If You Don't Have Big Breasts, Put Ribbons on Your Pigtails (20 page)

At exactly 8:30 a.m., The Donald's black limousine arrived at the red-carpeted Plaza steps. A full squad of uniformed doormen opened the Plaza's brass-plated doors, and they tripped over themselves trying to say hello to Mr. Trump. "Good morning, Mr. Trump! Good morning, Mr. Trump! Mr. Trump! Good morning, sir!" they all chorused.

"Dahnul! ' Carrie shouted down, her face flushed with all the excitement. "Hello, Dahnul!" She reached for Donald's hand and pointed to me. "You know Baa-bwa. And this is Susan."

"Good morning, Carrie, Susan," The Donald clipped, giving Susan the once-over. He nodded at her approvingly. "Barbara," he said, hardly looking my way. Without another word, Donald strutted into the Plaza, entourage, including us, in tow.

We were seated at The Donald's corner table in the Edwardian Room, overlooking Central Park South and Fifth Avenue. Donald, his financial guy, and the three of us all awaiting Susan's clients.

A dozen waiters fluttered around Donald, attending to his whims. Carrie pulled out her files and slammed them on the table. "I

go over all your numbers, Dahnul," Carrie said directly, "and I don't see numbers on the bank. Where your numbers, Dahnul?"

Donald Trump knew Carrie well. Carrie had single-handedly sold fifty-three condos in Mr. Trump's financially troubled condominium on Sixty-ninth Street in less than a year. She had sold them two at a time, despite the fact that the condominium market had stumbled and all the other new condominium developments weren't selling. Donald was so appreciative he arranged a private dinner at the Plaza Hotel to honor Carrie for her heroic rescue. He presented her with a cake and fifty-three candles, each candle representing an apartment she had sold. Exhilarated by all the attention. Carrie blew them out with one big breath. "In three months, Dahnul," she proclaimed, "I sell fifty-three more!' And Carrie did.

Carrie and Donald continued discussing the numbers, Carrie waving her arms all the while to emphasize her points.

"Psssst!" Susan leaned into me and whispered. "Don't forget the commission agreement. "

"What commission agreement?" I asked.

"Our commission agreement. We don't have one."

"What do vou mean we don't have a commission agreement ? I huffed in disbelief. "Why not?" Susan fluttered her eyelashes and let out a little-girl giggle.

"Excuse me, Donald," I interrupted. "We need to have a commission agreement."

"Don't worry about it," he answered. "We all know each other here." And he continued to talk to Carrie.

"No, Dahnul!" Carrie said, signaling "stop" with her open hand. "Our commission three percent! Three percent, Dahnul! If Polylink buy Plaza, if Polylink buy condos, if Polylink buy other Dahnul property, you-pay-me-three-percentl It commercial commission. Dahnul, commercial commission three percent. A good deal Dahnul," she said, and waited.

"Okav. okav. Carrie, no problem," he said, and looked back down at the financial papers Carrie had brought.

I reached over and pulled the paper doily from underneath the silver sugar tray. I smoothed it out, took a pen, and wrote what I remembered to be the essential elements of a legal contract. It read: "January 11, 1994. I, Donald Trump, promise to pay The Corcoran Group, and I, Barbara Corcoran, promise to accept a three percent (3%) commission for the sale of any currently owned Donald Trump properties sold to Polylinks and/or their affiliates."

I signed my name at the bottom of the doily and drew a line for Donald Trump's signature.

"Donald," I interrupted again, "just to make sure there's no misunderstanding about the commission, I wrote down exactly what we just agreed on.'' 1 I handed it to him. "Could you please sign right here next to where I signed my name?" I pointed to his name.

Donald took a quick look. "Of course I will," he said and signed his name with a thick black pen and handed me the doily.

I put the doily in my purse and checked my watch; it was 8:47. Messrs. Yiu and Wu were already seventeen minutes late. "Well, Susan?" I said quietlv, "Where are they?" When she answered by giggling nervously, I wanted to rip her long legs off her fabulous body.

Donald looked around the room. "Where are the Chinese?" he demanded. "Are they coming or not?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Trump," Susan apologized coyly, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. "I think they may have gone to Trump Tower by mistake. I'll go over arid get them."

Ten minutes later, Susan returned with no Wu and no Yiu. She was panting from her two-block sprint and explained that her clients were nowhere to be found. By 9:15, Mr. Trump decided he had waited long enough, but just as he got up to leave, two Chinese men in identical dark blue suits walked into the Edwardian Room.

"Oh, Mr. Yiu! Mr. Wu!" Susan called, swaying her way over. "Come, Mr. Yiu, Mr. Wu. I'd like you to meet Mr. Trump." The Donald stood up, his six-foot-two frame towering over the two men.

"Really nice of you guys to come in and see me, r he said, offering his hand. The Asians looked pleased to meet such a New York celebrity.

And this is Carrie Chiang," Susan continued, "Mr. Trumps broker."

Carrie Chiang stood up and spoke in rapid Mandarin Chinese.

"Hen rong xing ren shi ni. Xi wang ni ci xing shun li."

"Hen shun li, chen xiao jie, v Mr. Yiu responded.

"fJo zhe li lu xing hen shun li. " Mr. Wu nodded and agreed.

Susan looked unnerved as she lost control of her customer. She escorted them away from Carrie and over to my side of the table. And this is Barbara Corcoran, Mr. Yiu and Mr. Wu, the president of my company.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, I said, shaking their hands and smiling. Everyone took a seat.

Carrie began her lengthy presentation on the Plaza Hotel. The Chinese men listened intently, punctuating each of her points with nods and questioning her numbers as she went. Carrie talked right. left, and in between, never losing sight of where she was going. She pulled papers, pointed to charts, and worked her calculator. When it came to numbers, Carrie could find a needle in a haystack.

Donald sat quietly, looking distracted, as though he were already involved in some other agenda. And then he made his move. "I've got a strong gut feeling that the Plaza is not the right deal for you. I keep thinking that my Riverside South project might be more what you guys are looking for. It's a really big deal, a really big deal! It's going to be the largest commercial and residential project to ever hit Manhattan! Fourteen city blocks right on the Hudson River! Sixteen buildings, six thousand apartments, two million square feet of commercial space, and, would you believe it. underground parking for thirty-five hundred cars! Ready to build. It took me ten years to gel the city's approval on this big deal. And Philip Johnson—you know his name, the famous architect—designed the project." 1 le hesitated. "But. you know, guys, I shouldn't be talking about it."

"Mr. Trump, thank you. But we have no interest in new development deals," Mr. Yiu said. "We buy hotels."

"Okay," Donald said, "I probably shouldn't be talking about it anyway, as we've just about signed a deal with Colony Capital. They have a bunch of Japanese investors that are pretty excited about a three hundred percent return on their investment." Then he stopped. "But since you guys are only interested in hotels, I gotta tell you, the Plaza is the best hotel in New York."

The breakfast ended at 10:00. As Carrie promised to send the Chinese the information they needed, Susan corrected her and said, "77/ send that to vou, Mr. Yiu and Mr. Wu, by next week at the latest."

March 4, 1994.

I was lying in the white-sheeted bed at Mt. Sinai hospital when the phone rang. After six long years and eight failed in vitro attempts, I was aglow with the miracle that I had actually given birth to a healthy nine-pound, two-ounce boy.

"Baa-bwa," a loud voice squawked on the other end of the phone. "Baa-bwa, it's Carrie. I on the plane, I on the plane and I have Dahnul."

"Oh, that's good, Carrie," I said as I shifted to adjust the bandages from my C-section. Carrie and Susan were on their way to China and were calling again to badger me into getting Donald's attorney on the phone.

"Baa-bwa, you call Dahnul's lawyer now," Carrie instructed. "You get Dahnul's lawyer to send the papers now. Okay?"

"Okay, Carrie," I said. "I'm sorry I haven't gotten to it yet but I've been a little busy. Oh, and by the way, I had a baby."

It took five and a half months, nineteen meetings, two trips to Hong Kong, 2,700 pages of faxed documents, and seventeen attorneys, but

on June 30. 1994, the deal closed, and the six wealthiest families in Hong Kong became one of the largest landlords in Manhattan, purchasing the outstanding S310 million debt from the banks for the bargain price of $90 million, plus another $8 million in real estate taxes.

MOM'S LESSON #2 1 : You have the right to be there.

THE LESSON LEARNED ABOUT INVITING YOURSELF IN

When Susan Gara interviewed for her sales position at The Corcoran Group, she explained how she was married to a man who owned an auto repair shop in Brooklyn and how every day she served the mechanics coffee and doughnuts in the morning, and tea and cookies in the afternoon. Susan succeeded in selling fourteen city blocks in Manhattan to a Chinese conglomerate. Nothing in her background said she had the right to be there, but Susan Cara invited herself in.

Susan was inexperienced. But she was also impatient, didn't listen, knew no boundaries, and was relentless in keeping her eye on the ball. It was partly dumb luck that landed the Chinese investors in Susan's lap, but the fact is that once they landed, she had the gumption to take the ball and run.

Carrie Chiang was a proven dealmaker. She, too, was impatient, didn't listen, knew no boundaries, and was relentless in keeping her eye on the ball. Both of them were smart enough to recognize that each had what the other needed. And together they made the biggest sale in New York's history.

RS. To no one's surprise, Carrie Chiang continued to smash her own sales records year after year. But Susans career proved short lived. Soon after the sale, she divorced the mechanic; she snagged herself a renowned internist and retired to their luxurious new abode in Westchester County.

finished. He said that although Citicorp had already renegotiated Donald's debt of $993 million, they were about to foreclose on Donald's prestigious Plaza Hotel anyway.

"Well, what Fin about to tell you might just change your story," I said.

On the tenth business day of July, Donald's first check arrived, hand-delivered by his messenger at 4:48 p.m. The messenger was instructed to hand it only to me and have me sign the receipt. I called Esther, Carrie, and Susan and waited for them to arrive before opening the envelope and asked Sylvia to immediately send Donald a large bouquet of flashy flowers from Remy's on Park Avenue. I asked that the florist include a note that read, "Thank you for your check, Donald. We so much appreciate it." And sign it Barbara, Carrie, and Susan.

When everyone arrived at our office, we drank champagne and celebrated the first of what would be our thirty-six equal monthly payments of $55,555.55 each.

August 1994.

I gulped when I saw the caricature of Donald Trump on the cover of New York magazine, precariously hanging on to the ledge of a high-rise building. I was standing at a newsstand on the corner of Sixtieth and Madison as I read the bold headline:

TRUMP'S NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

By the time I got to the office, Donald had already called once. When he called again, I carefully picked up the phone and said as cheerfully as I could, "Good morning, Donald."

Donalds voice barked into my ear. "How could you let Carrie and that Susan lady speak to a reporter? Can't you keep your girls in check over there! "

"Donald," I said, "you know I'm not in control of Carrie, you

know how she is. And as for Susan, she's young and inexperienced, and you cant fault her for that. But, personally, I think today's story makes you look great! In fact. I think it makes you look like a miracle worker—" Donald Trump didnt agree with my assessment and abruptly hung up the phone.

When the next check arrived, again by messenger, I signed for it and instructed Sylvia to send an even larger bouquet of flashv flowers. Two hours later, the bouquet arrived back at my office, returned by Mr. Trump's messenger. On the unopened envelope was scribbled. "Return to sender.'' I got a sick feeling in my stomach that things were about to get worse.

Things got worse. The next day. the summons and complaint arrived, claiming "breach of contract." Donald was suing us to cancel the $2 million commission (not yet paid) and to recover damages.

SUPREME COURT OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK COUNTY OF NEW YORK X

DONALD TRUMP,

Plaintiff,

-against-

THE CORCORAN GROUP, INC., BARBARA CORCORAN, CARRIE CHIANG and SUSAN CARA,

Defendants. X

60 Centre Street New York, New York May 20, 1996

BEFORE :HONORABLE IRA GAMMERMAN, JUSTICE

"Let's get a big guy!" Carrie said. "Dahnul not fair! We need a big lawyer." Susan agreed with Carrie, but Esther had already met with our regular attorney and, after reviewing the papers, he said he was confident he could win the case. Although I wanted to believe in his confidence, something gnawed at me after everyone left my office.

I opened my drawer, took out the New York magazine article, and found the passage that was echoing in my brain. Donald was quoted as saying, "You learn that either you're the toughest, meanest piece of shit in the world or you just crawl into a corner, put your finger in your mouth, and say, C I want to go home.'''

A chill ran up my spine.

After school. The kitchen table.

My brother Tommy was so upset he couldn't tell my mother what was wrong. "Well, you can't stay in here all day," Mom said. "You should be outside playing with the other boys."

"I don't want to," Tommy cried. "I don't want to go outside and see that kid again!"

"And what kid is that?" Mom asked, wiping Tommy's face with a cold washcloth.

"J-Joey B-Bunt," Tommy said. "He says really mean things to me, Mom, and he embarrasses me in front of all the other boys."

John boosted himself up on to the counter and reached for the pinwheels that Mom kept hidden above the stove. "Isn't that the same kid who puts cherry bombs in cats?" John asked.

"He does what?" Mom asked.

"Yeah, that's him, that's the same mean kid," Tommy sniffled. "And that's not all! He's a big bully! I saw him kick Mrs. Gibbon's dog—you know, the little scrawny one with the brown spots."

"Well, Tommy," Mom said, "sooner or later you're going to have to face him, because he's probably not planning to move out of Edge water."

Yeah, and 111 go with you, Tom," John offered confident I v.

"Well, if he's a bully,*' Mom said, "yon re going to need more than two nice boys to handle him. Let me call Mrs. Higgins and ask if Brendan can go with you.'

"We don't need Brendan to come with us, Mom/* John said. I'm big enough.

"Oh. no you're not," Mom insisted. "You've got to bully a bully, and Brendan can do that easier because he's bigger."

That day, Brendan Higgins whipped Joev Bunt's butt and Joev never bothered my brother Tommv again.

I picked up the phone and called Carrie. "Carrie." I said, "you're right. We need to find ourselves a great litigator to fight Mr. Trump."

1996. Supreme Court of the State of New York.

The moment Richard Seltzer walked into the courtroom. I knew we weren't going to be pushed around. Richard was just the right guy, tough enough and smart enough to bully a bully. I had to remind myself that the ball of fire burning up the courtroom was the same quiet attorney who had spent hours meticulously reviewing every possible question that we might be asked.

Donald Trump's claim was that, as his agent, we had breached our fiduciary responsibility by disclosing confidential information in the New York magazine article. Our defense was that everything Carrie and Susan said in the article was not confidential, because Donald had already bragged the same details to dozens of other reporters before the New York magazine story ever came out.

Donald looked startled when Richard Seltzer pulled out his stack of four-color, five-foot charts with blown-up quotes of what Donald had said, when, and to whom. He had prepared separate boards quoting Donald spilling the beans to the Wall Street Journal on

June 8, to the South China Morning Post on June 10, to the New York Observer on June 13, and to Crain's New York Business on June 20. "Are these not your quotes, Mr. Trump?!?" Richard demanded in a booming voice as he cross-examined Donald on the stand.

In rendering his decision, Judge Ira Gammerman said, "Of all the witnesses, my view is that Miss Corcoran's recollection is the most reliable. I tell you that. . . . And I find as a matter of fact that there was no fraudulent inducement. We have a bruised ego, is what this case is all about. And Fm telling you, I find, as a matter of fact, that those are the only damages in this case."

We won the suit and collected the rest of our $2 million commission.

MOM'S LESSON #82: You've got to bully a bully.

^

THE LESSON LEARNED ABOUT BEATING BULLIES

We were paid our rightful commission because we spent the money to hire the right attorney. Despite my best efforts to convince The Donald to settle our differences outside the courtroom, in the end we had to hire a bully beater so the bully didn't win.

Before finding Richard Seltzer at Kaye Scholer LLP, we interviewed the best litigators at other top New York law r firms but none of I hem measured up to Richard Seltzer. Here are three tips for choosing the right attorney:

1. It's not about knowing the law.

All attorneys know the law. It's not how well they know the law that counts, it's how well they play the law to their advantage.

2. The right attorney has one unique selling proposition.

All litigators can rattle off a half-dozen ideas on how to defeat the opposing side. The right attorney presents and believes 100 percent in one good idea.

3. Winning in court has more to do with sales and packaging than it has to do with law.

Good litigators are great communicators and exceptional salespeople. Careful preparation and presentation of the facts is more important than the facts themselves.

Mi. it's Barbara," I chirped as I picked up the phone, wondering why my archrival was calling me.

"Hold for Mr. Milstein," his secretary said, and put me on hold in what I find to be one of the most annoying practices of people in power.

"Good morning, Barbara,'' a clipped but polite voice said on the other end of the phone. "Fd like to get together and discuss some business."

"Some business?" I asked. "What kind of business?*'

"Our business," he said. "Let's discuss it over a cocktail, shall we? How about tomorrow?''

"I can't," I said with relief. "I'm leaving with mv family for a vacation in Australia tomorrow and will be gone for two weeks."

"Fine, then let's say two weeks from tomorrow," he agreed. "That will be the twenty-fourth. We'll meet at my home. Shall we say four p.m.?"

Before I could say "jet lag," I had agreed to the date.

The twenty-four hours back from Australia seemed a lot longer than the twenty-four hours getting there, and when I landed at JFK airport, I had exactly eighty minutes to find my luggage, hop a cab to Manhattan, change clothes, and present myself at Mr. Milstein's home on Park Avenue.

I got home, dropped my luggage, threw on a suit, and headed out. I stopped at a Korean fruit stand on Lexington Avenue and quickly paid for a bunch of daisies. "No need to wrap," I said, and rushed over to Park Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street. When I arrived at Mr. Milstein's building, a uniformed doorman with lots of gold braiding announced my arrival.

"Miss Corcoran for Mr. Milstein," he said into the front-door phone. He motioned me toward another man in gold braid, who ushered me into a brass-gated elevator. When the elevator doors opened, I didn't have to guess which door was Mr. Milstein's. There was only one. The door was made of gleaming mahogany, and

standing at attention holding it open was a man in a long-tailed coat. He looked as if he was dressed for a wedding.

"Goooood afternoooon!" he said, finishing his o's and bowing his head as if to collect a thought he'd lost. "Mr. Milstein is expecting you, m'daahm. Please follow me."

He turned on his heel like a palace guard, and, feeling rather awkward, I followed behind. The huge entrance gallery was bigger than our house in Edgewater and it had some serious museum-type paintings hanging on the walls. There were lots of tables decorated with the largest flower arrangements Fd ever seen. "Please wait here, m'daahm," he instructed as we got to the middle of the runway. "I'll tell Mr. Milstein you've arrived." I tucked my Korean deli daisies behind my back and was thinking about stashing them under one of the big tables when Mr. Milstein suddenly appeared.

"So nice of you to come, Barbara!" he welcomed, while eagerly shaking my hand. "Perhaps we'll sit in the den, James," he said. James nodded, turned on his heel, and walked back in the direction we had just come. I followed along again, with Mr. Milstein bringing up the rear.

Mr. Milstein looked surprised to find Mrs. Milstein sitting in the den. He politely introduced me, and she politely helloed me back, and I decided it was as good a time as any to unload my three-dollar daisies.

I pulled the daisies from behind my back and felt like Timmy Tom when he handed mv mother the gladiolus he'd yanked from our yard. "These are for you, Mrs. Milstein," I said. Mrs. Milstein hesitated, and then took them, ignoring the rubber band at the bottom. "Why, thank you," she said softly, "how sweet."

"You're welcome," I said, smiling, but somehow felt I had done something wrong.

"Let us try the library then, shall we?" Mr. Milstein pleasantly decided, and again we trotted off into the gallery, led by James. "Good-bye," 1 quickly said to Mrs. Milstein and the daisies.

The trip down the Milstein runway was beginning to feel like the

flight hack from Australia, and when we finally arrived at the library. James ceremoniously opened the heavy paneled doors to a huge room filled with books, chairs, and tables and lamps all around. James stepped to the side, folding his arms behind his back.

"What will you have to drink. Barbara?" Mr. Milstein asked as he motioned to a brown leather club chair.

"White wine, please,' I said, settling in.

"And what kind would you prefer?" he asked with a tight smile.

"White, thank you," I replied.

James walked out. quietly closing the doors behind him. I sat straight in my chair, smiling, and trying to figure out why I was there.

"The Corcoran Group seems to be progressing quite nicely," Mr. Milstein offered.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Milstein," I said, scanning the plaques, trophies, and diplomas that surrounded us. "It's very nice of you to say that, Mr. Milstein, and I really appreciate hearing it."

"Barbara, please call me Howard."

"Okay, then, Howard, please call me Barbara."

I decided to keep quiet for a while because I didn't know what to talk about, and although Mr. Milstein—I mean, Howard—was talking to me as though I was his new best friend, I kept thinking of him as my competitor, and didn't think those two things usually came together. James walked back in, handed each of us our drink, set down some small plates and napkins, and left.

"I really do admire how far you've come with your company, Barbara," Mr. Milstein continued. "You strike me as a very smart businesswoman."

"Thank you, Howard," I said, feeling more uncomfortable than smart. "But Tin really not smart at all, I just work really hard.* 1 took a chug of my wine.

"Well, I'm sure you're smart enough to recognize a good business idea when you hear one. I think we could have great synergism if we were to work together."

"Sinner-jizzum," I repeated slowly. "I'm embarrassed to admit that I don't know what that word means." I realized I was way out of my league, and probably shouldn't have come.

Mr. Milstein closed his hands with his forefingers raised in a V, leaned way back in his chair, and expounded, "Well, Barbara, then let me take a moment to explain it to you. Synergism is a business term I learned at Harvard. It simply means joining two strong companies to create a stronger one that's able to do more business. It's really quite simple, like one plus one equals three."

"I think I get it," I said. "Yes, one plus one equals three! You're really a wonderful teacher and you obviously know a lot about business, Mr. Milstein! Now, what two companies were you thinking about putting together?"

"What? Well, mine and yours, of course!"

The mahogany doors opened and James wheeled in a large silver cart. He lifted a tray, genuflected in front of me, and said, "Ooorrr durrrrve?"

I looked down at the food in front of me. I was ferociously hungry and beginning to feel the jet lag and wine settling in. The food on the tray didn't look like anything I'd seen before. It looked a little bit like mini-burritos, but not exactly, because it had pink stuff inside. There were also little black things on top that looked like chocolate sprinkles. But I leaned in for a closer look and, though I had never tried caviar before, I realized by its wetness that that's probably what it was.