On First Looking into Chapman's Quim

She stopped, drained the last of her coffee, then apologized and said she had to go. I wanted to plead with her to stay, but again was afraid that I'd scare her off. Instead, I asked if we could meet again. A look of fear flashed across her face, then she closed her eyes and shook her head twice. She reached across the table, squeezed my hand, and asked if we could meet at the same time and place the following morning. I happily agreed with relief. We hugged gently for a second time in the parking lot, then drove our separate ways.

Our next meeting went more smoothly. After I got our coffees—she offered to buy but I played the guy card—she picked up her story.

"Yesterday I said I wondered if I had failed a test when he just kissed my cheeks and had the driver take me home. I learned the following week that I hadn't. He called me that Thursday and asked if I would like to go out for dinner and dancing on Saturday. Of course I said yes. He said we'd have to get an early start because he had some meetings, and suggested that I bring an overnight bag with cosmetics and a change of underwear; he would provide my evening wear. I was a little taken aback, but figured in for a dime, in for a dollar." She shook her head and smiled ruefully at the memory.

"He wasn't kidding about an early start! The same driver picked me up at 9:30 Saturday morning, crossed the Hudson to Teterboro, pulled up to a chain-link gate, opened it by pressing a button on the steering wheel, and drove up to a private jet. The driver opened my door and carried my overnight bag up the steps to the plane. Hernán met us at the door, thanked the driver, led me to a seat, kissed my hand, and disappeared into the cockpit. As the plane started taxiing, a lovely young woman brought me a champagne flute of orange juice and said that Mr. Cortés thought I would like a mimosa. I did, and had another. After I dozed for a while, she brought me a lovely Cobb salad and a glass of white wine. Both were delicious.

"The whole thing felt surreal, but that wasn't the half of it. When we landed a few hours later, Hernán led me to a waiting helicopter. We headed for the ocean, and half an hour later set down at some fancy resort on an island. A stretch limo was waiting for us, and whisked us off to this place that looked like something out of a fairy tale."

She learned later that the plane was a Cessna Citation X, that they had landed at John Wayne Airport in Orange County, then helicoptered to Santa Catalina Island. The fairy-tale place was the Avalon Casino, with a wonderful restaurant, theater, and grand ballroom on the top floor.

"We started in the restaurant. The hostess led me to the ladies restroom where a crimson cocktail dress, matching heels, and cinnamon hose were laid out for me. After the best salmon I've ever tasted, we went up to the ballroom and danced for an hour. We ended with a passionate tango that left me feeling almost like we had had sex. Which, of course, is how you should feel after a proper tango." I was relieved to see a fleeting grin after that last.

"Then we retraced our steps—limo to helicopter to jet to Teterboro—in time for sunrise. I slept much of the way back, and worried about Hernán flying for so long. But our landing at Teterboro was smooth as silk, and he came out from the cockpit looking as fresh as when we started.

"He sat next to me and asked if I enjoyed our little outing. I laughed and said 'You call that a little outing? I'm till trying to decide whether it really happened or was a dream.' He assured me it wasn't a dream, and said he'd love to give me more dreamy experiences. He carried my overnight bag out of the plane where the Town Car was waiting. Again, he kissed my cheeks and sent me on my way. As you might guess, I was dazzled but puzzled—a bit disappointed, even, that he didn't expect anything more." She picked up her coffee with both hands, put her elbows on the table, and held the cup against her forehead for a few seconds before continuing. It was obviously getting difficult for her to tell me what had happened.

She described some memorable dates with Cortés that followed: La Bohème at the Metropolitan Opera, a fund-raiser at Gracie Mansion, another dinner party in his apartment with movers and shakers. He finally invited her to an intimate dinner at his apartment, plied her with champagne, and seduced her, skillfully if not passionately. After two more dates that ended in his bed, he told her he loved her.

A week later he invited her to a weekend at his summer place in Darien, CT. After a quiet dinner Saturday night, he showed her a big diamond ring (she learned it was almost three carats) and asked her to marry him. Despite some misgivings, she was carried away by his wealth and the fairy-tale courtship and said yes. He persuaded her to agree to a rushed wedding, which inspired more misgivings, but again she ignored them. Two weeks later they were married, a brief ceremony in the living room of his Darien house. It was performed by Fr. Frank Fagella, a Catholic priest who was a friend of Cortés.

"I can't remember why I went along with the short notice and secrecy. He didn't even want me to tell my friends in New York or family back in California. The get-outta-Dodge account that Cass talked me into turned out to be a lifesaver."

Cass was her closest friend in New York. Before Marcie met Cortés, Cass had advised her to open a special account at J.P. Morgan Private Banking that allowed her to withdraw as much as she wanted from any Wells Fargo ATM in the country. Cass also told her to prime it with $5000, and always keep at least $500 in her purse for emergencies. I learned later why she called it a lifesaver.

"A few weeks after the wedding, we started spending every weekend in Darien. After a couple of months of that, he said he'd rather move to Darien and spend a few days a week in the City. I said I would go in with him on those days because my boss would probably agree to my working a few days from home, but Hernán got angry and said I had to quit my job, that I could find some volunteer charity work in Darien to keep my busy. I didn't want to quit, but I didn't want to make him angry, either, so I went along.

"He started spending four or five days a week in New York City, and inviting shady-looking characters over for dinner or a barbecue on weekends. He hardly ever introduced me to them, but insisted that I be there and to wear 'a nice outfit' which meant revealing. I got worried and said something, but he got very angry and accused me of being a snob." She waved me quiet when I started to say something.

"I know, I'm not sure why I stayed with him. About six months after the wedding, we went out to dinner at a supper club near the water and joined two men at a table. I didn't like that he hadn't said anything about them beforehand, and I didn't like their looks. They had well-manicured hands and wore Armani suits, but they just looked like well-dressed thugs."

She started to take another drink of coffee, then put it back down so quickly she spilled a little. "This is stupid! We don't need to keep meeting in such a public place. I know I can trust you. Do you have time to follow me to my place so I can finish?" She continued before I could even open my mouth to answer.

"Not for sex, just some privacy. It feels so good to finally get this story out, but it gets uglier and more embarrassing. You're the only person I can imagine telling." I was tempted to pump my fist and shout YES, but I had just won the lottery and wasn't going to lose it all by doing something stupid. After grabbing a couple of sandwiches, I followed her to Milpitas, just north of San José. Sunday morning traffic was pretty light, so it took us less than half an hour. Her place was a nondescript apartment in a nondescript complex in a nondescript neighborhood; none of it was either upscale or rundown, it was just...there.

SHE GAVE ME a quick tour of the apartment; it was a bit shopworn, a symphony in tired beige except for the only bedroom. She opened the door and let me see that she had decked it out as her cam-girl studio, with a few splashes of color and character; I recognized the bed, chair, and posters. She looked embarrassed and quickly shut the door, then we sat at her kitchen table with our sandwiches and a couple of Cokes. After a wry comment about not being on the Upper East Side anymore (I judiciously replied with a noncommittal "mmmm"), she picked up her story.

"Where were we? Oh yeah, Hernán and his two creepy goons. We were at Giovanni's by Holly Pond. After he ordered drinks, we waited in a pretty uncomfortable silence. When the drinks came, the three of them started talking about some project that wasn't going well. It was all pretty vague, they obviously didn't want me to know what they were talking about." Her voice was getting quieter. I was afraid she might be regretting her decision to talk, might even break off meeting with me.

"Marcie, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. There's no rush. I hope we'll be spending a lot of time together." She smiled and said she hoped so, too. I couldn't help breaking out in a goofy grin, but she wanted to continue.

Her story got even darker. After a few minutes of the threesome's guarded conversation, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. On the way back, she saw that they seemed to be arguing and stepped out of sight behind a waiter's station, where she could watch unnoticed. The goons were angrily complaining, but she couldn't make out the words. Cortés held up his hands to placate them, then took a small bottle from his coat pocket, held it up, and dropped something into her drink.

When she finished describing this, she closed her eyes for a moment, then continued with an edge to her voice that hadn't been there.

"He was going to drug me and offer me to those two animals! I had to get out, and left by the back door. When I got into the car I started to cry, but I couldn't afford time for that so I shook it off and drove away. Thank God for Cass's emergency drill!" Caught in the memory, she was clenching and unclenching her hands on the table; I put mine over them trying to calm her. She finally resumed her tale.

She took the battery and SIM card out of her phone and drive to a Wells Fargo ATM in Stamford. It took her five minutes to withdraw $2000 in twenties, then she parked in the UConn Stamford parking garage and walked to Target. Twenty-five minutes had passed since she left Giovanni's. She bought a few changes of clothes, a roller bag, and a prepaid phone, then continued down Broad to the Marriott Courtyard. After changing into one of the Target outfits in the restroom, she caught the airport shuttle to JFK and began her odyssey back to California.

She was sure that Cortés would be looking for her and didn't know what resources he had, but assumed the worst and tried not to panic. On the other hand, thanks to Cass she had resources he didn't know about; in addition to the cash, she had a genuine Texas driver's license and Visa card in the name of Katarina Ileana Romano (Cass had several "talented" friends). From JFK she took a taxi to Penn Station, then the Acela to Washington.

"I found a fairly private spot on the train and called Cass with my prepaid phone. I was afraid she wouldn't answer, but she picked it up on the third ring. All I could do was say 'Cass! It's me!' before I started crying. She told me to take some deep breaths and calm down. I finally did—well, I stopped crying anyway—and told her what had happened, starting with the wedding. She interrupted a few times to get me to skip details, but didn't comment until I finished. 'Shit! I didn't much like him when you introduced me, but I didn't imagine he was such an asshole.'" To my relief, Marcie managed a weak smile.

"Neither did I. When she asked me what I was going to do, I said I wanted to go back to California. She told me to use the fake ID and credit card to fly, but to Sacramento just in case Cortés was able to have the Bay Area airports watched. I told her I could catch the train to Oakland and take it from there. She told me for the fourth or fifth time to be careful. When the train pulled into Oakland, I was so relieved I just sat in the restroom and cried for a while."

Her folks still lived in Grass Valley but she didn't want to trouble them. They had been puzzled and hurt when she finally told them a month after the fact that she was married, but she had assured them that she was neither pregnant nor unhappy with them, and promised to explain the next visit. She caught a bus to San José and rented a room in Motel 6. Using the computer and printer in a branch library, put together a resumé and emailed requests for letters of recommendation from Google and the investment bank with a personal message that it was a matter of some urgency. They emailed outstanding letters two days later. Three weeks after that (a bit nervous because she was beginning to run low on cash), she landed a job with a venture capital outfit in Menlo Park and rented her Milpitas apartment.

It turned out to be a hostile environment for women. Just short of six months later, she quit with a nice severance package, thanks to her well-documented threat of a sexual harassment suit. "They were as just bad as Hernán, but were very careful and kept everything public just inside the legal boundaries. I was pretty soured on industry, but my MBA included a couple of courses on non-profit issues, so I put together a tweaked resumé and cold-called the Community Foundation. I got a job because their VP of Strategic Planning had abruptly quit. If I'd known why she quit I would have fled in disarray, but I just congratulated myself for being so lucky." Her salary fell 50 percent, but she figured it was worth it because a non-profit wouldn't have a sexually charged atmosphere that preyed on women. She was wrong.

"If anything, it was worse. The big shots worked hard to maintain their public image of social responsibility, but ran the place as it if were their own personal hedge fund. The development officers who went after the big donors—all women—were expected to do 'whatever was needed' to get the big bucks. The bosses managed to funnel off money for off-site luxury 'retreats' that were actually weekend-long sex parties with lots of drugs and booze. Some trusted major contributors and execs from Silicon Valley were invited, along with some pricey, discrete escorts. Naturally, with a corporate culture like that, the Foundation attracted the same sort of asshole predators I'd had to deal with before."

She realized what was going on just a few weeks after her hiring, but didn't want to just walk away and let them continue bilking donors and abusing staffers. She stored files on a memory stick that described what was going on, with copies of documents and directions of where to look for the financial manipulations, and got it in the hands of an investigative reporter at the San José Mercury-News. She left, along with most of the remaining staff (the ones who hadn't been arrested), when the story hit the streets and Internet a month later. The Merc was a Pulitzer finalist that year thanks to its four-part series on the scandal, but lost to a series on water pollution in the Houston Chronicle.

"I'm pretty tired, Ben. Could we call it a day? I don't have a car yet, so you'll have to come back here if you want to wrap this up." With some difficulty I resisted saying anything about unwrapping; she suggested we meet for dinner at her place the next evening. When she kissed my cheek as I was leaving, it was even harder for me to resist throwing my arms around her and kissing her back. Instead, I just floated back to my car and sang (badly, of course) to my Beach Boys playlist all the way back to Hollister.

The next afternoon traffic up 101 and through San José was a bitch. I hadn't had to deal with freeway commuting, and before it was over I was ready to chew out the top of the steering wheel. Even though I allowed half an hour more than I thought it would take, I was still almost another half hour late. When I tried to apologize, Marcie shushed me and said I got there sooner than she expected because she knew how bad the traffic would be. Dinner was in the oven and we'd eat in about half an hour, so why didn't we sit in the living room and she'd finish her story. She dragged in a chair from the kitchen table and told me to sit on the couch. When I tried to switch with her, she just shook her head and told me to stay put.

"I'm sure you've been itching to ask me why on earth I'm camming, Ben. Believe me, it's something I don't want to talk about, but I desperately want to explain it to you so you won't think I'm a slut." When I tried to protest, she waved her hand to shut me up. "Just let me talk." She took a deep breath and gathered herself, just as she probably would before making a presentation to the Board of Directors. "You experienced part of what brought me to it when you were fighting that commute traffic. Even though my work experiences were much worse, the twice-a-day stress of crawling along the freeways really started getting to me.

"But that was just a small part of it, of course. After the shitstorm that followed the Merc articles I felt stupid and soiled, even though I never went to any of the sex parties or had anything to do with the theft of donations. I withdrew so much that for a couple of weeks all I did was sit here and eat takeout and feel sorry for myself. I didn't want anyone to know that I had worked there, but there really wasn't anyone who would know, because I didn't—I still don't—have any friends." She looked up with a dazzling smile. "Except now you, of course." The smile faded. She got up and paced around the small kitchen area a couple of times, then sat back down.

"When I started running low on money I realized I had to do something, but I didn't want to take another chance on working somewhere. My selection track record wasn't very good; in fact, I wasn't even sure I was worth hiring." She waved me quiet yet again when I opened my mouth to protest. "I know, I know, I wasn't being sensible and was probably temporarily depressed, but I had to do something. I went online and started researching how to make money at home. My fraud filter is pretty good, so I ignored almost everything that I found, and didn't even consider the first couple of references to camming. But as I kept winnowing out the obvious scams the hits on camming increased, so just out of curiosity I finally checked one out."

She said that working for herself really appealed to her, so she read several blogs and articles about camming, and finally started checking out websites. At first she was shocked, even horrified, turned off her computer and turned on the TV, then went to bed. But the next day she figured she better check it out some more because it looked like the most realistic way she could make money without having to go back to work somewhere else.

"I pretty much had no self-esteem at that point, Ben, and figured I wasn't worth any more than camming." I contented myself with snorting, but resolved to make sure she understood what she was really worth. "I spent the next 7 or 8 hours watching cam girls on different websites. A lot of them don't let you do much without paying, and almost all of them limit how much time you can spend without registering. But you can register with a fake email address, so I registered for a few. I probably watched a hundred different girls, a few couples, a few men, even a few transsexuals." She shook her head. "It was mostly pretty sad, not sexy, but it looked like I could get away with not completely whoring myself out."