Sample Chapter of Memoir Set to be Released in Mid-December
5:28 PMBradley Susser
The chapter that you are about to view contains content suitable for adult audiences only. It contains language which may be considered offensive.
Tuesday morning I awoke around 5AM to do some work on
the computer. Michelle was in the
next room sleeping, and out of the blue there was a knock at the door.
Startled, wondering why the hell someone would be calling on me at this hour, I
approached the door and looked through the peep hole. I found several people
sporting badges which read Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) and IRS.
“Can I help you?” I asked through the closed door.
“Authorities. Open the door.”
As soon as I opened the door, several men and women lunged at me. One grabbed me
and said, “Are you trying to run?”
Was I trying to run? What the fuck? We were on the
19th floor; where was I going to run?
The federal agents were all over the apartment. One of
them said, “You’re a good Jewish boy, so I’m sure you won’t give us any
Due to all the noise, Michelle awoke as agents entered
the bedroom. They handcuffed her briefly, then un-cuffed her and took her into
the living room where a slew of agents surrounded us.
One of the agents asked, “Do you have any weapons or
I looked at the agent like he was nuts and exclaimed,
Another man took a small wooden chest I had on a shelf and began
opening it, asking what it was. “Those are the cremated remains of my German
Shepherd,” I said.
He apologized as another agent asked, “Do you know why
we’re here, Brad?”
Of course, at this moment I was in complete shock and
disarray. The agent said he was a member of the United States Internal Revenue
Service and indicated that he was there because I was charged with
orchestrating a pump and dump scheme.
My heart abruptly skipped a beat. “I have no idea what
you are talking about,” I said.
“Do you know what a pump and dump scheme is?” he
“Yes, but I never did that and I always use
I was asked by a member of the DEA to sign a document.
I couldn’t think clearly, and I signed the piece of paper without thought.
One of the other agents asked Michelle, “Do you know
She told them she did. Michelle’s face was lined with worry, distraught by what the
agent was asking. That same person shouted at Michelle, “Did you know your boyfriend was trying to run?”
Once again, this was an absurd statement; clearly this
was just a ploy to get under Michelle’s skin. An IRS agent asked me about a
number of publicly traded companies and stock symbols, which I was unfamiliar
with. In the interim, several agents began collecting what they deemed to be
evidence, such as various computers, peripherals, CDs, paper documents, and
anything else they could get their hands on. An IRS agent wrote down the
inventory on a piece of paper for me to sign.
Most of the agents were around my age, although they
looked older than me. My 5”9 frame, combined with a full head of brown hair,
made me look 10 to 15 years younger than most of them.
The IRS agent seemed puzzled while going through my
information. He turned to me and asked, “You’re 40 years old?”
As he continued asking questions, Michelle—obviously
now more alert and less nervous—asked, “Do you people have a warrant?”
It was then that it dawned on me—although I believe
it’s better to be cooperative, especially if you feel you’ve done nothing
wrong—that I should ask for a lawyer. I did just that.
A Hispanic DEA agent named Diaz stopped everyone in
their tracks and said, “All right everyone, he asked for a lawyer. Everyone
stop what you’re doing.”
Diaz specified that there was no warrant, looked at
Michelle and said, “But I can get it.”
I figured if they went through all the trouble to
arrest me, the agent was probably telling the truth, so I said “Don’t worry about it.”
I couldn’t understand why they didn’t read me my
Miranda rights when Agent Diaz said he was going to take me downtown. Michelle
and I talked briefly as I gave her my father’s number and asked her to contact
him. We hugged for a moment, followed by her saying she would stay behind until
the rest of the agents were finished collecting their so-called evidence.
Agent Diaz took me to the elevator, saying he would go
against protocol and not handcuff me if I wouldn’t run. Of course, I was
grateful and we exited the building with no one in my complex suspecting a
thing. He placed me in the front of what appeared to be an older, dark-colored
Toyota Corolla. Thankfully, the car did not resemble a typical undercover or
police vehicle. I was embarrassed and humiliated enough.
As we drove out of the complex, the agent rolled down
the window and asked one of his fellow comrades to follow us. Before that,
however, he made slight remarks about how beautiful the Jewish pieces of ass
coming in and out of the complex were.
I was not surprised by the comment, since a large
number of tenants in my building came from Jewish backgrounds, comprised of
many young women in their 20s. “Normandie Court” was the name
of the development; however, its nickname was “Dormandie” due to the overwhelming number of recent college
graduates residing there.
As we were leaving “Normandie,” Diaz asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
I replied, “Yes, please,” as we made our way to a
local convenience store.
Since I was not handcuffed, he made it a point to say
again, “You’d better not run.” Smiling he went inside. Once back in the car,
Diaz talked on the radio to one of his partners who happened to be at the
garage where I parked my vehicle. The partner mumbled something, then I
overheard him say the garage attendant refused to give him my car. Diaz,
somewhat aggravated, shouted, “You tell him he’d better give you the fucking
car… or else.”
In the background I overheard the agent doing just
that, but the attendant stood his ground: “You’re not getting Brad’s car
without a fucking warrant.” In my head I was saying that’s my boy.
Looking back, I wish I had been that way when the agents first entered my
As we drove, Diaz asked what I thought of the economy.
I was well-versed not only in the securities arena, but the economy as a whole.
Being a skeptic, I assumed the agent was trying to garner some additional
information with respect to the case, but the conversation was not involving
specific stocks, only pertaining to the overall economy and the Federal
Reserve’s policy easing. He must have had some insight as to my knowledge in
this area and appeared generally interested in what I had to say. So, here I am
being arrested—allegedly for a pump and dump scheme—yet the agent was clearly
engrossed in everything I had to say regarding the economy.
We pulled up to the side of a manned booth and Agent
Diaz said he was there to escort a prisoner. There was a gate at the entrance
which opened. Passing into a garage complex, we continued to drive down several levels until
Agent Diaz parked. I asked if I could use the bathroom, and he was kind enough
to escort me to an elevator in what appeared to be a courthouse or federal
building. I’m not sure if he was allowed to do that, but he could see I wasn’t
a threat. After I relieved myself, we got back on the elevator and headed for
As I walked off the elevator, there stood several
agents and three other civilians handcuffed to chairs. To my amazement, I knew
all of them. John, a bald man with a stocky build sat alongside a skinny man
with a nervous twitch named Jose. To his left was David, a slightly younger,
overweight orthodox Jew with a receding hairline covered by a Yarmulke, with
trousers situated slightly above his belly button.
The agents spoke amongst themselves. They were talking
about David, making jokes and demeaning him. It was as if we were back in high
school. This was, of course, inappropriate, but I didn’t want to stir up
anything so I kept quiet.
They began questioning me with respect to the various
places I had gone—especially in South America—and the women I had bedded. They
seemed quite aware and intrigued of my past exploits. As I described some of
the places I had travelled, and the women I had slept with, several of the men
made disparaging remarks towards David, such as: “The Jewish kid over there
knows what we’re talking about, don’t you David?” David was anything but macho
looking, and even though he was in his late 20s, they could tell he most likely
had very few women vying for his attention. In fact, I would be willing to bet
he was still a virgin, but that didn’t give these agents the right to mock him.
When a locked door opened, an intimidating United
States Marshal with a bad attitude stepped out. He told the agents to handcuff
me. Thirty minutes later, we were all allowed to enter. One by one, the Marshal
frisked us. We were then taken to another level of the building. We were led
into a room filled with chairs, a bathroom, and an open corridor. We were
cuffed to chairs again. No one looked at each other or uttered a word. I looked
around, waiting for someone to bring in the person who had introduced me to David,
Jose and John, but that didn’t happen.
I am a graduate of Pace University with a Master’s in Information Systems, Security and Assurance. In addition I have 17 years of experience in the equities arena. In my past life I raised capital for a variety of organizations, consulted companies on going public and had an investor relations arm.
Disclaim and Disclose
Based on a True Story
Disclaim and Disclose
At the Studio
Cartoon Image of Brad Susser and Producer Mike Caro