GIULIANI PARTNERS LLC
5 Times Square
Confidential memo to file from R. Giuliani
July 15, 2002
In one week I bought a new 3100-square-foot Central Park apartment for $5.25 million and dumped Donna for $6.8 million, plus the old apartment, child support, taxes, and legal fees. Not bad for a guy who made a measly $294,000 in 1992—my last year of private employment before becoming mayor. I’ll make $8 million this year just for delivering my already oldie but goodie, the stock September 11 speech. Without 9-11, I’d be lucky to get a date at the Guy Molinari Republican Club in Staten Island. As pistol-packin’ Papa used to say to the boys at the loan-shark bar—no pain, no gain!
The best part of the settlement with Donna is, I get to keep my list of consulting clients secret. That’s a scandal a name. Everybody I gave a contract bonanza to on my way out the door and more—my own personal favor-bank. I defied earlier court orders to disclose the list and settled the day it was due. Hell, the guys who sign up as clients now that the list will never become public may cover half the Donna tab. I’ll be richer than Osama!
I was such a private-sector bust in the early ’90s that I got drummed out of two law firms. The scorecard at my last firm listed me dead last of all the partners in billable hours, 1740 hours under budget. Steve Hoffenberg, the ex-New York Post owner who’s doing 20 years in federal prison, was the biggest corporate client I could bring in, and he wound up implicating one of my partners in his fraud. Now I’m a rainmaker—actually, a tropical-storm maker—drawing corporations the way I used to draw women! And I’m a corporate rescuer, putting out financial fires, a regular NYGD! It’s a laugh a minute.
The most fun I had with the divorce settlement was telling the reporters how private it all was, how I had tried to keep my private life private. Remember my own personal May Day procession, when I took my new queen on a Mother’s Day weekend walk through the Upper East Side, accompanied by half the press corps, right after I first announced she was a very, very special friend? Remember me taking her to the Inner Circle, the Saint Patty’s Day Parade, and the Millennium celebration when she was still a secret? Remember the $3000-a-pop, publicly subsidized weekends in salacious Southampton—with half a dozen cops in Suburbans accompanying me? Remember me claiming I was playing golf with beard Andrew when I was really hot-tailing it out to Judi’s summer townhouse? And if I was bold before 9-11, how about putting my mistress in charge of Pier 94, taking care of widows and other survivors? How about putting her on the board of the Twin Towers Fund? How about bringing her to the announcement of Time‘s Person of the Year award or my knighthood ceremonies in London? Does it get any more public than my flaunting? And isn’t it fantastic that I got away with it?
In fact, after all this, it was still me who sued Donna for cruel and unusual punishment. Not only is the world my stage, but I was always the best actor in the family!
I even got Raoul—the only matrimonial lawyer to ever postpone collecting his fee—to go public with my favorite Donna putdowns. Calling her a “stuck pig” was priceless. How about “uncaring mother”? Or how about the War of the Roses parallel, with Raoul claiming we’d have to “take her screaming, scratching, and kicking” out of Gracie Mansion, prying her “off the chandelier to get her out of there”? Almost as hilarious as my stripping her of her First Lady title and duties way back in May of 2000, and firing everybody around her. I let her goddamn mansion go to pot so bad Bloomberg is digging into his own pocket to fix it up.
Of course I never would’ve given her all that loot if I weren’t already running for at least vice president. I never would’ve given her the satisfaction of a public win. I would have fought the thing out at trial and taken my philandering hits like any proud stud but for the presidential picture. Ever since I delivered my convention acceptance speech in front of my college girlfriend (oh, for one more shot at sweet Kathy Livermore), I’ve been getting ready to become the first Italian American president. Donna tried to intimidate me with that witness list of hers—throwing Barrett in there as well as Cristyne and every driver and cop who’s no longer counting on me to feed his overtime. But I wouldn’t have backed down if I wasn’t sure I had a real chance at one of the two top jobs in 2004.
If Bush doesn’t pick me for Cheney’s spot, I might just hook up with McCain. Should we bushwhack the Boy President in the Republican primaries or just go third party? McCain and Giuliani or Giuliani and McCain? The cancer-comeback candidates? Two national war heroes? He was locked down in North Vietnam for years and I was locked down in Gracie Mansion. With his messy history, divorcing a wife after she was mangled in a car crash, even our marital records match.
Meanwhile, I’ll just sit in my friend Mort Zuckerman’s building and rake in the cash. I helped steer Mort two of the four Times Square tower sites, including the one I’m in now, and my tax breaks helped him tie down my current partner, Ernst & Young, as anchor tenant. That was after I saved him a multimillion-dollar deposit on the Coliseum site. All he did was give me as many of his Daily News pages as he could control. I had a better relationship with him than I did with Andrew and Caroline the eight years I was at City Hall.
I had the whole country stewing over whether my term should’ve been extended through the first three months of 2002. Mort and Murdoch claimed I was indispensable to the city’s resurrection. But when no one would give me an extension never even given a president in wartime, I took off, flying all around the world, and no one noticed that I wasn’t helping Mike at all. Not a policy whisper in Bloomberg’s ear. In fact I started charging so much per word the city couldn’t afford my advice. All I wanted from Mike was continued control of the Twin Towers Fund, so I could keep alive my connection to the dead cops and firemen, and all my archival records, so only I could write the triumphant history of my own administration. He delivered and I’ve kept quiet about him.
I got myself a white, square logo for Giuliani Partners—a perfect match. The only top guy from City Hall who hasn’t landed here or somewhere else in six-figure stratospheres is Rudy Washington. Imagine that. Heck, even the MTA doesn’t have much use for tokens anymore. It’s been so much fun driving Wild Bill Bratton crazy by telling the newspapers that one of the things I’m selling here is Compstat for corporations. I didn’t even know what it was until Bratton brought me to NYPD headquarters for a demonstration months after he had it up and running.
It’s so great to steal from the only person in the administration I forced to eat more crow than Donna. It’s also so great that I got all my old buddies reappointed at the Conflicts of Interest Board so no one will ever look at the dough that’s coming to me now and see if it passes muster under the one-year ban on doing business with people your government benefited. My company’s biggest asset, though, is the rights to 9-11. I own the event lock, stock, and barrel. The HBO special, for example, was a Made-by-Giuliani production. That’s why I’ve got Kerik and Von Essen working for me. Even my secretary was part of the show. It was produced by my agent. If Bush wants to make his response to 9-11 the cornerstone of his campaign, he needs me because I embody it. Just like George Washington embodied the Revolution and Lincoln the Civil War. It is my thing.
Not even Donna could take that away from me.
Research assistance: Ross Goldberg, Rebecca Isenberg, Nate Schweber, Emily Weinstein