pocket of my suit coat, and grabbed the pastry dish that I’d purchased at a bakery along the way. I then stepped out into the late afternoon—the sky was a dreary gray, and a light snow had begun to fall.
I was met by a portly man in an elf costume. I didn’t recognize this particular greeter/security-guard from my previous times on the property, going back to when I used to live here with my former wife, Libby, during our first years of marriage. This surprised me, since the Wainwrights always made it a point to surround themselves with a group of loyal soldiers, even if loyalty had never been a two-way street for them. Perhaps they’d added extra security this year since a convicted felon was on the guest list—their favorite former son-in-law.
I started to walk in the opposite direction. This predictably upset Buddy the Elf. “Sir, the party’s this way,” he commanded in a stern Brooklyn accent.
“I’m going to take a shortcut,” I replied without looking at him.
I braced, expecting to be wrestled to the ground and kicked with the curled up tips of his elf shoes. But as luck would have it, I noticed a longtime Wainwright security guard named Lonnie—windbreaker, winter hat, no elf costume—who nodded at Buddy, instructing him to back off. Lonnie knew from firsthand experience that Kris Collins was capable of creating a scene on a moment’s notice, and the last thing the Wainwrights wanted to do was to call attention to my presence.
I ventured over a slate path, lined with sculpted boxwood and ornamental trees that were decorated for the season. In the summer, the formal landscape of the estate was quite breathtaking, filled with magnolia trees and kiwifruit arbors. But for the party it had been transformed into a Christmas fantasy.
Music was being pumped out through speakers—“Winter Wonderland” was currently playing. The weather outside is frightful, the lyrics informed me. And while I would agree that it was a tad on the frosty side, I found it downright delightful compared to the much more frightening scene awaiting me inside.
I walked past elaborate ice sculptures, then an empty tennis court and pool house, before I began to smell the real party. I trudged through another frozen acre until I arrived at the Lake House.
It actually sat next to a pond, not a lake, and it would be more accurately described as a mansion than a house. Like most things on this property, it was more about perception than reality. As a former attorney, who was once known as the “lawyer to the stars,” the one thing the Wainwrights and I could agree upon was that the mantra “perception over truth” had served us both well, at least financially. And now it was likely the only thing keeping me alive.
Outside the Lake House, sitting in lawn chairs on a brick patio in front of a fireplace, were the self-proclaimed Amigos—Tomás, Gustavo, and Roberto—enjoying their final Christmas on the Wainwright property.
Alexander Wainwright had always referred to them as “the Mexicans”—his name for all those of Spanish descent—but they actually emigrated from Peru as children. And what I’ve learned over the years about these Peruvian house parties, called tanos, is that you don’t arrive manos vacias—empty handed. So after exchanging hugs with the Amigos’ wives and large extended family, I handed over a panettone cake to Tomás’ wife, Mia.
When the lengthy greetings concluded, Tomás pointed for me to take a seat beside them on the patio. There would be no hugs and hellos from him or his partners—today was all about business.
But before sitting, I handed each of them an envelope containing a Christmas card. Inside the card, was the final information for a certain project of mine that the Amigos had agreed to lend their considerable talents to. I’d been plotting it since my time in prison, and now we were just days away from the big moment.
When I sat, Gustavo, the pony-tailed rock star of the group, said, “I’m surprised your ass isn’t too sore to sit, after doing three years in the joint.”
This led to a round of laughter at my expense. Prison humor never gets old … unless you’ve actually been incarcerated. But the fun was quickly extinguished, at least temporarily, when Roberto’s wife yelled out that the food was burning on the barbeque, and he ran to save the day. Roberto was barely five feet tall, but was built like a pickup truck. He looked like a jockey on steroids as