deed goes unpunished.”

THE BALLAD OF SACCO & VANZETTI

(Ennio Morricone/Joan Baez)

Tomorrow, September 17th, I will be the main attraction in front of a grand jury. A grand jury is an institution within a court that has the power to investigate potential criminal behavior by an individual. The grand jury can demand document production and question witnesses under oath. Currently, only the United States uses grand juries.

To prepare for this, Katherine and Teddy, my two main prosecutors, want to meet with me. Today, we are going to choreograph the session that will take place in front of nearly twenty-five people. I’m in a foul mood. Last week, my lawyer revealed that Katherine had mentioned to him that I should lower my expectations regarding a sentence reduction for my cooperation. The government doesn’t intend to grant me a 50% reduction as I had expected. This news has infuriated me. After providing a substantial amount of information, after literally educating the IRS team on the workings and characteristics of offshore structures, after exposing drug trafficking in the Alexandria detention center, the U.S. government is considering offering me only a 33% sentence reduction. In most other districts, I would be allowed to return home immediately for such collaboration. No need to ask questions, I know why the prosecutors are trying to give me the harshest sentence possible. Firstly, it’s important for me to be in the U.S. to testify if trials arise from the information I’ve provided. Secondly, since news of our arrest has circulated in the media (we even had a sketch on Jon Stewart’s Comedy Central show), and our story is now an integral part of the IRS’s marketing efforts against tax evasion, it would be ill-received if I were released after only a few months. How could the government justify letting me go home after less than a year of incarceration? Welcome to the Eastern District of Virginia, where the state proudly promotes the severity of its sentences.

Feeling my frustration, Ari, my lawyer, advises me to control my emotions and continue collaborating with the prosecutors. It will be his responsibility to convince the judge that I deserve a sentence reduction greater than what the prosecution is recommending.

There are only five of us in the room for our meeting. Besides the two prosecutors, my lawyer and myself, there’s John, the agent who arrested me. Despite Ari’s advice, as soon as I arrive, I go into attack mode. I’m trying to create a sense of guilt in Katherine. She must have a heart somewhere in her chest. I can’t believe she could be so set on my downfall despite the weakness of the evidence. Our conversation goes as follows:

Katherine: “Hello, Mr. St-Cyr, how are you?”

As usual, I have chains on my feet, waist, and wrists. Me: “Do you want to know the truth or do you seek comfort?”

Katherine: “I always want to hear the truth.”

Me: “I’m losing my hair, my health, and my mind. It’s been almost seven months that I’ve been languishing in this hellhole, almost seven months since I’ve seen a member of my family. I’ve never engaged in money laundering, and you know that perfectly well. I’ve never stolen a dime from anyone. I’ve always been straightforward and honest with you. I’ve provided you with an exceptional amount of information, and I learn that you’re not even offering me 50% credit! And now, you have the audacity to ask me how I’m doing?”

We engage in a verbal battle for several minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Ari is pale. He’s worried that my outburst might harden the prosecution’s stance toward me. Katherine claims that I’ve known from the start of their operations that Moishe was trying to deposit the proceeds of a crime with Clover. John, who usually remains neutral, backs her up. I counter that they’re wrong, that only David was aware of it. I commit to acknowledging my mistake in front of her entire team if she proves to me that I was indeed present during these incriminating discussions. She accepts my challenge. However, she tells me that it doesn’t matter because by returning the money to Jean, after having doubts about the funds’ source, I committed money laundering anyway. I look at her in shock; she’s got a point. That was her trump card, the knockout argument she would have presented to the jury to convince them of my guilt during the trial. It’s true that the law dictates alerting the authorities when there’s doubt about the source of received funds. However, no one in the industry does that. In case of doubt, the firm returns the money to the client and closes the case. For the first time, I consider that perhaps, without realizing it, I’ve broken the law and that maybe, unknowingly, I’m guilty. I hadn’t realized that by returning the capital to Jean, who then gave it to the clients, I committed an offense. In case of doubt, the law is clear: authorities must be contacted.

Strangely, this confession eases the atmosphere, as if both of us have scored points.

Now it’s Katherine’s turn to ask me questions. She first wants to know what my book is about. Jean, who also writes about his adventures, told me that the justice system wouldn’t be very happy with us publicly sharing our stories. The African proverb, “Until the lion has its own storyteller, the hunter will always have the best part of the story,” couldn’t be more fitting. What a strange reaction from people who supposedly have nothing to hide! For the first time since the beginning of my cooperation, I feel compelled to lie by stating that my book is just a simple novel inspired by prison life. I don’t think she believes me. In fact, the next day, John will innocently ask me the same question. The day continues without incident; we review all the questions I’ll be asked, and I share with the group the answers I hear being given.

The next day, I’m up at 5 a.m. I arrive at the courthouse around 9:30 a.m., and I’m escorted to a room where John is waiting for me. I’m not nervous; I’m actually looking forward to the experience. It will be a change from the routine and monotony of my detention. John leads me into a large room that resembles a university classroom. The twenty-one jurors have already taken their seats at their desks. Ordinary people of all ages and backgrounds. The two IRS prosecutors are at the front of the room, dressed to the nines. Katherine wears a beautiful red dress, curvaceous and elegant. Teddy wears a turquoise tie and a high-quality suit. With his well-groomed hair, he looks like a politician. Dress to impress, as the Americans say. I’ve made an effort too. I’m wearing a new white T-shirt that I bought for four dollars for the occasion. I even have jewelry: five kilograms of chains on my feet,

DREAMER

(Supertramp)

In March 2013, after returning from Miami, a lawyer from Montreal contacts me to refer one of his Egyptian friends who wants to open an account in a tax haven. This friend, named Wadih, wants to deposit the profits from an oil transaction where he acts as a broker. I reach out to Wadih to explore the possibilities for Clover and guide him in opening an account in a local bank. To my surprise, Wadih speaks excellent French with a slight Quebecois accent. He tells me he lived in Quebec for several years. It wasn’t until his retirement that he returned to his homeland. After a few months of inactivity, boredom led him to embark on a second career. He became an oil broker, finding buyers for crude oil and its derivatives. In recent weeks, he signed his first major contract with Portugal, and if all goes as planned, his commissions will amount to nearly a million dollars per month for a one-year contract. This significant amount justifies the creation of accounts in the Cayman Islands, where banks are financially much more stable than those in Egypt, which has been going through revolutions. So, I recommend Wadih to a Cayman bank, and he opens an account.

Unfortunately for Wadih, as often happens in this business, the transaction falls through, and he and his partners are left empty-handed. However, all is not lost. In the weeks leading up to the cancellation of the transaction, Wadih takes the time to teach me the basics of oil brokerage. I’m surprised by how straightforward the transaction is. Firstly, it’s important to know that the price of crude oil is set on international markets, much like the price of other commodities or stocks. Producers, depending on their capital needs or production, regularly sell their barrels at a discount. For instance, if a producer offers an eight-dollar discount on a hundred-dollar barrel, they will sell it for ninety-two dollars. The seller’s broker and the buyer’s broker then add their commission. If each of them asks for fifty cents per barrel, the final price for the buyer will be ninety-three dollars. Sales contracts are established with international standards, and all fees are declared. Finding a buyer means being “in business.”

Naturally, Wadih didn’t teach me about the oil market for his own enjoyment. He wants to convince me to become a distributor. He knows sellers, and my role would be to find buyers. I have no problem with that. I’m learning something new, and perhaps this avenue will bring me new clients. There are very few poor people in the oil industry. So, I decide to dedicate an hour per day in the evening to this venture. I make my first sales call to James Deer. With his vast experience in natural resource distribution and his network, I know no one better equipped to help me. In less than twenty-four hours, he puts me in touch with a group of Chinese individuals interested in my proposition. The required quantity is thirty million barrels per month for a one-year contract, renewable for five years.

Two days later, Wadih and his partners come back to me with a document detailing the product and its price. The oil will come from Iraq, and the maximum discount will be thirteen dollars per barrel, an exceptional discount. The Egyptian representatives will take a one-dollar commission per barrel. James, his partner in Hong Kong, and I will do the same. This commission for our group amounts to three million dollars per month, to be shared equally among us. There’s a long way to go from plan to reality, but I can’t let the chance, however small, of a potential profit of one million dollars per month slip away.

After multiple conferences, complicated by the fact that the four parties live in three different time zones, we agree to meet in Beijing at the buyer’s office to finalize the contract. The meeting will take place on August 24, 2013.

Pop, pop, pop... I hear the beating of my heart in my head. Like a bicycle inner tube being pumped with air, my brain swells and deflates with the rhythm of my heartbeats. Every time my heart pumps, my eyes contract to absorb the shock of pain. Sitting in seat 21A on an Air Canada flight, I’m heading to Beijing. Just six hours ago, I was acting as the best man at my brother’s wedding, his third and hopefully last. I had to leave the celebration around 2:30 a.m. and drive for over an hour to catch the 6 a.m. flight. I didn’t sleep a wink all night, and this headache in my head intensifies with each passing minute. I order a drink to ease the throbbing and fall asleep for the duration of the flight.

In better shape than when I departed, I arrive in China a day late—there was no way I could miss Bobby’s wedding. James Deer, his brother Rand, who he’s inseparable from, and their Chinese partner Kenny arrived yesterday afternoon. The Arab delegation landed in Chinese territory two days ago. Wadih isn’t present. During the numerous discussions of the past weeks, it became very clear that he wasn’t fit for a transaction of this magnitude. Too talkative, too emotional, and too obsessed with his profit, he might jeopardize the deal. His partners, who are professional oil traders, agreed to pay him his commission on the condition that he stays away from negotiations. There are two of them, both of Egyptian origin. Hassim, a tall man in his late thirties, almost bald, with a goatee. Amir, his childhood friend, is a handsome man with an air of Italian nobility. The two make a great team, complementing each other perfectly. Hassim is the watchdog. He growls and barks at any situation, using his imposing physique to emphasize his point of view. Amir is the master of the dog. A sophisticated aristocrat, he spends his life squandering his daddy’s money; his father is a high-ranking Egyptian government official. Amir is the key that opens the doors of the black gold market.

I arrive at the Sino Hotel in downtown Beijing, not the last to arrive. The seller is supposed to come later in the afternoon, and I assume I haven’t missed anything important. My friend James confirms that yesterday’s discussions were futile, though they helped build camaraderie between us, the Chinese hosts, the seller’s representatives (Hassim and Amir), and the buyer’s brokers (James, Rand, and Kenny).

We’re welcomed by the Sino Group, a conglomerate looking to acquire substantial amounts of oil. This industrial conglomerate is recognized as a pillar of the Chinese Communist Party. It’s opaque, and it’s not well-known in the Western world. After much online research, all I’ve discovered is that the company operates in various sectors, seems to play a significant political role, and could possibly be the world’s largest arms manufacturer. The Sino Group is the kind of enterprise you’d find in John le Carré’s books.

We’re invited to the private club of the Sino Group at 4 p.m. It’s just a short five-minute walk from our hotel, which is essentially their hotel. I have no doubt that our rooms are bugged, so I warn my companions to be discreet. The transaction is too important to risk sharing information with the Chinese at this stage. I’m surprised when I’m asked to dress casually for the meeting. In my imagination, arms dealers wear three-piece suits.

James, Rand, Kenny, Amir, Hassim, and I walk to the Sino Group’s headquarters. Recent newspapers have been full of reports about pollution problems in Beijing, but that doesn’t stop me from being taken aback by the thickness of the smog in the city. Beijing is drowning in a grayish cloud. The sun is barely visible, a white disc in the sky, as if the moon changed its schedule. When we arrive at the Sino Group complex, our delegation faces an impressive security checkpoint. There’s no doubt we’re entering the lair of an arms manufacturer. A pretty young woman comes to our rescue from the administrative hell that awaits us—forms to fill out and passports to present to all the Mandarin-speaking people. Her presence magically opens all the doors, and in an instant, we find ourselves in an elevator heading to the second basement level. It’s strange that a private company club is located in the basement of a building. In America, such a club would be at the top of the tallest skyscrapers. Perhaps it’s a bunker? Everything feels so different in this place.

The club consists of a mix of conference rooms, dining rooms, and lounges. The decor is understated and tasteful, a remarkable contrast to what I’ve seen elsewhere in China. When we arrive, we’re greeted by Mr. Chan, the CEO of Sino Group Macau. Kenny explained that there are only five Chinese firms authorized to acquire foreign oil. Sino Group isn’t one of them, but thanks to their Macau subsidiary, they can buy our oil and sell it at a profit to one of the five state-owned companies. Their interest is so significant that a new corporation, Sino Energie Macau, was created last week to acquire the oil from the Egyptian brokers. It’s good news; the buyers are serious, and they’ve already set up the legal structure to complete the transaction.

Our host leads us to one of the lounges, and everyone takes a seat. The young woman remains close to Mr. Chan; she’ll be his interpreter for the next few days. Mr. Chan, a small-statured man, offers us refreshments and cigarettes. All Asians in the room smoke. In China, a cigarette defines an individual’s social status. The poor are too poor to smoke. The middle class smokes cheap Chinese cigarettes. The wealthy smoke American and European imports. Party members smoke limited-edition cigarettes made by the army. These cigarettes aren’t available on the market.

Your rank in the Party dictates your allocation; their scarcity generates excitement and desire. To enhance the dramatic effect, our host enjoys these cancer sticks with a long black cigarette holder. The effect is more reminiscent of megalomaniacs from old James Bond films than Audrey Hepburn’s elegance in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” It gives Mr. Chan the air of a slightly effeminate small-time crook. All my senses tell me to be cautious; this man wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone standing between him and his profit. We’re brought big bottled beers, and the discussion begins. Each person introduces themselves and describes their role. The Sino Group is looking to create as many opportunities as possible.

Only the presence of the seller is missing to complete the group and initiate negotiations. In the past few hours, Amir informed us that the Iraqi seller who was supposed to join us is unavailable and that he took the liberty of inviting a different supplier. He says very little about the new seller, and something about the situation bothers me, a mystery that doesn’t bode well.

Around 7 p.m., as discussions conclude, the enigmatic seller, dressed in a three-piece suit, arrives at the door. I knew that there were still sophisticated people in this world for whom appearance and dress are part of a ritual demonstrating respect for the other party during negotiations.

Amir approaches the seller and introduces him to each group. Our man is old, in his late sixties. A crown of white hair, small round glasses, and a protruding belly. He looks like a bon vivant. With his rosy skin, he could easily pass for an American or a European. However, his accent leaves no doubt about his origins; our seller comes from the Middle East.

After the usual greetings, the seller, Mr. Chan, and Kenny, who will act as the interpreter during negotiations, move away to start discussions. I take the opportunity to approach Hassim and ask him some questions. He informs me that our seller is from Iran and runs a company specialized in brokering petroleum products. I interrupt Hassim and ask him about the exact origin of the oil we’re planning to sell to the Chinese. Puffing up his chest to appear more imposing, he informs me that he and Amir had to turn to Iran to secure a thirteen-dollar discount per barrel and fulfill the criteria of their original offer. I understand that Iraq probably wasn’t even considered as a source of supply from the beginning of the discussions. The Egyptians have been blatantly lying to us. The United Nations passed a law that prevents us from selling goods to Iran in retaliation for its continued nuclear program.

I’m now faced with the choice of either abandoning everything or continuing negotiations while taking the risk of going against the law. Since I don’t have a signed contract with anyone yet, I decide to see how the negotiations unfold before making a decision. I’m in China for two days, so I might as well experience the situation fully.

Around 8 p.m., our host invites us to the dining room. A massive round table with a diameter of over six meters has been set up for all the guests. On this table, covered with a white tablecloth the size of a parachute, there’s a slightly smaller glass disc placed. With the pressure of a single finger, the disc rotates to the right or left, making it an easy way to serve oneself from the various dishes. However, no one seems to have the instruction manual for this rotating wheel. Plates arrive one after another, every five minutes. We are six hungry foreigners. Discreetly, while maintaining the conversation, each person turns the glass disc to get the dish they want to taste. The wheel spins to the right, stops, then spins to the left, stops again, and starts in a random direction. When I manage to get the plate I want in front of me and am about to serve myself, the wheel starts spinning again before I can even take any. It’s like a game of musical chairs with plates. The most amusing part is watching all these people talking and seemingly paying no attention to the food, but with their left hands, they are fervently fighting to grab their desired portion. Luckily, there’s no shortage of choices; I’ve never seen such a banquet. Plates keep coming, some with dishes of unknown origins, others with foods more suitable for Western palates. As the wheel fills up with food, the battle of the hungry diminishes.

We’re offered beer or wine, and I choose the latter. Tea is already on the table. A few minutes later, the waitress returns and places a carafe of clear liquid similar to water in front of me. She pours a glass into a tiny cup resembling an eggcup. All the Chinese have ordered wine as well. Mr. Chan raises a toast, and everyone drinks in one gulp. I do the same. When in Rome, do as the Romans do; in Beijing, do as the... hmm... Pekingese?

The alcohol immediately burns me. From my mouth to my stomach, the entire plumbing awakens with the passage of this fiery liquid. It’s as if I’ve taken a gulp of turpentine; the sensation would be no different. Chinese wine is made by fermenting and distilling rice, a sort of vodka that can contain over 60% alcohol. By the second glass, the pain subsides, and by the third, all sensation is gone. By the end of the meal, all the Chinese and most of their guests are drunk. As for me, I raise an empty glass regularly to join our hosts. I have no intention of losing control in this context.

After dinner, we leave the Sino Group and return to our hotel. Another meeting is scheduled for the next day at 4 p.m. When we arrive, the Arabs invite us to have another drink at the hotel lobby bar. I take the opportunity to sit next to the Iranian to learn more about him and his discussions with Mr. Chan. Learned and intelligent, he’s an unpretentious man who seems to have lived a lot. To my surprise, he’s an American citizen and shows me his passport to prove it. At midnight on a Monday night in a Beijing bar, I’m having a drink with a Muslim of Iranian origin, possessing an American passport, who claims to be in direct contact with Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the most powerful man in Persia. We’re both here to conclude a sale of thirty million barrels of oil to the largest arms manufacturer in China. In twenty-four hours, a legitimate transaction has turned into a high-level commercial exchange between two states with questionable reputations. I’m undoubtedly in over my head. I return to my room, questioning my participation in this affair.

I work part of the night, taking advantage of the time difference to balance clients’ portfolios and respond to my emails. Around 4 a.m., I finally manage to fall asleep. My sleep is restless, troubled by the origin of the oil. It’s the battle between the angel on my left shoulder and the demon on my right. Money or the law? The ethics of my profession may be debatable to some, I admit. However, I’ve always respected the law. Today, I’m offered a million dollars a month, which makes me think... Is there a gray area where I could find some comfort? I wake up sweating around 10 a.m., take a shower, and leave the hotel to explore the city and clear my mind. It’s lightly raining in Beijing, and the city appears melancholic. I walk for hours, occasionally stopping in small shops. I’m amazed by the incredible amount of counterfeit products available from most merchants. A few years ago, during my first visit, fake Louis Vuitton handbags and counterfeit Rolex watches were only found in flea markets, particularly visited by foreigners. Today, almost every shop offers a diverse assortment of copies and original products. Gucci clothing, Beats headphones, Pokémon playing cards—all trendy items have their knockoffs on the merchants’ shelves. The charm of flea market counterfeits has disappeared now that they’re in major stores. I refrain from buying anything, fearing I might end up with a fake at the price of the real thing.

I return to my room for a nap. Towards late afternoon, I leave the hotel with the Americans and Arabs for our meeting at the Sino Group offices. Once again, upon arrival, we’re led to the company’s private club. In one of the club’s rooms, I’m surprised to see the Iranian seller negotiating with Mr. Chan, along with Kenny. Judging by the number of cigarette butts in the ashtray, their discussions have already been ongoing for several hours. James previously confided that he has complete trust in Kenny. The more I get to know him, the less I share that opinion.

Kenny informs us that an agreement has been reached during our absence. In order to establish a long-term relationship, the Chinese are proposing to the seller that he becomes a shareholder in the newly created company in Macau. In return, he would be required to provide the required quantities of oil and commit to structuring the new entity. It’s a fairly common technology transfer in joint venture agreements with the Chinese. If this new company merges both buyer and seller roles, the brokers are no longer needed. I ask for some clarifications on the situation. The seller and Mr. Chan promise to provide us with a contract between brokers, the seller’s company, and the new Macau entity. We’re assured that the commissions, one dollar per barrel for the Egyptians and another for our team, will be honored. Everyone shakes hands and gives each other hugs. With smiles, each person toasts to the future success of this venture. I play along, not believing a word of their statement. It reminds me of Venezuelan bonds. Everything is too easy. In negotiations of this magnitude, the seller and buyer would be entitled to lower the commission. The five-year agreement represents a total commission of three hundred million dollars. Even if this amount were reduced by 90%, I have no doubt that the brokers would sign the contract.

The whole afternoon is festive. Mr. Chan has brought in his personal numerologist, the best in China according to him. This person can predict everyone’s future. These occult calculations, based on an individual’s birth time and date, would supposedly establish with certainty the path our destinies will take. When it’s my turn, I’m not surprised to hear, just before signing a multimillion-dollar contract, that I will lead a long and prosperous life. Too bad this seer didn’t foresee my prison sentence.

At dinner time, there’s still no sign of the contract. Like yesterday, we take our places around the “carousel” table. This time, everyone shows patience. I’m seated to James’ left, who’s consuming glasses of turpentine at an alarming rate. Despite his large and tall stature, he’s been drinking for over four hours, and his increasing drunken state becomes apparent. Two honored guests take their seats across from us: the son of the third-ranking member of the Communist Party and an older woman who, if I understood correctly, acts as the Minister of Natural Resources. Impeccably dressed and only consuming water, the young man welcomes us and expresses gratitude for our presence. I’m surprised that he doesn’t speak English, as everything about him suggests a Western education. The abundance and quality of the dinner overshadow last night’s excellent meal, and the alcohol flows freely. Everyone seems to be having a good time, especially the Minister, who raises her glass every five minutes to propose a toast. She’s the guest of honor for the evening. In her late sixties, with her black-dyed hair and a grayish parting that hints at an upcoming visit to the hairdresser, she smokes her military cigarettes with the aid of a cigarette holder. Adding to her resemblance to the Penguin, the Batman villain, she wears a black bowler hat. Towards the end of the meal, the sophisticated young man addresses our group with a mischievous smile. Translating his words, Mr. Chan’s daughter explains that the Chinese have requested that the Minister kindly sing a folk song for us so we can admire the richness of her voice. We nod with smiles. What else can we do? Our Chinese Penguin rises and beams at us with a toothy smile, teeth tinged with brown, and gums practically nonexistent. A capella, the woman performs to the fascinated gazes of her subordinates. While Madame may have all the attributes of the Penguin aesthetically, in terms of auditory experience, the sounds emanating from her mouth resemble more the cawing of crows. It’s a challenge not to burst out laughing at such a spectacle. To make the situation even more absurd, the Minister sets her sights on James, who gets a serenade and flirtatious glances. The song seems to last an eternity and ends with the Minister curtsying, much like my children used to do after their Christmas recitals. Everyone applauds politely, except for James, who, engulfed in alcohol fumes, stands up and exclaims “bravo.” The Chinese, surprised, watch this giant congratulate the Minister on her exceptional talent. James adds that he’d like to return the favor and sing a classic from the American repertoire. Without waiting for a response, he begins the song “Light My Fire” by The Doors, a fitting choice given the number of smokers in the room. Maybe it’s the wine, the fatigue, or the jet lag, but I can’t hold back anymore, and I burst into contagious laughter, infecting the rest of the guests. James laughs along too. Stumbling, tears in his eyes, he sits back down. The dinner ends with a final toast to our successful ventures.

My companions head to a karaoke club adjacent to our hotel after leaving the Sino Group’s offices. I’m informed that the contract will be delivered to us later in the evening. Before heading out, in the building’s lobby, I observe a delegation of Africans in their colorful traditional costumes. About a dozen dignitaries exit the Sino Group’s offices, looking quite cheerful. Each carries a bag that seems to contain a valuable gift. I imagine gold-plated pistols in a black velvet box, a small token of appreciation in exchange for a multi-million dollar arms purchase contract for a repressive dictatorship. My mood darkens. What am I doing here?

I don’t accompany the group to the karaoke; I choose to take a two-hour break in my room to work. Around midnight, I leave the hotel to join my comrades. Kenny pointed out the location of the club, and I find it without difficulty. A glass elevator, operated by a young and attractive woman, takes me to an upper floor where I’m greeted by a second woman with ample cleavage. She doesn’t speak a word of English, and after five minutes of futile conversation, I lose patience and venture into the club alone to find my partners. The space is quite large and has several corridors. I walk through this labyrinth with multiple doors. There are no signs, and I don’t hear any music. Could I have mistaken the place? I occasionally come across smiling young girls strolling around. Eventually, the truth hits me. In my naivety, I didn’t realize that I’m in a high-end brothel. I retrace my steps, thanking the receptionist while sneaking one last look at her cleavage, and return to my hotel. Thirty minutes later, Hassim calls me to ask where I am; the contract is expected any minute, and they would like me there to witness the signing and champagne popping. I explain to Hassim that I couldn’t find the club. He arranges to meet me in the hotel lobby five minutes later.

To my surprise, we return to the brothel. I hadn’t been mistaken. The club is also owned by the Sino Group. From arms dealer to women’s dealer, there’s just a step. It’s not surprising that the company is also present in Macau, the playground of wealthy Chinese. I’d wager they operate casinos there. I’d bet they operate casinos there. Hassim leads me to the room where our group is. He’s dropped his tough facade and is laughing at every comment. He’s drunk, having continued drinking for the past two hours. We enter a dimly lit room, and my eyes take a few minutes to adjust. On the wall, a giant TV hangs, playing a music video with Mandarin subtitles.

We’re indeed in a karaoke room. The Sino Group probably makes its business partners sing into the microphone when negotiations go as planned, or they coerce them with compromising videos, filmed in adjacent rooms, when deals sour. We’re in a large lounge. There’s a self-service bar at the back of the room and several sofas arranged facing the screen. No one is singing. The men are busy getting acquainted with a dozen young Chinese women in short skirts and heavy makeup. Upon our arrival, three men are present. Amir lounges on one of the sofas with two young Asians sitting on his lap. Two of Mr. Chan’s assistants stand, whiskey in their left hands and female buttocks in their right hands. I ask Hassim, who’s momentarily left me for a very short dress with a plunging neckline, where James and his brother are. He informs me that they’ve gone back to the hotel, too drunk to continue the night. I also inquire about Kenny, the Iranian, and Mr. Chan. I don’t like them being out of our sight for too long. He tells me that they’re in another room finalizing some details. Our conversation is interrupted by a messenger who brings us four copies of the long-awaited contract. Amir leaves his carnal ambitions to join us and review the contract. After a quick read, all three of us agree that the document meets our expectations, and Amir hastens to put his signature at the bottom of each copy. As I have no intention of exploring the pleasures of Chinese hospitality, I offer to take the four copies to get the signatures of the other three parties.

The other room has a very different atmosphere. The giant television casts a faint blue light over the room; there’s no music or courtesans. In one corner, Mr. Chan and Kenny are engaged in an intense conversation in Mandarin, while the seller looks on. On the table in front of them sits a single bottle, half-empty Johnny Walker Black. On the sofa, Madame the Minister is asleep, a glass suspended in her hand. Upon my arrival, the conversation stops as if they’re trying to hide something from me.

Yet, I don’t understand a word of Mandarin. It’s clear that my presence is bothering them. I don’t care. I sit down near Kenny without waiting to be invited. I hand him the copies and politely ask him to obtain the signatures from each party. Without reading the document, Chan, Kenny, and the seller put their signatures at the bottom of the contract. I give a copy to Mr. Chan, another to the seller, and, accompanied by the latter, return to the lustful Egyptians. The Arabs and I raise a final toast to our successes. I leave them to their revelry and return to my room. I can’t help but think about the reaction the Iranian Ayatollah would have upon learning that one of his emissaries is enjoying himself with Chinese prostitutes while savoring a Johnny Walker Black. My smile fades as I realize I’ll have to explain to my wife that I had to conduct business in a brothel in Beijing.

Upon waking up, I reach out to grab the original copy of the contract I’ve kept. I want to make sure I didn’t dream it. I still haven’t made a decision about my involvement. I need to speak to my lawyer first to understand the implications and determine if I’m committing a crime by receiving compensation in such a transaction. If I decide to participate, this original copy will serve as my insurance in case Chan, Kenny, and company decide to cheat our group by excluding James and me from the commission pool.

Two weeks later, we receive an email from Kenny, informing us that high-level Chinese government officials have decided to cancel the transaction with Iran. We are instructed to destroy any compromising documents and to keep the meeting in Beijing a secret. This email is followed by another from Amir, directing me to hand over the original contract to James Deer so that he can ensure its destruction. I have significant doubts about the truthfulness of the information we’re receiving and I have a feeling that an attempt is being made to deceive me. However, I don’t make much of it, as per the advice of my lawyer who recommended that I not get involved in a transaction with Iran, I had decided to withdraw from the deal. To this day, I still don’t know if the transaction took place. Nevertheless, I am aware that Kenny and James had a falling out shortly afterward over a matter that remains unclear. According to the latest updates, James still resides in the Cayman Islands, and he doesn’t appear to be any wealthier than he was at that time.

LOSE YOURSELF

(Eminem)

On October 3rd, at 1 AM, sleep gradually overcomes me. In a few hours, I will know my fate. In the best-case scenario, I will receive a thirteen-month sentence, the term advocated by my lawyer. If the judge is harsh, the worst-case scenario could result in two years and three months in prison, equivalent to the three and a half years recommended by the prosecutor minus a 33% reduction for my cooperation. It might seem light, but for me, two years is an eternity. You have to have been incarcerated to understand the slow passage of time in prison. This afternoon, if everything goes as planned, the judge will start by telling me my full sentence. After hearing from the prosecutors and my lawyer, he will then decide on the appropriate reduction for my cooperation.

In the observations regarding the sentence submitted to the judge by my lawyer, we ask for a thirteen-month sentence. Our reasoning is as follows: David received two and a half years before the reduction for turning informant. With legal precedent to support us, we argue that my time should be less. My detention conditions will be stricter than those of an American inmate facing the same sentence. I won’t have the option of a camp, the minimum security facilities without fences and locks, and I won’t be able to spend my last six months in a halfway house. Moreover, I’ll be imprisoned for a longer period than the court’s requested sentence. As I’m not an American citizen, once my sentence is over, U.S. immigration will detain me until my deportation from the country. This detention could last up to three months. Taking these factors into consideration, we suggest a twenty-six-month sentence. The prosecution recommends a 33% time reduction. Considering the quality and quantity of information provided, we argue that a 50% deduction would be more appropriate. Therefore, twenty-six months of sentence minus 50% for cooperation leads to thirteen months. During David’s sentencing, the judge mentioned that he had factored in his cooperation when reducing the sentence from three and a half years to two and a half years. The number of months will be further reduced when his work with the IRS is completed. Thus, David will have to return to court to receive his final sentence. That’s when his incarceration will begin. David has the fortune of remaining free until that date. This gives him the chance to maximize his reduction by assisting the U.S. tax authorities in catching as many tax evaders as possible. However, for me, I already have seven months of facts. He hasn’t even started serving his time yet. I’m certain that every night when he goes to bed, he thinks about that other cold bed that awaits him. He wonders if he’ll be raped in prison, if he’ll become some dirty inmate’s bitch. I take a perverse pleasure in imagining his fear.

For Jean and me, the situation will be different. Today, the judge decided to rule on the sentence and the reduction for our cooperation. There will be no waiting between the two procedures. In a few hours, I will know the exact date of my release. The big unknown variable for me remains the percentage of reduction for cooperation that was already granted to David during his sentencing. Will the judge deduct my 30-month or 41-month reduction? For Jean, the situation is much worse. The U.S. justice system hands down harsher sentences to lawyers who have used their knowledge to commit a crime. Despite an agreement reached with the prosecutors during his guilty plea that offered him a three and a half year sentence, the government representatives have reneged on their word and are now proposing a four-year and four-month sentence. Given that his reduction for cooperation is only 25%, he could end up with over three years to serve. For a man married with three boys ranging in age from five to fourteen, it’s a harrowing ordeal to face.

I sleep only two hours during the night. I reflect on my past, on the fact that at fifty years old, I will find myself in an Alexandria prison, just a few miles from the White House. I think of Sara, starting a new job, a new life. I think of my two daughters and the wonderful letters they wrote to the judge, appealing for his leniency. I’m proud of them; they’re growing up, becoming mature young women. I’m so happy to see them embracing their passions wholeheartedly. Tears stream down my cheeks. In a few hours, the weight of anticipation will lift, and I’ll be able to plan my future. If I were thirty-five like David, I would have the time to rebuild my life. I’ll be turning fifty-one next week, considered a criminal by all; it will be difficult for me to work in the finance field upon my release from prison. After losing my assets, I have to start anew. And what if the judge doesn’t listen to anyone and gives me five years? It adds a whole new dimension to the “Freedom 55” advertisements.

At 5:30 AM, a guard comes to wake me up. He finds me sitting on my bed, lost in my thoughts. He hands me a disposable Bic razor, suggesting I tidy up before my final performance. I’m ready. I’ve spent hours crafting my speech for the judge. Ari and I have reviewed every detail. He practiced his statement, and I practiced mine. The play is well-rehearsed. Nothing has been left out. Tonight, when I go to bed, disappointed or satisfied, I’ll know that I’ve done everything to minimize my sentence. My future now rests in the hands of Judge Knight, a seventy-four-year-old man appointed by President Reagan to wage the war on drugs in the late 1970s. Judge Knight has a reputation as one of the toughest judges in the country. To add to this, the state of Virginia hands down some of the harshest sentences in the United States. It’s promising! My prosecutors haven’t spared any effort to make an example out of us.

I’ll shave and take my shower. I pass by the open cell of a prisoner who has been here for only a few days. He paces back and forth. No one has seen him sleep yet. A former soldier, he seems to be suffering from post-traumatic stress. He greets me without stopping his pacing. He spoke to me briefly yesterday, quickly mentioning some of his feats in Afghanistan. For over ten minutes, he excused the actions of the American torturers during the war, seemingly without reason. His emotionless eyes make me believe that he was defending his own actions. He wishes for a new war to break out in the Middle East. According to him, the United States greatly needs his “skills” in times of war. A tormentor haunted by his actions, losing his mind. If I were locked up for over two years, would I become unstable like him?

I have my breakfast and return to my cell. To present myself in the best possible light before the judge, I’ve bought white socks, white underwear, and... yes, another white T-shirt. Unfortunately, I have to put on my green jumpsuit over my Mr. Glad ensemble. There’s only one flaw in my appearance: I have long hair. My haircut scheduled for last Saturday didn’t happen. Yet, I had calculated everything correctly. After inquiring with the authorities, they were categorical: an inmate is entitled to a haircut every four weeks, except that last Saturday, my request was denied. The reason? My last visit was on September 6th. I argued that it was exactly four weeks, or twenty-eight days ago. The guard informed me that the regulation stipulates a thirty-day gap between each haircut, and since thirty days is nearly four weeks, people generally say “one haircut every four weeks.” I understand that thirty days is more than four weeks, and as the barber is only available on Saturdays, a thirty-day gap means a haircut every five weeks. Another fine example of the clarity of regulations in American detention centers. My growing baldness isn’t improving my appearance. Rogaine, the hair ointment that worked miracles for my hair over the last ten years, is obviously not available here. Over the past seven months, genetics have triumphed over modern science. I’m slowly turning into Brother Toc. If I end up alone when I’m released, if I can’t find a job and if I accept the life of solitude that awaits me, I could always become a Capuchin friar.

My appearance might not be much, but I possess the perfect weapon to please the olfactory senses. Over the past few weeks, I’ve collected the scented advertisements distributed in magazines. I grab one, peel off the adhesive strip, and vigorously rub my face and neck, enveloping myself in a scent that, if I trust the advertisement, should trigger instant orgasms in the female population. I’m exuding a fragrance! I’ll likely be the most aromatic prisoner in the courtroom. The scent of the perfume makes me nostalgic, and I start daydreaming. What if the judge understood that all of this is a setup? What if I were released today? I bring myself back to reality; there’s no use in dreaming, it won’t happen. My lawyer and I have requested a thirteen-month imprisonment in my sentencing observations. My judge, known for never granting defendants the requested time, could order a fourteen-month sentence. Fourteen months is the most positive scenario, but also one of the least likely. I predict that Judge Knight will split the difference. Trying to please both sides, he’ll give me a twenty-month sentence, halfway between the prosecutors’ demands and my lawyer’s requests. Twenty months would mean release in mid-August 2015. I would have ten months left in my sentence. I’ve gone from facing a maximum sentence of three times twenty years at my arrest, to a maximum sentence of five years at my guilty plea, and now I’m facing a twenty-month sentence. Coldly assessed, this reduction should be a reason for celebration. Yet, I don’t feel like celebrating.

I’m lying on my bed, alone in my 1CD cell. The dawn is breaking. I’m calm; my behavior is nothing like it was during my initial appearance in Miami. People adapt to everything. I still remember how I trembled all over, as if my mind had lost control over my limbs. For some reason, I have the film “All That Jazz” in my mind. I see Roy Scheider working like a beast to create a musical for Broadway. He has no inkling that a heart attack is lurking, that death is waiting for him. Every morning, upon waking, to combat the fatigue weighing him down, he gulps down a cocktail of stimulants, lights his first cigarette, and says, “The show must go on, folks.” Just as I replay scenes from the movie in my mind, a guard informs me that it’s time. The show must go on!

The ceremony of chaining and transportation proceeds as usual. Jean and I, after a short stay in one of the courthouse cells, are led to the small cell adjacent to the courtroom. It’s 9 a.m. The schedule indicates that I should be the sixth to appear; Jean is seventh. Both of us want me to go first. I face a potentially lesser sentence than Jean, and since the first person to go will influence the sentence of the second, it’s better if I start. I’ll urinate three times in the next two hours. I’m outwardly very calm, but I know that my facade could crumble with just a little push. Around 11 a.m., they come to get me, and I’m composed. I enter the courtroom through a side door located near the front of the room. The guard has just removed my chains, so I walk unencumbered. As I step into the room, I scan the crowd and meet my brother Bobby’s gaze; he smiles at me. I haven’t seen a loved one since my arrest. An emotion sweeps over me like a wave. Like a surge of nausea, a spasm rises from my belly and blurs my eyes with tears. I take a deep breath and try to calm this volcano that’s erupting within me. To the right of my brother, I see my father, his expression stoic. The last time I saw him, his hair was gray; now it’s as white as snow. His long mane softens his face. He looks like a Santa Claus without a beard. I know he’s suffering. For my father, life has only two shades: black and white. He doesn’t accept that I’m here, and he’s attending this circus reluctantly. For anyone who knows Charles and his intransigence, his presence today is a proof of love. In his clemency letter, he loudly proclaimed my innocence. A noble gesture, but one that went against my lawyer’s advice. Ari, in fact, didn’t present my father’s letter to the judge. If an individual pleads guilty in court, no one should doubt their guilt. Expressing a contrary opinion will be seen as blasphemy, which could shock the judge and worsen the sentence.

I sit down and listen to the judge summarize the case history. To my left is Ari, and to my right, a local attorney, a requirement for Ari to be able to plead in a jurisdiction where he’s not licensed. Sitting to Ari’s left are the three prosecutors, separated from my team by a podium. The judge asks me to stand to answer a series of generic questions.

After five minutes of banalities, Judge Knight surprises everyone by asking us to approach the bench. He wants to discuss my cooperation with the government, which is quite odd since this aspect of the sentence should be discussed after receiving my base sentence, not simultaneously. Since these discussions need to remain confidential for my protection, a background noise, like a television turned on, is played in the room so that the spectators can’t hear our exchanges. The three prosecutors, my two lawyers, the two escorting agents, the stenographer, the judge, and I take our places to the right of the magistrate’s chair. Our strategy, initially to have me receive the same sentence as David before discussing the reduction for cooperation, falls apart. We need to improvise. I stand to Ari’s right and the judge’s right. His Honor looks at me. He’s shorter than he seemed from his bench. He has gray hair, combed back. His bushy eyebrows give him a stern look. Despite a hint of cataract, his gaze is sharp without being menacing. This man is intelligent, tough, and honest. It’s not surprising that he was appointed by Reagan to combat narcotics trafficking; he exudes virtue and integrity. Upright in body and spirit, he’s a man from another era, an intransigent like my father. Is it the era or the passage of time that has shaped these two men this way? He smiles at me. His smile warms me; my future is in the hands of someone upright. I judged him too harshly during our first meeting; his proximity reassures me of his intellectual capacities.

The judge begins his speech and stops abruptly. He asks the prosecutors and my lawyers if they object to Jean joining us for this discussion. In reality, he’s suggesting that we be judged together. No one objects, despite the oddity of the request. Jean’s two lawyers join us. Now there are eleven people standing, encircling the seated stenographer who’s recording our words. After the customary confidentiality warnings, the judge addresses Katherine. He asks if, as he suspects, she believes that the three conspirators deserve a similar sentence for the crime committed. She answers affirmatively and adds that the only difference in the sentences should come from the percentage reduction granted for each person’s cooperation. Good news, my sentence goes from forty-one months, as requested by the prosecution, to thirty months: the same as David’s. The judge invites Katherine to specify the differences in sentence reduction. Katherine starts by reminding the magistrate that during David’s sentencing, the judge had mentioned that the minimum sentence of forty-one months recommended by the sentencing guidelines had been reduced to thirty months because of the exemplary life of the convict and his cooperation as an informer. What Katherine suggests, without wanting to offend the judge, is that he has already deducted a portion of the credit to which he will be entitled for cooperating with the government from David’s sentence. Therefore, he should avoid being overly generous to us by sentencing us to thirty months and reducing this sentence by an additional large percentage. Judge Knight is not pleased with Katherine’s comments. He mentions that he remembers his decision very well. He continues, saying that he knows the backstage games that some prosecutors play, that too often the prosecution recommends very small reductions to protect themselves from overly generous judges! He reminds her that he doesn’t engage in such childish behavior, that high-quality cooperation deserves to be generously rewarded. He declares that if the proposed sentence reduction by a prosecutor doesn’t present a substantial benefit for a prisoner, the news will spread like wildfire, and the government’s main source of information will dry up. So, if prosecutors hint at significant sentence reductions and those are not delivered, in the future, other inmates won’t cooperate anymore. With each word the magistrate utters, my hopes swell.

The judge’s remarks have destabilized the prosecutors. Katherine tries to regain control by mentioning that the recommended cooperation percentage reduction for co-defendants varies from one to another. Without stating a specific number, she believes David should receive the highest reduction in the group, followed by me, then Jean. Once again, the judge asks the prosecution to justify these variations. Katherine lists David’s work. She emphasizes the extensive list of eight thousand names provided to the IRS and his personal knowledge of hundreds of tax evaders. She also mentions that David was the first to offer his cooperation, right from the first minutes of his arrest. This admission confirms my suspicions about the reasons for David’s late arrival at the Miami detention center. We’re all rats, but I can’t help but think that some are more verminous than others. After her remarks about David, Katherine talks about my case. I’m surprised to see that her enumeration, while not enthusiastic, remains honest. However, she barely touches on the subject of the drug transaction I reported. Ari is quick to fill in that gap. The judge

interrupts him when he mentions that I may have even risked my life by providing certain information to the authorities. The judge points out to my attorney that it was his responsibility to ensure my protection and that he should have transferred me to another facility if he anticipated a potential risk. Ari manages to smooth things over by mentioning my recent block transfer. With each of Ari’s words, the value of my cooperation grows. It’s becoming more and more evident that I deserve a larger reduction than David. The judge directs Ari to stop and says that he now wants to discuss Jean’s cooperation. Katherine says just a few words about Jean’s help, citing the number of potential cases and their complexity. If the situation weren’t so tragic, I’d burst into laughter. The prosecutor implies that the cases Jean has brought up are so complex that the government doesn’t know how to proceed with prosecutions. Therefore, they have less value in their eyes. David gave them an exhaustive list of previous American clients, mostly consisting of fathers and mothers hiding a few hundred thousand dollars from taxes. Simple people who didn’t create complex structures. In short, easy prey for the IRS. Jean, on the other hand, presents cases involving tens of millions of dollars invested through a complex network of trusts and companies across multiple jurisdictions. Without having all the details, I’d be inclined to believe that Jean’s cases have a much higher potential revenue for the government, provided they can understand them. Here, we must appreciate the judge’s insight, as he only asks Jean one question: “Are the amounts in the referred cases high?” And Jean responds that they involve sums exceeding one hundred million dollars.

I’m now convinced of the direction the judge intends to take. By diminishing the quality of David’s cooperation and increasing the value of Jean’s, he’s seeking to find balance among the three of us to award us the same verdict. To confirm my intuition, the judge ends the private session by mentioning that individuals with similar backgrounds, committing similar crimes, deserve a similar punishment. The judge then asks all parties to take their seats again.

Back at the defendants’ table, Ari leans in and whispers in my ear that he expects me to receive a sentence of eighteen to twenty-four months. His comment douses my enthusiasm like a bucket of cold water. I look at him and shake my head from side to side. The judge’s attitude makes me believe that he supports our arguments. I even begin to dream that there’s a slim chance I might be released today. Comparing my experience in court to Ari’s is impossible. So, I must rely on his intuition, but something tells me he’s too pessimistic.

The judge addresses me and offers me the opportunity to make a statement, which is my right but not an obligation. I nod and step up to the podium. I don’t tremble. In my hand, I have this speech that I’ve repeated dozens of times. Following my lawyer’s advice, I’ve constructed my statement around themes of guilt, regret, and the pain inflicted on my family. Now is not the time for pride; it’s not the time to discuss the reasons for my actions or to sow doubt about my guilt. I need to make myself small, guilty, repentant, and defenseless. For a proud and proud man like me, it’s not easy to write a text of self-flagellation. The speech I’ll read today, I’ve rewritten many times. Here is the complete translation of it.

Bonjour, Your Honor. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to address the court today. Firstly, I would like to say that I am sorry for the actions I have taken. I take full responsibility for my actions. My crime was not a mistake. I made the choice to conspire to commit money laundering, a serious offense. I understand that I must be punished for my actions.

I’ve started writing this statement multiple times, wanting to justify what I’ve done. Ultimately, the justification is simple. I sinned, I succumbed to the lure of greed. Even though I was blessed more than anyone else, I wanted more. The lure of gain and my stupidity destroyed everything. At a certain point in my past, I separated the person I was in my private life from the one I was in my professional life. In my private life, I always respected the law and lived with exemplary morals. I was, and I still believe I am, an honest man. Like Jekyll and Hyde, my professional life presented a different image. I devoted 95% of my time to managing our clients’ assets, but I frequently participated in sales efforts. As a promoter, I obeyed the laws as they were written. However, I took advantage of geographical disparities and loopholes to circumvent the essence of these laws. In business, I had become an agent of dishonesty.

I am a gifted man. I easily find creative solutions to the problems presented to me. Occasionally, in the past, I used this talent to help people cheat to reduce their taxes. In the future, I pledge to use my talent in my professional life as I have always done in my private life, for the good of society. From now on, all my actions and intentions will not only be legal but also moral and honest.

Your Honor, the man standing before you today is a broken man. I face a tainted past and an uncertain future. All the good I’ve done, the help I’ve given, and the wealth I’ve created for others have been forgotten. Now I must live my life with the shame of being a criminal. I will turn fifty-one next week, and I must start over from scratch. There hasn’t been one of the two hundred and six days of my incarceration where I haven’t regretted what I’ve done, where I didn’t wish I could change the past. Nonetheless, slowly, I’m coming to accept who I am and what happened. I am now working to become a better man. I am eager to return to the loved ones who mean the world to me and help them build a better future. Hope is a gift. Thanks to it, I can sleep at night and endure this nightmare that I created.

Among the multitude of letters you’ve received about me, my eldest daughter, Zoë, mentions that I am her “moral compass.” With my actions, I failed my responsibilities to her and her younger sister. I will spend the rest of my life repairing the damage I’ve caused. I hope that my confession of guilt and my behavior since my arrest will be positive examples for them.

I would also like to take this opportunity to apologize for the pain I’ve caused my family. To my father, Charles, and my brother, Bobby, both present with us today, to my two daughters who represent the greatest achievement of my life, and to my wife, Sara, the love of my life, I want to say that I am truly sorry for their suffering. Please forgive me.

Lastly, Your Honor, I want you to know that my family and I have suffered immensely from all the punishments we’ve received over the past seven months; emotionally, financially, and physically, we have been scarred. This suffering is unfair to the people I love, but that’s life. I know and admit to being the sole cause of the calamities that have befallen them. I will have to bear this burden for the rest of my days. Today, I ask the court to consider who I am, the punishments I have already received, and the good I can still bring to society before deciding an appropriate sentence.

In light of all this, I ask for the court’s leniency and, above all, the privilege of moving forward in life.

During my reading, my voice breaks a few times. I have to dig deep within myself to prevent myself from bursting into tears. The entire room has teary eyes. I finish, thank the judge for listening, and sit back down with a heavy heart. Even though all of this is just a spectacle, a large majority of my statement was sincere; only my admission of guilt for the crime I am accused of does not align with my thoughts.

After a brief speech from one of the prosecutors outlining the severity of my crime and mentioning how I mocked the American justice system during my meetings with double agents, my lawyer takes the stand. Ari is calm and smiling. He speaks highly of me, mentions my immediate acceptance of responsibility upon my arrest, and my refusal to accept bail. He recounts that in his line of work, it’s important not to form emotional bonds with clients, but with me, he couldn’t help but become a friend. Tears stream down his cheeks. He continues with his kind words and, like me, asks for the judge’s leniency.

Now it’s Jean’s turn to read his statement. He also hits a wall when he mentions his three sons; he bursts into tears. Regardless of the sentence we’ll receive, we’ve done our utmost to regain our freedom as soon as possible. The prosecutors are tougher on him, reminding the judge that the minimum sentence prescribed in his case is fifty-one months. Quite a blow when an agreement had been reached for a lesser sentence. His lawyer concludes with an excellent plea as well.

The judge thanks us for our statements. He declares himself ready to deliver his verdict. He begins with a brief summary of the charge, emphasizing the gravity of the offense. He continues by noting that his judgment must consider several factors in order to render a fair sentence. Firstly, he must take into account the federal government’s offense grid, which dictates the recommended minimum and maximum sentences for each committed crime. Then, he must consider the character and past of the defendant, their cooperation, and ultimately, the need to set an example for the outside world.

Judge Knight specifies that the crime of which I am guilty commands a score of twenty-two on the offense grid. The norm would be forty-one to fifty-one months in prison. As he speaks, I wonder if my lawyer might be right with his prediction of a sentence ranging from eighteen to twenty-four months. The roller coaster of my emotions sends me plummeting. His Honor then mentions that he is not obliged to follow the guidelines and that individual factors and certain specific circumstances may justify a variation downward or upward. I start to rise again. After a pause that feels like an eternity, he adds that, following his thorough review of the case and having listened carefully to my statement, believing in it, he considers the appropriate score on the offense grid to be twelve. A score of twelve corresponds to a sentence of ten to sixteen months of imprisonment; it’s a victory! The room falls silent. I quickly glance at the prosecutors. Katherine is red with anger, rifling through her papers, refusing to meet the judge’s gaze. How will she explain to her superiors that this criminal, the star of the IRS campaign against tax evasion, received such a ridiculous sentence? In the toughest district and with one of the country’s strictest judges? Her defeat is total.

I turn my head towards Jean to share my joy, but I can’t meet his gaze. He remains stoic, his eyes fixed on the judge. He knows that, for him, the offense guideline recommends a maximum sentence of fifty-one months. The game is not over yet. The Canadians have taken the lead, one to zero, but we still have one last period to play. The judge continues his explanation of my sentence. He sentences me to fourteen months in prison and fifty hours of community service. I will have to write a series of articles denouncing the world of tax havens and, if possible, have them published in the Cayman Islands. Finally, he also orders me to pay a fine of five thousand dollars. A sentence of fourteen months of imprisonment corresponds to a term of three hundred seventy-one days when considering the 15% reduction for good behavior. I will be free on March 17, 2015; almost a year, to the day, after my arrest.

Judge Knight turns his attention to Jean. He repeats that for equal crimes committed by similar individuals, an equal sentence is warranted. Without specifying his thoughts, he condemns Jean to the same punishment as me. The whistle signaling the end of the game sounds. Canada wins two to zero against the American team. Before I can even hug my lawyer, I’m pushed towards the exit door. It’s past 12:30, and the agents grumble about their lunch break being cut in half. I don’t care. I’m floating on cloud nine. I’ve already served more than half of my sentence. I’ll be home in five months. I know that the life awaiting me will present many obstacles, my family keeps reminding me. According to them, it will be difficult for me to live with the prejudices society will hold against me after my release. For now, I don’t care; I’ll be with my loved ones in a few months. In twenty-two weeks, I’ll be able to take a walk in the forest, savor wine, and embrace those I love. No one can take that away from me. Today, I know that true happiness lies in the everyday. Just as the taste of food intensifies after a diet, happiness will easily emerge after a long deprivation.

Jean and I experience a triumphant return when we arrive back in the block. The majority of inmates surround us, shaking our hands and congratulating us on our success. For those awaiting trial or sentencing, we are the glimmer of hope that will make them dream tonight. However, for others, our victory is seen as further proof of a lack of justice, more evidence of the system’s corruption. They’re not entirely wrong. The three hundred fifty thousand dollars spent by David, Jean, and me on attorney fees, our clean record, and especially the color of our skin will have been significant factors in the scales of justice, if justice exists at all.

IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

(R.E.M.)

On January 16, 2014, the new Clover, with David, Arnold, and me, is doing very well. The accounts are accumulating, and we will soon have fourteen financial institutions as clients, from Europe to the Caribbean and all the way to the Marshall Islands in the Pacific. Today, we receive a visit in the Cayman Islands from Moishe and his accountant Jim. During the holiday season, Jean, the attorney in the Turks and Caicos Islands, sent us two hundred thousand dollars to invest in a portfolio. In a phone call, Jean informed me that this money came from Moishe, a client that David and I introduced to him. From the beginning of the conversation, I was clear with Jean; I asked him to verify the source of the funds and ensure that Moishe and Jim are not criminals. Of course, I suspect that the structure being set up will be used to evade taxes. Morally, it’s very questionable, but to me, it seems legal. The account at Clover is opened under the name of a company owned by Jean; there’s nothing indicating that these assets come from Moishe. For Clover, theoretically, the source of funds poses no problem; the money comes from a loan that Jean’s firm received from a client. We receive all the documents validating this transaction.

Our meeting with Jim and Moishe goes smoothly. We spend nearly two hours reviewing the stocks we purchased for the portfolio and answering their mundane questions. Why did we buy this stock? Why bet on the devaluation of the Japanese yen? The kind of questions all clients ask us to understand what we’re doing with their money and, most importantly, to ensure they can trust us. At lunchtime, we go out to eat at a nice little restaurant by the sea. I still remember that the sea was very rough that day; I could have seen it as a sign of things to come.

Earlier at the office, Jim, Moishe’s accountant and friend, insisted on revealing to me the source of Moishe’s funds. I told him it would be best for both him and me to keep this information confidential. If he ever got caught, and less likely, if I had to testify in court in a tax evasion case involving him, I could always deny knowledge of the funds’ origin. I explained to Jim again that Jean held these funds at Clover, and we already had all the necessary information about their source. I didn’t know that David, sitting beside me, knew the money came from an illegal bankruptcy, while I believed it was related to tax evasion.

After two large pitchers of beer and a good fish meal, we’re all a bit tipsy. The end of the meal approaches, and now it’s Moishe’s turn to insist on telling me the source of his investment. He explains that as an entrepreneur, he received a deposit to build a building, and due to a bankruptcy, the work was never done. The story is blurry; he talks about a cousin at the bank who helped him secure the loan and lost his job. He finishes by saying that in any case, the bank has no idea where the money is. I pay little attention to his words, preferring to discreetly check the market situation on my phone. I don’t ask any questions. It’s not uncommon for risky amounts, in civil suits, for example, to be concealed in tax havens. A doctor afraid of being sued for malpractice, a man looking to hide money from his spouse before a divorce, a Brazilian wanting to conceal his foreign income from his country... These are often the kinds of transactions that take place in tax havens, but usually, I’m not involved in the stories; it’s the banks and trust companies that build the structures and gather client confidences. This kind of pseudo-open exchange is new to me; it makes me uncomfortable. I try to discreetly convey that I’m not interested in all of this, that if they have confidences to share, they should talk to Jean. Essentially, I hide behind Jean, just as I’ve always done behind the banks. I’ve never liked dealing with clients directly; what interests me is beating the markets, not knowing the stories behind the sums of money. I trust Jean’s judgment, but I make a mental note to talk to him again to ensure he’s done his job properly.

Towards the end of the meal, I share with Jim the uneasiness I felt towards him and his friends during our first meeting. I tell him that at one point, I even thought they were all working for the FBI. He responds that with such imagination, I should rush to see the new film “American Hustle,” recently nominated for the Oscar for Best Picture in Hollywood. A few months later, my lawyers will burst into laughter when listening to the recording of this conversation.

A few days after Moishe and Jim’s visit to the Cayman Islands, around January 20, 2014, Jean asks me to return the invested money to him, which we do right away. During our first meeting in Miami less than a year ago, Jim’s clients had asked us if it was possible to send us two hundred thousand dollars, that we invest it, and then return the invested amounts when they requested it. This way, they would ensure the integrity of our group and the process. I have no problem with that; however, I am surprised that they are actually asking for it. Usually, that’s something the client says, but doesn’t follow through on.

The next day, I reflect on the conversation I had with Moishe during his visit to the island. I don’t know why, but his bankruptcy story troubles me. Something is off, the investment, their premature request for the return of funds three weeks later, the lack of interest in the portfolio’s performance, this need to confide which seems so out of place... I call Jean to get his opinion and learn more about the source of Moishe’s funds. Jean tells me he doesn’t like the transaction either. He informs me that Moishe asked him to route the funds to a different bank than the one the money originally came from, a technique used by money launderers to confuse authorities and make it difficult to trace the path of illicit funds. As we all agreed in the Cayman Islands, Moishe, Jim, Jean, David, and I, to meet again in Miami in the following weeks for Jim to introduce new clients and discuss an additional two-million-dollar investment from Moishe, on the phone, Jean and I decide not to accept the new deposit of two million until we clarify all of this. Jean commits to sending an email to Jim demanding more information. For my part, I will call Jim to hear his explanations. If all goes well, the required documents will reach us in the next few days, clearly establishing the source of the funds. Then, Jean will receive the money before the next meeting. Without the requested information, we won’t proceed with any transactions with them.

Jim calls us every week afterward to schedule a date for our meeting. Since Jean hasn’t received the requested information yet, I keep postponing the meeting. We finally agree on March 12, which gives Jim ample time to send us the requested documents. One week before our planned departure date, Jean informs me that he talked to Jim and he will provide the required documents during our meeting in Miami. He tells me not to worry, that everything is arranged. He claims to no longer have concerns after conducting

a series of research. Our clients are as innocent as can be. I trust him; in fact, I hear what I wanted to hear. David and I leave the Cayman Islands on the morning of March 12 for Miami. When I board the American Airlines flight that morning, I have no idea that I will never again see my little paradise.

EN PLEINE FACE

(Harmonium)

On Monday, October 20th, around 5 am, a guard wakes me up and orders me to pack my things. I’m being transferred. In a few hours, I’ll be taken to a prison where I’ll serve the remainder of my sentence. I’m looking forward to this change; a bit of novelty can only do me good. For the past few days, Jean has been jokingly telling everyone that I’m losing my mind. Seven months in Alexandria is enough to drive a man crazy. He’s not entirely wrong; I’ve developed quirks. For example, it’s been over a month, and I still can’t close the door to my cell behind me. It’s a reflex I developed during my time at 4CF, where if we closed our cell door, it would automatically lock. I’m also becoming very irritable; the slightest thing can set me off. Sometimes I shout at fellow inmates, but it’s short-lived; a real fight has too many consequences in a detention center. I know that my conditions of incarceration can only improve in prison. If, as the judge recommended, I’m accepted into a camp even though I’m Canadian, I can spend my days outside and even take walks in the forest. I’m also assured that the food in federal prisons is far superior to that in Alexandria. I’ve survived the worst; the future can only get better... Well, I hope.

Jean won’t be accompanying me. I divide the supplies I have left into three parts. First, one for Claudio. He was the loan shark here when I arrived, lending out food with interest. If a prisoner wanted a little cake one evening and had none left, Claudio would give him one. The following week, the prisoner would return it with a Ramen soup as interest. When I was transferred to block 1CD, I was also asked if I wanted to lend, and since I refused any interest payment, I quickly became the person to go to when someone was short on food. It was an easy way to earn respect and affection from my new companions. In prison, you can never have too many friends. However, my somewhat communist approach quickly destroyed Claudio’s business. So, I had promised to give him a portion of my supplies when I left. I prepare another portion for Kaleem, a Canadian who recently joined our block and hasn’t received money from his family yet, and finally, the most significant portion for Jean. I’ve gotten to know him better in recent weeks and discovered an intelligent, cultured man dedicated to his family. I hope he’ll join me at the prison I’m going to. I shower, shave, and put on long underwear in preparation for the possibility of a long and cold journey.

After breakfast, they come to get me. There are two of us from block 1CD being transferred today: Mike, a drug dealer with whom I have an excellent relationship, and me. In total, five of us are leaving Alexandria Detention Center. In the intake area, we’re stripped of all our belongings. Everything the institution gave us upon arrival must be returned. I find my bright blue paper pants from Miami and the brown T-shirt I wore when I arrived, an eternity ago. Strangely, the nauseating smell that clung to my clothes is gone. The bacteria didn’t survive their extended stay in Alexandria’s All Day In. Luckily, Parker left me his sneakers when he left, so I don’t have to wear the bright lime green socks again. I expected to be stripped down like this, and I’ve already given everything I have to my buddies in 1CD. I only have two chapters of my book in my possession. I also have two hundred dollars left in my commissary account. The agents will send my manuscript and the balance of my account to my lawyer in Miami. I don’t like leaving a copy of my book in the hands of the US authorities. My prosecutors seem interested in its content. In our last meeting, they stated that they wouldn’t want me to publicly discuss my experience with the US justice system. For them, the only version is theirs. It’s important for the state to control the information and ensure that all individuals and companies currently under investigation remain in the dark. As the prosecutor told me, discretion is key. However, less than a week after my sentence was pronounced, an IRS special agent gives interviews where he states that my sentence is lower than David’s because I cooperated with the authorities. Yet, all our discussions about my cooperation were held behind closed doors. How can the prosecution openly talk to journalists about it? The IRS could put my safety in danger. Who knows if a client who lost millions due to the information provided by David won’t seek revenge on me or my family? My involvement largely consisted of teaching the IRS the ABCs of legal structures in tax havens and helping them understand how the banks we dealt with operated. Now, I’m being portrayed as the IRS’s puppet. My only satisfaction is knowing that my nightmare will end in March 2015.

The five inmates leaving Alexandria for new destinations are gathered. Chained, as usual, we board the same vehicle that took me to court, a blue van with windows covered in grates. Fifteen minutes after we depart, one of the inmates inquires about his final destination. To my surprise, the guard readily informs us all. As for me, I’m headed to Moshannon Valley Correctional Center in Pennsylvania. Moshannon Valley is a minimum-security detention center that only houses foreigners who will be deported to their countries at the end of their sentences. I’m disappointed; I’m not going to the Berlin camp. The Bureau of Prisons didn’t see fit to follow the judge’s recommendations. We travel all morning without stopping. It’s good to look outside and see nature passing by after seven months of staring at yellowed walls. Around 1:00 pm, we arrive at a small airport, and our vehicle parks in a fenced area with about twenty buses. They have a wider and lower chassis than conventional buses. The bars on the windows leave no doubt; these are prisoner transport vehicles. One by one, they come to collect the inmates from my group. Mike is the first to leave us. He’s taken to a bright yellow Boeing 737. There’s no indication on the fuselage of the plane. Too bad; I would have loved to see “CON AIR” written in big letters. I’m the last to leave the van. A guard accompanies me to a white bus where I’m asked to identify myself. I spell out my name but admit I don’t remember my inmate number anymore. After a session of verbal humiliation reminiscent of my time in Miami, certain documents and my photo are checked, and I’m made to sit in the largest cage on the bus. Over the next few minutes, I memorize my inmate number again; I’m back in the federal system, and that’s the number I’ll need to identify myself with now. We’re given our brown bags containing the infamous bologna sandwich, and we hit the road. There are two cages on the bus. A small one behind the driver’s seat and a larger one that occupies two-thirds of the vehicle’s space. The main cage I’m in leads to a locked door and a guard’s post with a bunk bed at the back of the bus. An officer goes up to take his place there. His role will be to keep an eye on the vehicles following the bus. Two other guards are in the front, a driver, and a tall blonde man holding a 12-gauge shotgun. The seats are very uncomfortable. It’s going to be a long journey. There are about ten inmates, most of them in paper clothes. The journey takes more than six hours. Around 7:30 pm, we arrive at a prison in Ohio. I’ll be detained here for an indefinite period before being transferred to Moshannon Valley. I’m moving away from my family instead of getting closer to them. The man with the 12 accompanies us inside; it’s raining. We’re ushered into a room that looks like a gymnasium, and the waiting begins. The intake process, which I’m now accustomed to, is agonizingly slow. The same questions, the same answers. No one thought to develop a centralized information file. Yet, all these facilities are under the authority of the Bureau of Prisons. For the third time in seven months, I undergo the tuberculosis test. There’s no doubt I’ll produce another false positive result. I’m given three orange jumpsuits and an array of T-shirts and underwear. I smile; finally, Orange Is the New Black.

We all put on the orange uniform, except for one inmate who is handed a canary yellow tunic. He’s a white man in his fifties, a small belly, and bottle-bottom glasses. He looks like a bureaucrat. He stands apart from the group, seeming scared. I was probably like him during my first days of imprisonment. I lean towards the man on my right and ask him why the white guy is dressed differently from all of us. The men in yellow are pedophiles. Now I understand that shameful look and the fear in our man. In the general population, in high-security prisons, pedophiles don’t last very long. I have no pity for him; I’ve long erased any empathy for people I don’t respect. A guard comes to take the man in yellow, escorting him to another wing of the penitentiary. Good riddance.

It’s past midnight when they lead me to my cell. It’s barely larger than the one I occupied in Alexandria. Three of us share this cramped space; two young African American men are already asleep on their bunks. Here, the beds are attached to the wall like shelves, two bunk beds on the left side and one on the right side. The top bunk on the left is free; I toss my bag of clothes onto it, greet my cellmates who wake up and complain about the noise, then I climb up to bed. I’m tense. Tonight, this very Québécois expression takes on a whole new meaning for me...

The alarm clock goes off at 5:30 am. All inmates quickly leave their cells to have breakfast. There are far more prisoners than there are seats at the tables, so I have to eat standing up, waiting for a spot to open up. The light in the dining hall is bright and blinding. The paint on the white walls is peeling. No one speaks; the atmosphere is very tense. This place scares me. Instinctively, like a timid animal, I try to appear larger than I actually am. I know that in these places, the weaker ones get eaten, and you mustn’t hesitate to show that you’re ready to fight to survive. The meal lasts only thirty minutes, then each inmate returns to their cell. My cellmates don’t speak to me; the only thing we have in common is being here—we’re from different planets. We all go back to sleep. In prison, escape comes with sleep. The time spent sleeping reduces the length of the sentence. It’s not uncommon to see prisoners sleep for twelve to sixteen hours a day. Lying on my bunk, I stare at the ceiling, too anxious to sleep. I don’t know how long I’ll be here before being transferred to Moshannon Valley. I’ve met prisoners who took up to three months to reach their final destination. I sincerely hope to get out of here as soon as possible. Just twenty-four hours ago, I was excited to leave Alexandria; now, I’d go back there running.

I don’t have time to linger in my thoughts before the intercom in the cell calls my name. I’m asked to pack my things; I’m leaving Ohio and its violence for another destination this morning. My stay here has lasted only twelve hours, twelve long hours.

Once again, I’m back in my clown outfit from Miami. The guards make me get into a van inside of which a modular cage has been installed. The van is the packaging, the cage is the box, and I’m the gift. In the cage, there are two rows of facing benches, with four seats on each. There are seven of us boarding the carriage. We’re seated knee to knee, like the fingers of hands in prayer. This is the worst transportation I’ve been offered so far. The chains and the limited space don’t allow for a comfortable position, so nobody sleeps. Everyone looks at each other at one point or another, and gradually, a semblance of a conversation takes shape. An appearance of conversation because a language barrier separates us. Our group consists of five Mexicans, a Lithuanian, and the obligatory Canadian. The Lithuanian is enormous. He must be around seven feet tall and weigh about three hundred pounds. Fortunately, the Mexicans are smaller, the tallest one is barely five feet three. The Lithuanian is at the front of the cage, and I’m at the back. Vodka, Maple Syrup, and Tequila speak English. We communicate as best we can. No one knows where we’re headed, and the guards refuse to talk to us. I hypothesize that we’re going to Moshannon Valley Prison since none of us is American. My companions confirm that they all have to be deported at the end of their sentences. My almost certainty is confirmed. I know a little about Moshannon; Kaleem, the Canadian I met in block 1CD in Alexandria, had been there for a few months. I share my knowledge with the group. Outside, the landscape gradually changes. We’re heading north as signs of autumn become more pronounced with each passing hour. Soon, there are almost no leaves left on the trees, which means we’re getting closer to Canada!

IF YOU’RE GOING THROUGH HELL

(Rodney Atkins)

Around 2 p.m., as I anticipated, we arrive at the Moshannon Valley Detention Center, a facility located in the heart of Pennsylvania, atop one of the highest hills in the region. Unlike the majority of American prisons, Moshannon Valley is operated by a private company. The federal government merely oversees what goes on there. All employees work for the private sector. The United States outsources the imprisonment of foreign detainees on its soil. Since the administration of Moshannon is different from that of federal prisons, the services offered there are also distinct. The worst of these differences is the absence of an email service for inmates. All my communications will have to be done by phone. It’s very expensive, and each prisoner is limited to three hundred minutes of calls per month. When you add calls to lawyers, consulates, and family, ten minutes a day goes by very quickly.

It’s amusing to observe the subtle battle between the private company and the Bureau of Prisons. For the latter, the focus is on punishment. To punish prisoners, they limit purchases at the canteen, phone calls, movement, and leisure hours. For The PFE Group Inc., the company that operates Moshannon Prison, the emphasis is on the profitability of operations. The company is constantly seeking to increase its profits, despite the Bureau of Prisons’ restrictions. Prisoners, ultimate captive customers, must pay for all services: doctor visits, photocopies, vitamins, shoes—everything comes with an expenditure that fattens PFE’s coffers. In terms of food, probably the biggest expense for the company, I admit that the meals are better than those in Alexandria. Nevertheless, PFE still tries to cut costs as much as possible. I’ve already found frozen Pumpkin Do-Not chicken breasts that had been expired for over two months in the kitchen’s freezers. In many cases, food is given to PFE for free by companies that benefit from the tax advantages of a charitable donation. Instead of throwing away expired goods, they make a donation and receive a tax credit.

The detention center is divided into numerous buildings, six of which are occupied by prisoners. The others are located outside the compound and seem to serve as an administrative center, warehouse, and training center for employees. The regular sound of gunshots also suggests the presence of a shooting range behind a nearby hill. In a rather unsubtle way, the shots serve as a daily reminder that any escape attempt could end fatally. The largest building intended for prisoners has the shape of an “L.” It houses a reception area, two hundred segregation cells, the library, the visiting center, the medical center, and a massive cafeteria. There are also four identical barracks where the general population of the prison lives. Each of them is divided into six large triangular rooms where eighty inmates live and sleep. At the back of the rectangle formed by all these buildings, there’s another building housing the gym and the art room. On both sides, there are two outdoor parks for playing football and baseball. In total, Moshannon can house nearly two thousand prisoners. During my stay, this number varied from sixteen hundred to eighteen hundred.

The complex is surrounded by a high fence, at the top of which a spiral of barbed wire is attached. Three meters further, there’s another fence that’s identical to the first in every aspect. There are six more rolls of barbed wire between the two fences. The whole area is equipped with multiple video cameras and motion detectors. The entire setup brings to mind images of concentration camps from World War II; if this is the minimum security level, I’d rather not know about the maximum.

What characterizes the Moshannon Correctional Center is the ethnic distribution of its population. Nearly 90% of the prisoners are of Latin origin. Mexicans and Dominicans are strongly in the majority. Other inmates come from all over the world: Eastern Europe, the Caribbean, Canada, China, and Africa. What I appreciate about this cultural mix is the absence of those young Black “rapper” types who often preach violence and create chaos. The downside of all this is that over 80% of the people present don’t speak English. Being older than most and not speaking Spanish, it’s very difficult for me to make friends. The few people I manage to strike up a conversation with quickly shut me out when I tell them I only have five months left of incarceration. For a prisoner facing several years behind bars, it’s better to avoid the pain of losing a friend. Inmates who arrive at Moshannon with a sentence of less than twelve months have a hard time integrating. I understand and accept this aspect of prison life. I will spend the next five months in solitude.

Not investing in a relationship doesn’t mean not showing solidarity with newcomers. On the evening of my arrival, the only two Canadian inmates in my barracks collected food items to welcome me. Complete strangers offer me coffee, rice, porridge, dried sausage, toothpaste, and more. They cover my bunk with goods worth over thirty dollars, a small fortune within these walls. This wave of generosity from society’s rejects deeply touches me. No one expects to gain a favor; the only request is that I do the same for the next newcomer.

Living in close proximity to eighty men day after day with no privacy; trying to sleep in a chaos of shouts, snores, and flatulence; going to the toilet separated only by a thin curtain of fabric; these are just some of the daily inconveniences at Moshannon. I am not a social being, and I function much better in a peaceful and orderly environment.

The living conditions here seem far superior to those in Alexandria. All prisoners who have been at both places don’t hesitate to say that the quality of life here is much better. However, my arrival plunges me into deep sadness, occasionally accompanied by the rage that still resides within me. Usually calm, I throw chairs against walls when I’m provoked. Am I depressed? I can’t say. Loneliness overwhelms me, and I slowly lose control of my emotions. My eyes fill with tears at the slightest platitudes on television. My escape is in running; I try to find it through running every day when the weather allows it. I jog around the football field, sometimes for over an hour, until I’m exhausted.

After a month at Moshannon, I start working in the kitchen. Every inmate must work; it’s the rule. Since food services attract few volunteers, all newcomers work there for a minimum period of three months. My streak of bad luck from recent years continues—I’m assigned to the morning shift. The guards wake me up at 3:10 a.m., and I report to the kitchen at 3:30 a.m. I’m appointed as a stocks clerk, a rather amusing title given that a few months ago, I earned a living buying and selling “stocks” for my clients. My job involves taking food out of refrigerators and the pantry for the chefs. I’m also responsible for opening cans. When the weather allows, I help with food preparation. Then, around 9 a.m., when my group finishes their day, I stay behind to unload the trucks that bring in food. The stocks clerk job is considered one of the worst jobs in the prison. The tasks are tough, and the hours are long. Most inmates assigned to it only last two weeks, just long enough to request a transfer to another position in the cafeteria. After my first shift, I’m exhausted, and due to the noise, I can only fall asleep around 11 p.m. For the remainder of my incarceration, I’ll only sleep four hours a night, so I’ll have no choice but to take a nap for an hour or two upon returning to the barracks at 11 a.m. At least, they pay me for my efforts. In their great generosity, PFE pays me twelve cents an hour for my work. Most jobs only last four hours a day, three days a week. I have to work four days a week and seven hours a day. My annual income would amount to $174.62 if I stayed here for a full year. It’s barely less than what I used to earn at Clover... per hour. At least, here, like in the Caymans, there’s no income tax to pay.

After two weeks as a stocks clerk, my decision is made—I’ll submit my request for reassignment at the open-door session next Wednesday. Unfortunately, when the day comes, the session is canceled. However, during my third week, I gradually start enjoying the hard work. Sleeping during the day makes time pass more quickly, and the effort helps me stay in shape. So, I decide to finish my sentence in the kitchen.

There, I’m the only one who doesn’t speak Spanish. Therefore, I don’t participate in the discussions. Fortunately, the Mexican who works with me speaks English. Like many others, he’s here for drug trafficking. A tough young guy named Jesus. Like many a convert, I too could say that I’ve found Jesus during my incarceration! At first, Jesus wasn’t very enthusiastic about working with a fifty-year-old. If one of the stocks clerks doesn’t do their part, the other has to work twice as hard. Two weeks after my arrival, he asks me to slow down so the guards don’t increase our workload.

The grains of sand continue their slow descent in the hourglass of time, each minute flowing gently, carrying with it a moment when in another reality, I could have been happy. Like a bipolar individual, I navigate between the highs and lows of the waves of my emotions, marking each passing day on a small calendar. Every evening, I call a family member; the sound of their voice reminds me of my old daily life. Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. Christmas arrives; it’s the first time I’m away from my family during this time. My hatred towards the United States grows, as does my worry for the future. How will I ensure the financial security of my loved ones? I even start considering suicide. My death would solve many problems. My life insurances would provide my family with a comfortable life, and my departure would erase the shame associated with my name. However, I don’t want to die in prison. My future successes and the happiness of those I love will dictate my choice. For now, I live by the old adage: If you’re going through hell, keep going.

Ten weeks after my arrival in the kitchen, I’m fully integrated into the team. Several of my coworkers make efforts to say a few words to me in English, and I punctuate my sentences with Spanish expressions. Yesterday, the chefs asked me to join their team. Now, Jesus and I are responsible for cooking chicken thighs, one of the most coveted responsibilities. After all, whoever controls the oven can discreetly eat as much meat as they want. I’m also assigned to cooking pancakes, a role that reminds me of my days at A&W, a long time ago. Some mornings, I prepare over two thousand pancakes for the inmates.

What impresses me the most during my time in the kitchen is the quantity and diversity of things the detainees manage to steal. Chickens, spices, towels, table legs... Here too, chicken thighs are at the top of the pyramid of desired food items. The guards get nervous on the days we prepare them. Some prisoners have created complex concealment systems where stolen thighs end up at the bottom of the cafeteria’s warmers. Others have sewn hidden pockets into their clothing to hide what they steal. Imagination knows no bounds. They steal for hunger, for pleasure, and especially for money. Whatever a prisoner manages to steal from the kitchen, they’ll find someone in their barracks willing to buy it from them. The price to pay when caught, however, is enormous. A colleague I knew got caught stealing three fresh eggs. He got twenty-seven days in the hole, lost twenty-seven days of good behavior time, and received a fine of $1.53 to cover the cost of the eggs. It’s a high price to pay for three small eggs.

On the days when I’m not working, I write. Since my memoirs are nearly finished, I’ve decided to write a novel. Every morning, I sit at a table in the barracks while most of the inmates are still asleep. Those who are up listen to the top music video charts of the week, nodding their heads from side to side to the tunes of Taylor Swift. It’s funny to see these tough men with their headphones following the rhythm of the music in complete silence. I write. I can spend eight to ten hours sitting at the table composing stories. It’s therapeutic for me to imagine horrible crimes; it acts as an outlet for my aggression. During my five months at Moshannon, I’ve written over three hundred pages of a novel with two prison guards as the main characters: two killers who rub shoulders without knowing each other’s true nature. Who knows, maybe I’ll be published one day?

On the morning of March 17, they come to get me; I shake hands, distribute everything I have to these men who welcomed me, and I leave for a county prison that outsources its services to the immigration department. The authorities can still detain me for a maximum of ninety days before sending me to Canada. However, this time, luck is on my side. On March 18, 2015, the day after my prison sentence ends, two US immigration officers drive me to the Ontario border. They drop me off at the Niagara Customs. One of them looks at me and says, “Don’t come back.”

After a brief meeting with Canadian officers, I’m released. Wearing gray athletic cotton tracksuits, I wander the streets of Niagara like a tourist. After a long stay abroad, I’m back home. I’m not very emotional; it’s as if life all around me appears distant, at a distance. My reality has changed; I feel like everyone is watching me, that my past is written on my face.

Far from being intoxicated with freedom, I feel like I no longer belong to this society—a feeling that I’ll carry with me for a long time. Bobby, my brother, comes to pick me up. I’m happy to see him. At the hotel, I take a long hot bath, and in the evening, we go to a Brazilian steakhouse where I devour over a kilogram of red meat. The server can’t believe it; where am I storing all this food? In my first days of freedom, after reuniting with those I love, my greatest pleasure, aside from eating, will be to stuff myself.

I am a free man; my American ordeal is over.

NON, JE NE REGRETTE RIEN

(Edith Piaf)

After founding a family, visiting around fifty countries, accumulating over two million air miles, living in three different countries, holding over twenty jobs, and being incarcerated for twelve months, I’m returning to my starting point. The loop is closing. Upon my release from prison, I will settle just a few kilometers away from where I was born.

The IRS hurricane struck me with full force, taking away my future, my home, my wealth, my adopted country, my pseudo-friends, my career, my reputation, and my honor. All that will remain are my family, a few friends, and my memories.

At the age of fourteen, during a geography class, the seemingly insignificant words of a teacher would mark my life. He wasn’t a very good teacher. He wasn’t one of those educators who inspire young minds. He was an “ordinary” man; short in stature, a proud union member, with a big red beard and an absent smile. Towards the end of the school year, one afternoon, for reasons unknown to me, he decided to share his philosophy of life with us. He probably smoked one too many joints during his lunch break...

“All men come into this world holding a set of cards in their hands. Life is just one big poker game. Some of you were dealt a royal flush or a set of aces, and others were given only a few insignificant cards. Succeeding in life is about playing the best game possible with the cards you’ve been dealt.”

This simple approach to existence, probably borrowed from a book bought at the pharmacy on a down day, would remain etched in my memory forever.

I was fortunate to receive an excellent hand. As a young adult, I played the game to the best of my ability. If, at the age of forty, the geography teacher had shown up to check on me, I would have told him that I won more often than not. As I grew older, I realized that there was an important element missing from the bearded man’s philosophy. In order to measure one’s success, one must first define what victory is. How do we define the success of a life? Is it through the accumulation of possessions? Reaching the pinnacle of the professional pyramid? Creating a united family? Gaining public adulation? Without goals, how do we measure success?

Some may believe that my conviction brings me back to square one, that at fifty-one, I lost the game. Their perceptions are based on their own definitions of success. It’s true that my nest egg has disappeared, my reputation has crumbled, and my career in the financial industry has likely come to an end.

However, the goal I set for myself from my youth was primarily to live a life filled with twists and turns, with adventures. I paid a high price to achieve my goals and live according to my choices, but I have few regrets. I would have liked to provide my family with a life free from financial stress. This aspect of my adventure is a failure, although I don’t consider myself defeated; I still have several years to remedy the situation. I trust in chance; I haven’t said my final word.

I like to imagine the last moments of my life. I see myself at a hundred years old, gently rocking on the porch with my two daughters. They are sad to see me go, and I tell them, “Girls, don’t cry, I’m leaving you with a peaceful heart, happy and satisfied. Remember, it’s better to have memories than regrets.”

ONE YEAR LATER…

DON’T GIVE UP

(Kate Bush, Peter Gabriel)

March 18, 2016, one year today since I was released from prison. It’s 10 a.m., and I’m alone. I’m taking a very hot bath. Through the window to my right, I gaze at the forest; it’s cold. The winter that seemed hesitant to arrive doesn’t want to leave now.

I’m thinking about this past year, during which the word “freedom” took on its true meaning. When I first got out, everything was a pleasure – tasting, touching, loving. It was as if I had never lived before. I remember my first beer in the lobby of that hotel in Niagara while waiting for my brother, the first time I held my two daughters in my arms, the joy of my dog Bobo going crazy, crazy, crazy to see me again after so much time. These pure, wonderful little moments. All the emotions that had been suppressed for a year resurfaced, and it felt so good.

In the first few days, I was floating on a cloud, moving from one sensation to another. After a few weeks, I started helping a family member renovate a house he had just bought. I was there for twelve hours a day, doing exhausting manual labor, hardly thinking at all. Exhausted, I would go to bed early and sleep deeply and dreamlessly.

Then, I began revising this book. Opening a wound that was only just beginning to heal. Reliving the best and the worst moments of my life. It’s surprising to realize that the most beautiful memories are the ones that hurt the most... to understand that the best is now behind us. It was during the rereading of my book that the nightmares started. First, it was my daily life in prison that resurfaced, and gradually, I started having increasingly violent dreams, dreams where I exacted revenge on the people who condemned me, committing the worst atrocities. I would wake up in a sweat, my t-shirt soaked through enough to wring it out. You leave prison, but prison never leaves you.

Little by little, routine takes over, and the pleasure of the new fades away. I discreetly open an account with a financial institution; it’s discreetly closed. I open an account with a bank, telling them my whole story, hiding nothing. They assure me not to worry, that there won’t be any problems, and then they close my account. I have no assets, no credit card, no bank account – I don’t exist. I survive thanks to my family’s work. I apply for jobs; I’m either too overqualified or too much of a criminal – no one calls me back. I take six months to help one of my daughters launch her social enterprise. It’s a great success. We promote it together in various media until my past resurfaces again, and a popular morning radio host in Montreal loudly declares that the company is a refuge for a fraudster. This smearing doesn’t harm Zoë’s company, but it hurts me. Despite proclaiming that prison doesn’t define me, in the end, I’m only the sum of what others see in me. Just as I’m getting back on track, just as I think I’ve turned the page, I find myself back at the starting point.

In my bath, I submerge my head underwater and hold my breath. I’ve liked doing that since I was young. For me, it’s a way to isolate myself, to clear my mind. I resurface. Next to me, on the windowsill that runs alongside the bathtub, I’ve placed the knife I used to prepare fish in the Cayman Islands, one of the last remnants of that old life, so long ago.

I’ve owned a lot and, above all, lived a lot. The loss of my possessions and the monotony of my daily life are now accompanied by a continual gloom. Not an intense pain that makes me grimace, but more like a cancer of happiness. It’s not grief that fills me, but the absence of joy, a torment that makes every thought, every action laborious. It’s difficult to admit that I was happier in prison than I am here, to confess that waiting for blue skies during a storm brings more than perpetual grayness. This is what happens when you’ve lived your whole life for a future that suddenly shifted from sunshine to shadow. I lose my taste for life, my dreams wither away.

I grab the knife with my right hand, I look at my aged face reflected in its blade – how swiftly life passes by... I think of those I love, and slowly, I place the weapon back on the windowsill. Today, once again, I won’t have the courage to end it all.

NUANCES

A CRIMINAL MIND

(Gowan)

I did not write this book to play the victim or to gain public sympathy through a fake rehabilitation. My main goal is to provide my perspective on the events of the past years and shed some light on the moral and legal complexity of the world of tax havens and the American justice system. Ultimately, am I guilty? I will attempt to be objective here by analyzing the evidence that points towards my guilt and the factors that argue for my innocence.

Firstly, it’s interesting to revisit the notions of honesty and legality, two terms often confused, and which, in the financial world, hold different meanings. Honesty is a moral concept that dictates an individual’s conduct in society. It is synonymous with sincerity and is defined as the absence of deception. The concept of honesty is universal. Regardless of the spoken language or country of residence, when a person lies or steals, they are dishonest. Legality pertains to a contract, an action, or a thing that complies with the laws of a country. It’s specific to a territory. What is considered legal in one place might not be legal in another. For instance, marijuana sales have been legalized in the state of Colorado, whereas possession of it can lead to imprisonment in the state of Louisiana. This example highlights a significant difference in laws between two American states. Similar divergences arise when comparing the laws of different countries, such as the United States and the Cayman Islands.

A contact of mine, residing in Trinidad, got in touch with me in the summer of 2013 to inform me of his impending divorce and asked for my help. He had found his wife in bed with one of his friends and wanted to protect his assets from the friend, whom he perceived as an economic predator. Over the years, he managed to save over three million dollars without his wife’s knowledge. He now wanted to transfer his money into a trust and name his children as beneficiaries. My client was married under community property laws, which meant that the assets accumulated by the couple during their marriage had to be divided equally in case of separation, and divorce proceedings had not yet begun.

When I tell this story to my friends, no one questions the honesty of my client. Men and women alike agree with his actions – he acted morally and in the best interest of his children. However, it’s all a matter of perspective. The truth is that my contact was being dishonest. He had lied to his spouse about the true wealth of the couple for years and acted deceptively in trying to hide his money through a transfer to the Cayman Islands. By acting this way, the client seemed to commit a crime, as in Trinidad, his place of residence, the law required him to declare all his personal assets during a divorce. However, if the client deposited his three million dollars into a trust before the divorce process began, he did not have to declare those amounts in court. Indeed, by transferring the money into a trust, that money no longer belonged to him and was therefore no longer part of his assets. The capital deposited into the trust was no longer his, he maintained control over it, but on paper, it was his children’s future money. In this example, the individual acted legally while being thoroughly dishonest. In the world of tax havens, it’s common to engage in similar transactions. In the financial world, honesty does not exist; only the law matters.

In the legal pursuit against David, Jean, and me, the U.S. government sought to halt our operations so that we would cease to act as links in a chain enabling American citizens to evade paying their taxes. Since tax evasion wasn’t a crime in the Cayman Islands, the IRS had to prove illegal activity in order to charge us with a serious crime. The complexity of this situation is heightened when considering that no American clients held accounts directly with Clover. I should remind you that financial intermediaries (banks, trust companies, or lawyers) held the accounts in my business. Americans would open accounts with banks and create legal structures with their lawyers. Clover acted in full compliance with both Cayman Islands and U.S. laws. In order to shut down our operations and make an example of us, the U.S. tax authorities had to invent a crime and involve us in it.

I refused to take Moishe’s money at least three times. Throughout the year they set their trap, the agents made significant efforts to build friendships with David and me. Jim and I exchanged recipes online, talked about our favorite restaurants, cooking contests, and the similarities between his Lebanese heritage and my Québécois heritage. He even had the audacity to call me to find out the gender of David’s baby so he could buy a gift. This growing friendship and their persistent requests led me to make additional efforts to help them avoid paying taxes, which I believed was their intention. It was this unique relationship that prompted me to refer them to Jean, who, based on my past experience of rejecting some of his clients, dealt with Americans. I was naive to trust the IRS agents. It wasn’t a crime to refer clients to Jean and then manage the funds he handed over to me. All of this, while not the epitome of morality, was perfectly legal. No, my first mistake was not wanting to listen to the agents when they insisted on disclosing the source of the funds. I admit today that I should have been more cautious and sought more information rather than burying my head in the sand. My second and greatest mistake was returning the money to Jean, despite having doubts. I made this mistake without even thinking. In my career, I had never personally seen a financial institution report to the authorities to request an investigation into the origin of funds without substantial evidence that it was dirty money. The money was always returned to the client, who was asked for more information, and they were advised to find another financial institution. Ironically, unlike my client from Trinidad seeking a divorce, it appears that by returning the money despite my doubts, I acted with complete honesty but within illegality.

So, I am guilty because I returned the funds to Jean when I had doubts about their origin. This constitutes money laundering. This is exactly what the IRS was looking for, and the trap worked.

In the eyes of the IRS, the received money came from criminal activity. During Jim and Moishe’s visit to the Cayman Islands in January 2014, the agents hinted that the money stemmed from a dubious bankruptcy. I should clarify that the fact that the amounts came from a bankruptcy doesn’t necessarily mean that the source was criminal. When a breach of contract occurs between two parties, such as a bankruptcy or a divorce, civil law is generally the recourse in legal proceedings, not criminal law.

Despite these facts, my guilt isn’t as evident as it seems. To establish an individual’s guilt, the prosecution must demonstrate that the accused had criminal intent during the crime. In his book “Three Felonies a Day: How the Feds Target the Innocent,” Harvey Silverglate reminds us that the U.S. Supreme Court clearly stated in the landmark 1951 case Morissette v. United States that to be found guilty, the accused must have had criminal intent in addition to presenting a “guilty state of mind.” Several elements indicate that I had neither criminal intent nor a “guilty state of mind”:

- I refused three times to accept clients referred by Jean’s law firm because I didn’t do business with Americans. Jean also confirmed this fact to the prosecutors, who found it hard to believe.

- The fees charged for managing the agents’ portfolio were within industry norms, 2% per year. These are the same fees charged by banks for managing mutual funds; therefore, my work would have been a bargain, considering that money launderers charge up to 20% to assist criminals.

- I called Jean in the days following the agents’ visit to clarify the source of the deposit, and following my call, Jean sent Jim a detailed list of questions he had to answer before we accepted new deposits.

- I know that the prosecutors doubt my guilt for the crime they accuse me of. Didn’t Katherine confess to me that she didn’t believe I was a money launderer? She too confused legality and honesty. For the prosecutors, my guilt was certain due to my profession; I was surely guilty of something. This is how the state allows manipulation in order to convict individuals who are not guilty of the crimes they are accused of. In my career, I believed that by acting legally and being honest with my clients, I ran no risk. I hadn’t realized that the United States would set a trap to incriminate me. From the moment you find yourself in the clutches of the eagle, the game is already over.

Before this ordeal, I would have been among the first to claim that when a man pleads guilty, there’s no doubt: he committed the crime he’s accused of. As the saying goes, there’s no smoke without fire. An innocent person simply has to fight to win their case. People have faith in justice because it’s the foundation of societal order. The absence of justice is anarchy.

According to an article in The Economist on October 4, 2014, several legal changes have increased the powers of prosecutors, which could explain the explosion in recent years of guilty pleas. The accused who believe themselves innocent agree to plead guilty to a lesser crime in order to avoid extremely harsh sentences. I am an example of how this justice system functions. The crimes I was charged with carried a maximum sentence of three times twenty years. Negotiations by my lawyers and my decision to plead guilty before trial reduced my maximum sentence to five years. As I mentioned, in the United States, over 95% of charges end with an out-of-court guilty plea, and over 99% of charges end with a guilty verdict. In Canada, only 66% of the accused are found guilty. How can we believe that 99% of the accused have committed the crimes they are charged with? This statistical aberration indicates that either the investigation techniques of U.S. authorities are almost infallible, or a significant number of innocent individuals plead guilty out of fear of receiving an inhumane sentence after a trial. The United States represents 5% of the world’s population, yet its prisoners account for 25% of the global prison population. How many of the 2.3 million individuals incarcerated in this “land of freedom” are innocent?

Furthermore, my role as an informant probably reduced my time behind bars by 50%. When contemplating such a reduction in sentence, how can one believe that a criminal wouldn’t lie to please the prosecution? I know that personally, even though I resisted initially, I would have eventually been willing to implicate almost anyone to save my own skin – a trait of my personality I didn’t know existed and am not proud of. As statistics show that the vast majority of federal government charges are won based on information obtained from informants, how can justice be naive enough not to see that in many cases, the guilty verdict is based on false testimony? A study by Northwestern University Pritzker School of Law on individuals wrongfully sentenced to death in the United States demonstrates that 46% of these convictions were based on false informant testimonies; I rest my case16.

The search for truth and the application of justice rely on our faith in the integrity of prosecutors. Historically, a prosecutor’s professional motivation was rooted in their pursuit of justice. Being a prosecutor was about following a calling, much like being a priest or a doctor. Nowadays, the motivations of individuals drawn to the prosecutor’s profession have changed significantly. In the United States, this public service job now serves as a stepping stone to a political career or a lucrative position in a private firm. These aspirations can only be achieved with an exemplary track record and a series of high-profile victories. Regardless of justice and truth, when an individual’s career is at stake, everything else pales in comparison. Victory has no price, and ruined lives are mere collateral damage. It doesn’t matter if a person spends several years of their life behind bars for a crime they didn’t commit; they probably would have been guilty of another offense anyway.

In recent years, American prosecutors have gradually transformed into bullies who won’t hesitate to threaten, lie, and cheat to get what they want. Ultimately, prosecutors would make good bankers; the lack of morality in both groups is strangely similar. In court, as in tax havens, justice, honesty, and truth have become malleable and putrid concepts that adapt to the desires of the powerful.