by Rebecca Kade)
An ominous wind blew through Columbus Circle that bitter March day in 2008, and not even the goose-down coat I’d had custom made in London could keep me warm. A shiver cut right through me. I was on my way to forensic psychology class at college, climbing the rungs back to “normal,” for myself, for my kid. Well, as normal as I could be with $600 blond highlights and wearing a white cashmere dress and Louis Vuitton heels among a sea of jeans and sneakers. I wasn’t trying to show off. I just had to be ready at a text’s notice to make an outcall. You see, I had another life apart from being a student. I was what the media calls a “high-class call girl” — someone who makes thousands of dollars an hour just to have sex. . . .
That day, my phone sounded during a lecture on cognition. It wasn’t my booker. It was one of the girls I knew when I worked for Kristin Davis, the famed “Manhattan Madam.” . . . It read, simply: “Go to the nearest newsstand and find the article about Kristin.”
I took a deep breath, excused myself from class, and took only my phone and purse with me, totally forgetting about the cold. I ran down to the deli and found it in the New York Times, of all places: $2 MILLION BAIL SET FOR WOMAN IN BROTHEL CASE. There was a photo of Kristin. She was on her way to solitary on Rikers Island after being charged with promoting prostitution and money laundering. Cops had found $476,000 in cash in her apartment. They also found her black books, which contained the names of 10,000 men, including celebrities, athletes and elected officials. . . . New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer had been one of her clients. (To be more specific, Spitzer had been one of my clients. He had just resigned three weeks earlier after getting caught with another prostitution ring.) The black books contained all the details of the clients’ sexual proclivities and what girls they liked. There was no way my name wasn’t on Spitzer’s “page.” . . . The day I had dreaded for years had finally come.
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As the whole world knows by now, Spitzer was a client of Kristin’s. They heard about Ashley Dupré. They didn’t hear about me.
It was an appointment set up two or three days in advance. It wasn’t one of those Can-you-be-somewhere-in-an-hour? things. Kristin said it was an important client, but she didn’t say who. She briefed me on what he liked — what he expected. He needed the scenario specified to the girl in advance. He’s a role-play kind of guy.
He didn’t want mainstream intercourse. He definitely wanted a struggle.
There was a whole dialogue I was supposed to have with him. I was supposed to say I had just been to a self-defense class. He was supposed to respond: “Well, then, let’s see if you learned anything. Can you protect yourself?” He would be the aggressor. I would have to defend myself.
I was at Kristin’s apartment at the Corinthian in the middle of the afternoon. Kristin was working on her computer in the other room when he arrived.
Ah, I thought when I answered the door, this is the reason for all the secrecy and preparation. Why didn’t Kristin just tell me? Did she think I wouldn’t recognize him?
He had his jacket off. He was in a shirt and tie. He was cordial enough, but there was no suggestion that we have a drink together. There was none of that.
He said he didn’t want to wear a condom. I said that was not negotiable. . . .
It was really about pretending it was a struggle. He wanted to believe that the situation was real, that he was attacking me and that I was defending myself. He put up a pretty good fight. . . .
I didn’t feel I was acting after a while. He preferred it. The more struggle there was, the more he was into it. He became extremely comfortable with what was happening. You can tell when someone finds a comfort zone. He was so into the situation. Now this girl understands; here we go.
I remember holding his wrists, him pushing back, me trying to hold my stance, and then we moved to the bed. My clothes came off in the fray.
He really wanted to be in control. It was all about restraint and holding me down until I was nearly helpless. He really put on a lot of pressure, pinning me to the bed. That didn’t bother me. That’s what I was told to expect.
It takes a lot to scare me. I’ve been through a lot. But at this point I was starting to get worried.
He wasn’t pretending to be a rapist. But he was like an attacker.
I still had my lingerie on. He was naked. He was aroused. I thought, What can I do to get this part over with? What can I do? At some point we have to get down to having sex and move on.
I remember trying to push myself up off the bed. That made him apply more pressure. It happened so quickly. I think when I pushed up, he thought I was asking for more. He applied more force. Almost the entire time was consumed with this struggle.
It wasn’t that easy to get out from under him. This wasn’t playtime. He was taking it really seriously. He was getting what he wanted. He liked the struggle. There was no safety code word we’d agreed upon. I hadn’t thought it would get this intense. He doesn’t know I’m being serious that enough is enough, I thought. I was really worried. It got rough. And then he put his hands around my throat, strangling me.
When he grabbed my throat, that was too much. He wasn’t squeezing. He was pushing down. I was on my back. I don’t know if he was trying to really hurt me, but he was.
He took it a little too far. Maybe if I were more experienced, which I was not, it would have gone on. I was nervous. I was worried. This is not OK, I thought.
After it was over, he got dressed to go. He never said, “I’m sorry, are you OK?” Nothing of the kind. He acted like everything was normal. But before he left, he gave me a very big tip. It was separate from the pay, which was about $1,500 an hour, and Kristin was going to handle that. Maybe it was to keep me from saying something. Or maybe he was sorry. I do remember him perspiring a lot. My friend who knows a little Yiddish calls him “Governor Schvitzer.”
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When the buzzer over the intercom system went off, announcing the end of class, I jumped. A new fear took hold of me. I did not want to go home. Where would I go? Would the police be there waiting? Would I be arrested? Would I go to jail, and if I did, for how long? Oh, God, Kristin, why were you so sloppy? I thought. I would never see my daughter again. . . .
I gathered my things and began to make my way out of the room. Just then a tall, clean-cut man in a perfectly tailored suit approached. Pretty spiffy for a professor or a student, I thought. Maybe he was an administrator.
“Miss Kade?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, a little confused as to how he knew who I was.
“Could I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I mean privately,” he said. “It’s not about school.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a wallet. He flipped it open, and a gold badge glinted in the fluorescent lights overhead.
Adrenaline surged through my body. My worlds had just collided. . . .
They didn’t arrest me, but I was called in for questioning to One Hogan Place, the DA’s headquarters at the state criminal courthouse. Nobody told me to bring a lawyer. I took the subway downtown and had plenty of time on the journey to contemplate my imminent loss of freedom and, worse, my daughter. I was a nervous wreck when I arrived. Would I be arrested now? Prostitution is a class B misdemeanor in New York State: I could get three months in jail! My custody battle for Isabella would be lost. . . .
Two men came in, and one sat at the table in front of me. “Miss Kade,” said one. “I am Assistant District Attorney Artie McConnell, and this is . . .” My mind went on overbuzz at the words “assistant district attorney” and I didn’t even catch the other man’s name.
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Rebecca Woodard (pictured) says, referring to Manhattan Madam Kristin Davis in her memoir, 'the whole world knows by now, Spitzer was a client of Kristin’s. They heard about Ashley Dupré. They didn’t hear about me.'
Rebecca Woodard (pictured) says, referring to Manhattan Madam Kristin Davis in her memoir, 'the whole world knows by now, Spitzer was a client of Kristin’s. They heard about Ashley Dupré. They didn’t hear about me.'
Mr. McConnell and his assistant started interrogating me.
Had I worked as an escort for Kristin Davis?
“Yes.” They obviously knew I had or I wouldn’t be there.
“Have you worked for anyone else, and if so, who?” McConnell asked.
“Ummm, a company called Classic Affairs,” I answered hesitantly.
“God, these names are so clichéd. Who runs it?”
I stalled. “A woman . . . named Anna.” I did not want to answer that question. I thought this was going to be purely about Kristin! Now I would be implicating myself with another madam?
“Will you excuse us for a minute?” McConnell said, and they both walked out of the room and shut the door. . . . After a few minutes they came back in. “We’re going to have to transfer you to another location, Ms. Kade,” said McConnell.
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They slipped a lanyard with an orange ID card on it around my neck. Then they threw my coat over my head and led me past the old green metal filing cabinets down a dingy hallway to an elevator bank, then down and out the side door of the courthouse. They had me surrounded, my coat still over my head. They put me in the back of a car, one cop on either side, and we sped off. I was terrified.
They said that I wasn’t safe in that building. They said it was very possible that I had important information they had been looking for in an investigation, and that there were concerns that there might be a leak or mole in their own office. They wanted to get me out before anyone knew I was there. I never saw ADA McConnell again.
Tuesday in The News: She was a woman who went by many names — and was forced to juggle dangerous roles.
From the forthcoming book "Call Girl Confidential: An Escort’s Secret Life as an Undercover Agent," by Rebecca Kade to be published by Gallery Books, a Division of Simon & Schuster Inc. Printed by permission.
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