Page 2 of Smuggler's Cove
Her confidence was startling, which piqued Jackson’s interest. He smiled and made a slight bow. “Pardon my insolence.”
“Apology accepted.” She handed her glass to him as she dabbed the wet champagne from her breast. “And only if you get me a refill. It’s the least you can do.” Gwen may have been somewhat of a country girl, but she was learning the ropes. Quickly. It was the only way to survive in the city.
Jackson snapped his fingers at a waiter and held up the empty glass. In less than a minute, Gwen’s champagne was reinstated. She could get used to that kind of service.
Jackson introduced himself and turned up the charm, setting his sights on winning over this gorgeous woman. He had his life planned. His sights were set on climbing his way up. He was on a lightning-speed track, and this new acquaintance could fit in. She had “the look”: tall, thin, willowy, and all-American. The girl young men want to marry. He was sold on the idea that she would be good for his image.
Jackson pursued and wooed Gwen, something Gwen became accustomed to. Her backup plan for marriage, children, and whatever, was beginning to unfold.
In just over a year, they were married, and Gwen moved into his Upper East Side apartment. It was a luxe lifestyle. Jackson was making a lot of money—too much for a twenty-six-year-old. But he was determined and seemed invincible. Even the downturn of the market in the mid-1970s didn’t stop Jackson from boosting his finances and his social status. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. There was no stopping him. He was intent on being successful, even if it meant coloring outside the lines.
The stock market continued to be on rocky ground when Jackson decided it was time to start his own financial advisory firm. He partnered with two other individuals who shared Jackson’s appetite for wealth.
Gwen quit her job a year after they were married, and she immersed herself in the spoils of her husband’s success and demands. That was when Jackson informed her it was time to have a baby. He was twenty-eight. She was twenty-six. He reminded her about the ticking of her biological clock and told her he wanted two children, so they should start now. He believed a family would give him his full credentials as an upwardly mobile, solid citizen.
It wasn’t until Jackson introduced the idea of becoming pregnant that Gwen questioned if she wanted to be a mother. It required a level of responsibility that she wasn’t sure she was prepared for. When she approached Jackson with her concerns, he admonished her. He ticked off all the reasons why she shouldn’t complain. He provided her with everything she wanted, underscoring that it was due to his hard work and success. The least she could do was bear his children. Case closed.
1976
Madison Taylor was born in an exclusive pediatric suite at New York Hospital, a place where the rich and famous completed the last few hours of pregnancy. Heaven forbid someone would see you or hear you go through labor, let alone without your hair and makeup done professionally. The suite consisted of a large bedroom, a sitting room, and an adjoining sleeping area should a family member choose to stay overnight. A private nurse was always within reach, as well as a private catering menu. Gwen demanded only the best if she was required to bear her children.
Just after Madison turned one, Jackson informed Gwen that it was time to have their second child. Gwen had barely bounced back from pregnancy and the demands of having a newborn, but when Jackson wanted something, he got it. Soon she was pregnant with baby number two, and their two-bedroom apartment wasn’t large enough or grand enough for Jackson and his growing family. As soon as Lincoln entered the world, Jackson investigated available co-ops in Sutton Place.
It was one of the oldest, richest residential areas of Manhattan, and you had to be vetted to be “allowed” to live there. The stodgy old-money residents were not only leery of the nouveau riche, but they were also interested in one’s pedigree. Unlike condominiums, where an association’s main purpose is to maintain the exterior of the property, co-ops had a board that made all the decisions, including how one could renovate their interior, and exactly who could or could not move in. It was a type of discrimination that defied the law.
Jackson knew these people were elitists, and he was intent on having them believe he was one of them. When he met with the co-op board, he wore a simple Cartier tank watch, French cuffs with unobtrusive cufflinks, and his Brooks Brothers suit and vest. He dared not show up in something by Gucci or Versace. Gwen donned a Halston dress, her hair in a chignon, with simple clip-on earrings. If nothing else, they looked the part.
During the interview/interrogation, Jackson implied that he was an ancestor to the one-year, 197-day serving president, Zachary Taylor. He cited a little-known fact that President Taylor had terrible handwriting that made it difficult to read. He also noted that his daughter’s name was Madison, and his son was Lincoln, both named after presidents. That much was true.
The co-op board believed they had a proper couple with ancestry at hand and agreed to allow Jackson and Gwendolyn Taylor to purchase a two-story co-op on Sutton Place. They also couldn’t afford to have empty real estate with the climbing costs of maintenance. The housing market in New York was still reeling from the economic fluctuations, and it was imperative to keep all the apartments occupied.
Within a few months, Jackson, Gwen, Madison, and Lincoln moved into a building of the privileged and notable. Jackson could boast that Henry Kissinger was his neighbor.
With a toddler and an infant, they hired an au pair from Belgium, who lived in the maid’s quarters on the premises. She eventually became one of Jackson’s “hobbies” while Gwen dealt with her baby weight and hormonal mood swings. Postpartum depression was something people did not discuss, and at the urging of her physician, Gwen insisted they hire a second nanny, so the children would have one each. The young au pair didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to handle two children, and neither did Gwen at the time. Neither could barely handle one. This time, Gwen conducted the interviews and hired a middle-aged German woman. Under no uncertain terms was she going to provide more entertainment for her husband.
1976–1996
As the economy slowed even further, Jackson and his partners became desperate to continue their cash flow. They started trading in junk bonds and cleaning out many retirement accounts of unsuspecting investors. They were laundering money and dabbling in Ponzi schemes and offshore accounts. They rode the ’80s like Al Unser at the Indy 500.
It went on for two decades until 1996, when the intercom house phone rang. It was Phoebe, their long-time housekeeper, calling from the main living area. Her voice was shaking. She began to explain that men from the U.S. Marshal’s office were at the door, and they had a warrant. Gwen didn’t know why, but she knew it couldn’t be good.
Ten years earlier, the Ivan Boesky scandal had rocked Wall Street. It was widely known that the government was cracking down on insider trading and other shenanigans in the financial arena, but Gwen made a conscious effort to ignore it. And then came the great reckoning.
“Keep them occupied downstairs. Show them all the cupboards. Whatever. Just keep them busy,” she whispered into the phone. Gwen frantically opened the safe where she kept her jewelry and stashed as much of it as she could into her undergarments. She pulled out a wad of cash and stuck it into her bra. She smirked, remembering the time when bras were incendiary items. She shoved diamond earrings into her socks and pulled on a pair of riding boots. Then she began to stuff a few items of clothing in an overnight bag. The Louis Vuitton. She stopped abruptly as an officer climbed the stairs to the master suite. He gently knocked on the doorjamb. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Taylor, but you cannot take anything with you.”
Gwen was almost paralyzed. “But I am going to need clothes.”
The officer motioned for her to open the bag, where he thoroughly searched.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
No answer.
“Can you please tell me what it is going on?” Her hands were shaking, and she was close to weeping.
The officer showed her a copy of the warrant that allowed them to seize anything that could be perceived as of value.
Over the years, she’d grown to appreciate the lap of luxury. Her marriage left a lot to be desired, but shopping, high tea, spa treatments, and lavish vacations more than made up for Jackson and his “hobbies,” which were mostly young women, cocaine, and alcohol. She was also aware that he would often take a new street drug called Ecstasy. He never did it at home, but one evening, she overheard him on the phone asking the person on the line if he could hook him up with some “X.” After a few subtle inquiries among friends, she learned it was supposed to make you high and increase sexual pleasure. She didn’t know which came first, the floozies or the drugs. In either case, they were turning Jackson into an arrogant, nasty individual.
