Part 3 of ___
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Dale Scutti said he left Atlantic City convinced that Donald Trump had stumbled onto a great real estate play. Scutti wanted in on it. On January 19, Scutti bought one hundred thousand Resorts Class A shares at $13.50. Soon he would invest more than $5 million until he owned nearly 6 percent of the one-share, one-vote Class A stock. But he needed someone to force up the stock price to make any real money.
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Meanwhile, Trump's withdrawn fifteen-dollar bid disturbed others and not all of them were shareholders dismayed at getting fifty dollars less per share than they could have had before Trump took charge. Casino Control commissioner Valerie Armstrong, who just months earlier had voted against renewing Trump's casino license because she believed he had lied, said Trump's conduct could be interpreted as intending to drive down the price of Resorts stock, which would be a violation of his fiduciary obligation to all shareholders.
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Trump's withdrawal of the fifteen dollars per share bid was a bit much even for the other four casino commissioners. When the commission announced that it would hold hearings in two weeks to reconsider the approval of the comprehensive services agreement. Trump realized that Armstrong might have allies willing to kill the lucrative services agreement.
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Trump got the unstated message, that an independent party had set a fair price for Resorts stock and Trump had better meet it or he could see his billion-dollar comprehensive services agreement voided. Two days later Trump said he would pay twenty-two dollars for the rest of the Resorts stock, which ended the commission's interest in any hearings.
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A minute later Connolly phoned Ernie's. His conversations with Peter Aiello would play a crucial role in the most celebrated business deal of 1988 — Merv Griffin's hostile takeover of Resorts International from Donald Trump. The battle of the moguls was a story dear to the hearts of the glitzmongers who pose as journalists at many of the nation's leading news organs. Before the deal was finished, exactly eight months later, network television would chronicle the fight, major newspapers would carry the exchanges of witty barbs on their front pages, and breathless magazine covers would herald how Merv had taught the deal artist a lesson. Virtually all of these accounts would be based on how the highly
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next day Donald Trump immediately faxed a copy to Nick Ribis, his casino lawyer.
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Trump had no interest in Merv's deal. Having paid $135 per share for his Resorts stock, it would be a disaster for him to sell. The market, however, pushed the price of Resorts shares from twenty-two dollars to near the thirty-five dollars Griffin was offering. To some it looked like a chance to recoup from some of the damage Trump had done. Connolly said he quickly got his clients out of their Resorts position and filled in his SEC pal.
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Over the following weeks Trump and Griffin fed the glitzmongers with cute one-liners, but no progress was made toward a deal. Griffin made a second offer, doomed from the start. Then the two moguls met at Trump Tower and afterward Griffin's aides designed an offer that showed he had come to appreciate a fundamental requirement of any deal with Trump: Donald's cash machine had to be fed.
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This third proposal bought Trump out of his management contract for $63 million cash, sold Trump the unfinished Taj at a fire-sale price of fifty cents on each dollar Resorts had invested in it, and paid Trump back every penny he spent to buy the controlling stock held by the Crosby estate, Crosby family and Jim Crosby's lady friends. The other Resorts stockholders saw their deal sweetened by a buck to thirty-six dollars per share.
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Jess Marcum dreamed up the "freeze-out" game to lure Kashiwagi back to Trump Plaza after he had won more than $6 million there. Marcum, a physicist who helped invent radar, was a lonely atheist in the temples of chance because he did not believe in Lady Luck. He had endeared himself to casino owners by inventing a lucrative new bet, one he admired Kashiwagi for being too smart to make.
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Donald Trump put his then wife Ivana in charge of his Trump Castle casino even though she had no management experience. He blew a fortune having Ivana compete for high rollers against his own Trump Plaza casino while ignoring Harrah's next door, which earned a million dollars a week in profits. To attract high-stakes play to the Castle, Trump offered rides on the world's sixth-largest yacht, the Trump Princess, but its $861,000 monthly cost just drained money.
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Steve Hyde was the Mormon accountant who briefly made Trump Plaza the highroller heaven his boss wanted. Ivana nearly forced Hyde out. After Hyde was killed in an October 1989 helicopter crash, the Trump casinos plunged into disarray and all three ended up in bankruptcy proceedings.
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Merv Griffin and his companion, Eva Gabor, triumphantly ride a hundred feet across the Atlantic City Boardwalk on November 16, 1988, the day he bought Resorts from Trump in Mike Milken's last big junk-bond deal. Griffin's takeover began as a stock manipulation, one of many run out of The Griffin Company president's office. Griffin said that he was unaware a reputed mob associate had a desk in*the president's office at The Griffin Company.
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Griffin's takeover of Resorts from Donald Trump was the looniest casino junk-bond deal of them all, involving more than one billion borrowed dollars. This chart shows the complicated flow of money needed to complete Griffin's side of the deal and preserve various tax breaks.
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Bob Signore argues his case that Trump Castle cheated him because its gaming guide was riddled with errors. New Jersey regulators knew about the mistakes, which cost Signore eight hundred dollars, but instead of ordering them fixed, let the Castle continue using them, then falsely told Signore the brochures had been corrected. Signore sued Trump Castle for fraud. The judge who threw the case out lectured him for having the temerity to question the integrity of casino regulation in New Jersey.
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Donald Trump talks at Merv Griffin in April 1990 during the grand opening of the Taj Mahal casino, which lacked a swimming pool and other amenities because Trump was on the edge of financial collapse and ignored memos warning about cost overruns.
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Trump outside the Taj, which cost a billion dollars but lacked any of the pizzazz that drew high rollers from around the world to Wynn's Mirage, which cost $630 million.
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Marvin B. Roffman accurately predicted that the Taj Mahal would be in bankruptcy soon after it opened. Robert Trump threw him off the property, and Donald Trump not only demanded he recant but tried to edit his forced letter of apology. Unable to tell a lie, Roffman refused and was fired by the Janney Montgomery Scott securities brokerage. Janney and Trump both later paid him big settlements.
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Fred Trump had his lawyer buy $3.5 million worth of chips so his son Donald could make the December 1990 mortgage bond interest payment on Trump Castle. The director of New Jersey's Division of Gaming Enforcement was tipped in advance about the loan but kept it to himself.
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Casino Control Commissioner Valerie Armstrong voted against renewing Trump's casino license once, saying he lacked integrity. Later she asked if the Division of Gaming Enforcement knew about Fred Trump's loan in advance and was told it did not. She complained about a double standard in regulation that benefited Trump, but cast the crucial vote in 1990 to renew his license.
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Steven P. Perskie sponsored the Casino Control Act as a New Jersey legislator in 1977. But after he became chairman of the Casino Control Commission in 1990, he refused to enforce its provisions against Donald Trump and voted to renew his license even though Trump did not meet the act's financial stability requirements.
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Hanlon had his own reasons for wanting a new job, even if leaving meant giving up Holiday stock worth $6 million. When Trump forced Holiday into restructuring Mike Rose arranged for the senior executives to receive 10 percent of Holiday's stock over eight years as an incentive to keep the team there and working hard. But the only executive showered with enough stock and other benefits to make leaving out of the question was Mike Rose. In one of the many accounts from which executives got special payments Rose one year received thirty-four times as much as Hanlon, who ran the property that generated 28 percent of Holiday's profits.
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The New Jersey Casino Control Commission, still smarting from the Hilton debacle three years earlier, was determined to license Merv Griffin. The commissioners did not want Trump to close the original casino in town and they wanted the Taj finished. They also wanted a new player in town to counter Trump's influence and the risk of what might happen to Atlantic City if Trump ever got into trouble. Griffin, with his Hollywood connections, held out the prospect of restoring to the Boardwalk some of the glamour that left when his buddy Steve Wynn returned to Las Vegas.
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For their part, Howard Goldberg and Tom Gallagher, Griffin's top lawyers, needed to focus attention on Griffin's promises and away from the financial realities of his deal with Donald Trump. They had to come up with a way to make the deal appear financially stable even though the added Drexel debt would push interest costs to $300,000 per day
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The actual terms of the Trump-Griffin deal were largely ignored in favor of obtuse testimony about side issues and inflated claims about cost savings. The dangerous Nigris and American Leisure matters were put off until the following year, when Griffin would have to undergo full personal license hearings. For the deal to close, both sides agreed, all he needed was a temporary license, which could be issued based on an incomplete investigation of Griffin's fitness since it appeared, or at least what was in the public record made it appear, that nothing was amiss.
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appear to be dumb, a guy who relied on experts for everything and who really did not understand his own deal with Trump. Hanlon's ability and integrity is what should be of greatest concern, the Griffin team said. Griffin contributed to this by claiming ignorance of some parts of the deal and by telling self-deprecating stories, like the one about the Vegas duck.
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Although the deal was far from done, Griffin flew to Atlantic City. The afternoon began with a clever remark by Griffin, a preemptive strike against Trump, whose style was to finish a deal and then denounce whoever sat on the other side of the table as a chump. Griffin, followed by his official companion, Eva Gabor, and by Brent Plott, who would later sue him for palimony, stood before a battery of television cameras in a Resorts ballroom that had been freshly painted and carpeted, unlike much of the rest of the deteriorating old hotel.
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Asked if he intended to put his name on Resorts hotels in Atlantic City and the Bahamas and on his recently acquired Beverly Hilton in California, Griffin replied with a reference to the huge red letters on another Boardwalk casino: "No, not unless I can get Merv to be as big as Trump — or get the T off Trump." Griffin's clever way of calling Trump an ass revealed the emnity between the two moguls that again and again threatened to blow up their deal over the following four months, a prospect the casino commissioners wanted to avoid.
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To raise the $85 million Resorts would have to sell land. Resorts was the largest private landowner in Atlantic City, controlling one third of the developable acreage. Griffin and his publicity machine set to work in June to create the impression that this could be done with ease. The Los Angeles Times Magazine even swooned about how in teaching Trump some new deal artistry, homeboy Griffin had won "150 acres of prime real estate in the heart of Atlantic City."
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Norton, a father of eight with a nervous twitch and eyes sunk deep in skin furrowed by years of worry, figured that buying just the Atlantic City casino would cost $200 million or so. Knowing the commission wanted to keep Resorts open, Norton figured the regulators would force Trump to accept such a proposal.
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Trump maintained that he could not understand why Griffin would do this deal. "Merv's the only guy I've ever done a deal with where 1 could not figure out why he would do it," he said. On the day the deal and the flow of money was laid out before the commission. Trump fretted. Leaving the hearing room he turned to an aide, Harvey Freeman, and said, "Now that they've explained it to him, he'll pull out."
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On November 16, eight months after Peter Aiello called from "Ernie's," the deal closed. Griffin owned Resorts and, for a day, the Taj, which then went to Trump for half what Crosby had squandered on it.
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Then Griffin took another dig at Trump when he was asked how it felt to owe nearly a billion dollars.
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Meanwhile, Trump was sailing toward his first date in Bankruptcy Court.
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Now the ship belonged to Donald Trump, another casino owner with an immense ego who had invented a game, this one named for himself, and who seemed to be on his way to dominating everything in Atlantic City and perhaps Manhattan as well, with all the daring buildings bearing his name and promises of many more to come.
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world's sixth largest private yacht. The journey from New York began with a scare for Trump, who feared they were sinking until someone explained that it was just the anchor being drawn into his ship. Trump was not a sailor and admitted that waves made his stomach queasy.
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When the waters calmed, the great white ship headed for the Atlantic City Inlet, cutting through a channel that separated two worlds, a channel dredged deeper just days before to accommodate her. Off starboard lay a clean white beach where waterfront land sold for ten thousand dollars per foot and perfectly sturdy little homes were routinely razed so opulent ones could be erected. Off port, though, the shore was blackened by the stinking muck that crews dredging the channel for Trump had dumped there illegally. Behind this fetid mess stood dilapidated houses that some occupants had acquired for as little as seven hundred dollars in the dark days before the casinos came to Atlantic City.
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The boat arrived hung with a huge green banner heralding its new name. Trump Princess, in gold letters, the words separated by a crown. Its sleek side opened, revealing a gold-and-green velvet throne bearing Donald Trump, wearing his usual dark suit and sheepishly holding an umbrella, and the elegantly dressed Ivana, a maid holding her parasol. As an elevator lowered the throne to the dock, crewmen rolled out a red carpet and pointed the couple to a waiting electric cart. Trump waved the cart off and the couple marched triumphantly several hundred feet on the squishy carpet, past the yachts of the merely rich, toward the patient throng, which surged toward them.
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swirling fans. The adored couple pressed on toward the building across the street. Trump waving, his wife smiling. As they rode the escalator up into Trump Castle Hotel & Casino a new crowd appeared and others flowed out of the gambling hall to join in the endless applause. "Be our next president, Donald," one man shouted before Trump and his entourage slipped into a ballroom, where two lines of women in scanty sailor suits greeted them.
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Inside Trump held a news conference during which he was asked three questions about the filth polluting the beach. The answers were classic Trump. He answered the first by denying any knowledge of dredge spoils dumped on the beach. He answered the second by saying that he had agreed to pay a fine. He answered the third by declaring the matter a nonstory.
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Then he stepped off the dais to shake hands. Before reaching Trump, though, the local officials and their spouses had to pass the muster of a stout man in a pink silk blazer. One or two at a time they approached Paddy McGahn and, after paying homage for having been invited, waited for him to decide when their turn would come to have their hand shaken and their picture taken with The Donald and his missus.
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The arrival of the ship and its owner in the tattered resort showed Donald Trump perfecting the art of being idolized. The crowds loved him for personifying the American Dream of success and the government officials basked in his glow. Trump's claim that the ship was his "personal yacht," suggesting it was an incredibly costly toy financed from his bottomless pockets, was uncritically repeated in print and television stories across the nation, adding to the Trump legend of unlimited wealth flowing from his deal-making artistry. For the rich kid from Queens who had taken Manhattan by audacious architecture, July 9, 1988, was a public relations triumph.
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glossed over its realities, that Trump was being treated as royalty, even urged to lead the world's oldest democracy, a suggestion he encouraged at every opportunity.
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To the discerning eye, though, much more went on that day behind the glitzy image the Trumps projected, for these same events also demonstrated how much Trump had come to believe his own myth of being a modern Midas, able to turn dross into gold merely by affixing his name to a casino, an airline or even bare ground. In less than a year his spendthrift ways and foolhardy management would tarnish the carefully polished Trump image and press him to the brink of uncontrolled bankruptcy, a horror he escaped only because of the extraordinary leniency of government, a bailout from six dozen banks and the hundreds of millions of dollars lost by hardworking people whose pension money was invested in the Trump name.
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Much of Trump's apparent wealth was illusory, the result of complex financial engineering that had come to resemble not the smooth-running money machine Trump endlessly hyped, but a Rube Goldberg contraption constantly in need of more cash to avoid collapse. It had been true almost from the start of his career. Now nothing showed this better than the Trump Princess, which added millions of dollars per year to the drain on his cash flow, plus $29 million in new debt since, as usual, he put no money down. He assumed these new obligations shortly before he was due to fulfill promises to pay down the balances on bank loans and on casino mortgage bonds — money he did not have.
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Ivana imposed odd restrictions that hampered its use as a device to draw high rollers. She wanted only white wine and champagne served on board in case anyone dropped their glass, which angered a few red wine drinkers among the gamblers given a ride. Trump Castle executive Christian Mari said. Ultimately that rule was rescinded. Mari and others
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also complained that it was difficult to get players on board. Ivana required that some guests remove their shoes and walk in stocking feet, though Casino Control commissioners and most gamblers were exempted from this rule. "Mrs. Trump does not want the carpets ruined," Captain Richard Cuckson explained, coughing lightly into his fist, as he stood beside two of the many maids who endlessly polished and cleaned every visible surface.
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The ship had been built in 1980 for arms merchant Adnan Khashoggi, a world-class gambler who had a habit of not paying his bills, as Steve Hyde had painfully learned at the Las Vegas Sands. Khashoggi claimed that the ship, which he named after his daughter Nabila, cost $90 million. Although Trump claimed to have spent $8 million refurbishing it, half of it on the interior, the fabrics and furniture were unchanged. Nor did Trump spend any money to remove the original logo, a black onyx triangle on a white background into which black stones are set in a design that looks like a wave and a whale, a play on the Arabic symbols for the name Nabila. While Nabila's name was a permanent fixture, Trump's presence was not. His name was visible mostly in the neat arrays of magazines on tables in every room, magazines that featured his smiling face and that inside treated whatever he said as gospel.
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Trump had bought the ship from its second owner, the Sultan of Brunei, who had foreclosed on Khashoggi when he failed to repay a loan. The Sultan was by far the richest person in the world, a man who owned his own country and who each year made far more money than even Trump claimed his empire was worth. Trump bought the ship the way the impulsive and profligate buy cars beyond their means: no money down and years of payments. Trump had two advantages, though, not available to most buyers.
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One was his influence in Trenton, where New Jersey tax officials decided that Trump did not have to pay the 6 percent sales tax of $1.74 million on the $29 million purchase price. Instead, Trump only had to pay 6 percent of the monthly lease payment of about $400,000. The state's reasoning ignored the fact that Trump owned the company that leased him the ship.
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Second, while the 1986 overhaul of the federal tax laws had taken away most deductions for boats. Trump did not pay for his "personal yacht" with his personal funds. While Trump bought the ship simply because he wanted it as a symbol of wealth, it was in fact a marketing tool for Trump Castle. Lose enough money and Trump would take you for a ride.
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The Crystal Tower, the $110 million suite expansion that was intended to draw high rollers to the Castle, was still under construction. Trump needed a draw for high rollers and a luxury ship seemed like an interim solution.
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The lease payments and all operating costs were charged to the Castle, which Trump owned in its entirety and which could deduct these costs on its tax return. The Castle would have turned a small profit in 1989 but for these costs. Instead, the Castle lost $6.7 million.
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The Princess was not the only drag on profits. The Castle's Monte Carlo high-roller slots area opened just before the 1989 gambling season began. Separated from the hoi polloi by low marble walls, brass railings and etched glass, the Monte Carlo denoted an area for favored players, the kind willing to pay one hundred dollars per pull at their choice of three machines. Dozens of other slots priced at $25, $5 and just a buck stood arrayed before plush seats. The hosts, called Monte Carlo ambassadors, wore tuxedos. So did the ever-present cleaning man, who swept cigarette butts into what Trump said was a gold dustpan. The casino even provided phone jacks for those who wanted to play and work at the same time. And when the slot tokens turned hands black from heavy play, the ambassadors provided moist, hot towels.
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Snyder was a certified high roller. He lost eight hundred thousand dollars at Trump Castle, according to the Division of Gaming Enforcement. To lose that much a player typically would have to pump about $13 million into the one-armed bandits, including recycled winnings.
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But the Monte Carlo arena, like the Trump Princess, failed to attract enough high rollers to pay for itself. In time, abandoning the Hilton marketing plan to chase high rollers proved disastrous.
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Trump Castle barely turned a profit in 1987 and lost $3.1 million in 1988, but its cash flow created a mighty river of greenbacks. This is because net profits take into account deductions that appear on tax returns bift that involve no cash outlay, notably depreciation on the hotel and its equipment.
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In 1987, the Castle's cash flow was $23.4 million, rising to $33.7 million in 1988. Trump tapped this flow of cash during the Castle's first four years to withdraw $38.5 million of capital, a neat maneuver, since he had borrowed his capital contribution from a bank.
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But in 1989 the failed high-roller strategy nearly dried up the flow of cash. The Princess, lavish comps for high rollers like Snyder, and the Crystal Tower overruns drained off so much money that cash flow slowed to a trickle — just $183,000 in 1989, which was less cash than flowed into the Castle every two days in 1988. Trump Castle was drifting toward Bankruptcy Court.
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Before it got there, in 1992, there would be a few stops along the way where laws would be deliberately broken and the promise that casinos would be "highly regulated" would be treated like the polluted spoils dumped on the beach. And Trump would flout more rules. He would even be accused of cheating Castle players — with the sanction of casino regulators.
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The testimony and many of the exhibits from the hearings were sent to the Division of Gaming Enforcement by JJ's lawyer, Nick Ribis, who was also Donald Trump's casino lawyer. Ribis, seeking an advantage in the dispute with the Sands, and no doubt hoping to weaken the Sands as a competitor to the Trump casinos, pointed to the flow of money in and out of the casino for Janna's benefit, to the huge sums of cash that had vanished, and to the testimony by Pattison that showed the Sands people had been told that the DEA had frozen Janna's bank account.
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The regulators, who saw nothing wrong with drug money subsidizing a casino company, faced other issues testing their diligence — issues that involved "little people," not high rollers with millions of dollars. The first test began with a roulette player who said Trump Castle deliberately cheated him out of eight hundred dollars.
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Bob Signore longed to be walking on the beach enjoying the warm, gentle breeze at the Jersey Shore one August evening in 1987. But the rest of the family wanted to get out of their summer place. Asko Sullivan, his favorite uncle, yearned for some action at Trump Castle. Reluctantly, the soft-spoken Signore tagged along. Signore, a slight man in his thirties with a mustache, had trained as an accountant, so while he did not gamble he understood numbers enough to know the family would probably lose all their stakes. At least, he figured, with all the state regulations anyone who gambled at Trump Castle would lose their money honestly. He figured wrong.
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Alone, Signore wandered through the half acre of Trump Castle slots, pulling the smooth handles here and there to try his luck. The slots just did not feel right to Signore, so eventually he ambled over to the roulette wheels to watch his uncle. Asko Sullivan played Trump Castle and the Claridge often enough to be a rated player, wise to the ways of being comped to dinner or a suite to soothe the pain of losing hundreds or even thousands of bucks on the gaming floor.
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The two-page spread on roulette featured a colored illustration of the betting table showing how thirteen different bets work. Signore studied the illustration and watched the dealer pay wins and take chips when players lost. At first he couldn't quite grasp the game. But soon his eyes opened wide. The dealers were not paying by the rules, at least not by the rules in the official Trump Castle gaming guide.
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through the opening. Bally's Park Place claimed it once had to spend a quarter million bucks on new carpeting because the regulators decided that there was not enough contrast in colors where the casino carpet was sewn to the hotel lobby carpet. Sullivan figured that all the mistakes in this booklet, the official book of rules, could mean serious and expensive trouble for Trump Castle.
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Go tell the casino manager about it, Sullivan advised his nephew, and after you explain to him what you found suggest that Trump Castle return the favor by buying us all dinner.
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As the manager in the sharp black suit walked off, Signore felt humiliated at the treatment and outraged that Trump Castle didn't give a damn that its gaming guide had the rules all wrong, that novices could be cheated.
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The following night Signore returned to Trump Castle. His uncle and a friend came along, but they entered the casino separately. Signore sat down at the roulette table and bought a stack of fifty-dollar chips. He also pulled out the official "Guide to Games at Trump's Castle Hotel & Casino" and a piece of paper. He made a show of looking at the guide for advice, explaining to the dealer and the other players this was his first time at a roulette table. On the p^per he wrote down each bet. On his nineteenth bet, when the ball fell on 17 black and the dealer reached for his chips. Signore spoke up.
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"No I didn't. I did bet red and even. And, yes, it did come up black and odd. I should win," Signore said. "Look," he implored, "just look at this official Trump Castle official gaming guide." The dealer's lips suddenly sealed tight.
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there are errors in it and you're the same person who handed me this booklet half an hour ago? This makes a lot of sense. But what he said was, "In that case. I'd like my money back. I'm out two hundred dollars, but according to this booklet I should have won six hundred dollars. Trump Castle owes me eight hundred dollars." The bureaucrat said she had no authority. She did call the casino shift manager on duty, James McDermott, and when he showed up twenty minutes later Signore showed him the guide.
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Finally commission inspector Louise O'Donnell wrote a brief notation of the incident and Signore left, almost vindicated. All he had to do now was get the state to return his money. After all, he reasoned, by removing all those official gaming guides Trump Castle had confirmed he was right.
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Signore thought that was ridiculous. The casinos were regulated industries. They do not kill people. This is not the mob, he said, this is Donald Trump. And besides, he said, waving a copy of the Casino Control Act, the law said that the overriding principle of casino regulation is honesty. People, the law says, can trust the "credibility and integrity of the regulatory process and casino operations."
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More than a year earlier, in 1986, a state Division of Gaming Enforcement agent had spotted the same mistakes and recommended that new guides be printed. The guides had been in use since Trump Castle opened in 1985. Before the first one was distributed proof sheets had been submitted to the regulators. But the toughest regulatory agency the world had ever seen had failed to notice that nearly half the roulette bets in the Trump Castle guide were wrong. And when the mistakes were first found the regulators did not order the brochures thrown out, but said the casino could keep distributing them.
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"But, still," Gushin said, recovering his argument, "there was no cheating because Trump Castle played the game according to the rules. If they had cheated anyone, we would have filed a complaint against them immediately."
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Signore hired a lawyer and wrote letters to the commission and to lawmakers seeking new gaming guides, an apology and restitution of his money or, at least, forfeiture of the eight hundred dollars by Trump Castle to the state or, better yet, his favorite charity. Sometimes he also asked for his legal fees.
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Hall of the New Jersey State Police wrote Daly a letter in January 1988 saying Signore's complaint lacked merit because when he played roulette he already knew the official gaming guide had errors. Hall also wrote that Trump Castle had placed corrective stickers on the gaming guides. Daly passed the major's letter on to Signore, who figured that ended his quest. It didn't.
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Three weeks later Signore decided to swing by Trump Castle and take a look at the corrective stickers. At the Casino Control Commission booth he found the gaming guides uncorrected and without stickers. Signore was livid.
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He started writing letters again. When they were ignored he filed a lawsuit charging Trump Castle and the Casino Control Commission with fraud. Nearly three years after he found the mistakes, Signore thought he was about to get his day in court. He showed up early at the modern red-brick courthouse in Atlantic City, as did a lawyer for the state and another for Trump Castle. The judge dispatched them to a windowless room with plain white walls where two local lawyers, Dara A. Quattrone and Michael R. Mosca, tried to settle the case.
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Trump's lawyer, Steven D. Scherzer, could not figure out why he was there. It struck him that Signore had a point, even if he had pushed it to ridiculous lengths, and that the amount of money at issue was not worth his time when the casino could have just written an eight-hundred-dollar check to a charity of Signore's choosing. But Scherzer knew Trump would never write a letter of apology, so he was there working on the clock to defeat Signore. Deputy Attorney General Franklin Widmann represented the regulators. Projecting an air of august contempt for Signore, he had a simple view of the case: not only was Signore not cheated, because he knew the brochure was flawed, but Widmann said the state was under no obligation to enforce any particular law. He also had an interesting defense of the faulty guides, arguing that the gaming guide's illustrations showed only "sample bets and did not say you would win, or lose, if you placed them."
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Vegas hamburger stands teenagers readily pop open their wallets to show off their frequent-gambler cards from Harrah's, Caesars, Trump Plaza, Resorts and other gambling halls.
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Debra was soon a rated player not just at Caesars, but also at the Atlantis, Harrah's, Resorts and Trump Plaza. They all plied her with
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During the time when Debra's case focused public attention on the problem hordes of other teenagers, including Joseph Bevan, continued wagering. He gambled at Harrah's, Resorts, Showboat and Trump Cas-
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The trial was held before Judge John G. Himmelberger, who had lectured Bob Signore for having the temerity to sue Trump Castle because it played roulette by a different set of rules than it handed out to novice gamblers. Cohen asked for a two-week delay, saying he had had trouble finding a lawyer without a conflict of interest because every one he approached did some work for the casinos. The day before the court appearance, one finally agreed to take the case, but he needed time to prepare. Himmelberger refused the request, forcing Cohen to act as his own counsel.
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Five months later, on December 12, 1990, Debra Kim Cohen got off work and started playing blackjack at Trump Plaza. She was twenty, still too young to gamble in a casino, although under New Jersey law she was old enough to be a cocktail waitress. You can't legally drink in New Jersey until you are twenty-one, but you can serve liquor at age eighteen. At eighteen you can also gamble with the state by playing the lottery.
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It would be easy to create powerful incentives for casinos to challenge youthful patrons. Every time an underage gambler is caught on the casino floor, gambling or not, Cohen favors a one-thousand-dollar fine, believing that sum is high enough to encourage diligence at the entrance. Repeat offenses should result in progressively larger fines with a casino that behaves as Trump Plaza did when it threw out O' Brick facing a fine of up to $1 million and a place that acts as Caesars did, laughing at a parent while continuing to give comps to a juvenile, losing its license.
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On July 4, 1988, the Atlantis declared its independence from coin giveaways. Players who wanted quarters could get sixty of them by riding a bus to Caesars, Trump Plaza, Showboat and the other casinos. Players who wanted to watch the reels spin twice as long could ride a bus to the Atlantis and get 120 tokens. Players could also get half tokens and half scrip, a deal the sharp players quickly recognized as the most lucrative in town because they could play the slots and get a free meal instead of choosing one or the other from the competition.
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His comments foreshadowed how three other debt-ridden and cashstarved casino owners — Donald Trump, Merv Griffin and Bally Manufacturing— would deal with financial instability. In essence Satz was proposing the equivalent of Chapter 11 protection from bills coming due by negotiation with creditors, a sort of privatizing of bankruptcy proceedings.
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In the audience watching all this was Nick Ribis, Donald Trump's gaming lawyer. Trump was not the only outsider interested in the Atlantis. Golden Nugget chairman Stephen Wynn flew into Atlantic City aboard his private jet — a DC-9 like Hefner's — to look over the Atlantis. The two casino moguls had very different ideas in mind. Trump wanted beds, Wynn wanted bets.
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The nearest casino to the Atlantis is Trump Plaza, three hundred paces up the Boardwalk. At the time Trump Plaza was the busiest casino in town and its hotel often had to turn away serious gamblers, many of whom had switched after Wynn sold the Atlantic City Golden Nugget in 1987 and returned to Las Vegas. Trump coveted the five hundred Atlantis rooms as an annex to Trump Plaza. He figured he could buy the property ^for much less once its casino closed because no one else could afford its $36 million annual operating cost, which came to more than three times what it could generate as a hotel alone, even assuming 100 percent occupancy. Besides, he wanted a place to stash Marla Maples and a permanent apartment at the Atlantis offered the best mix of access and privacy.
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When the license expired at midnight Hood had decided to stay open under conservator Nolan's aegis. Just before midnight she sold the Atlantis, for $63 million, to Donald Trump. Afterward, Nolan fought the deal, insisting he could get a better price. But the commission said he was not hired as a real estate broker and let the deal go through.
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When the sun rose over the sea in the morning Donald Trump seemed to be the only winner in the Atlantis debacle. In addition to his two existing casinos and his Taj Mahaf, where workers hurried to finish construction, he had bought up the abandoned Penthouse casino site between Trump Plaza and Caesars, taking a potential competitor out of
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the picture. Now he had taken over another casino, the Atlantis, removing it from the market while keeping its hotel rooms to serve Trump Plaza. Not many fully appreciated it, but from that day forward Atlantic City's destiny would be tied to Donald Trump's.
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In August 1989, just nine months after he closed his deal to buy Resorts from Donald Trump, Griffin had announced that Resorts would not continue paying interest on either the $325 million of Drexel bonds sold to finance his purchase or on the $605 million of Bear Stearns bonds
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The suspension of interest payments came after Griffin announced that in April, May and June of 1989 Resorts had lost $27.9 million, more than twice as much as it had the year before under Donald Trump. That meant that on the very days when the Casino Control Commission was moving to shut down the Atlantis because it was losing nearly a buck a second. Resorts was losing $3.54 with each tick of the clock.
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Trump boasted that he had shown Griffin a few renovated rooms and that Griffin had not asked to see rooms picked at random. Had Griffin shown such diligence he would have seen hundreds, priced at $150 a night, more suited to a Skid Row dump than a glamorous resort. Griffin also evidently failed to inspect all the costly and unseen systems that make a hotel work: the boilers and chillers, the wiring and ductways, the plumbing and elevators. Some of the elevators were so old, so jury-rigged that their jerks frightened many riders. Left unsaid was how the experts Griffin retained, the appraisers and attorneys and underwriters, could have failed to notice such things and to factor them into the numbers presented to the Casino Control Commission and to the prospectus for the Drexel junk. For that matter, how did such basic facts escape the casino regulators who supposedly investigated the deal thoroughly before the commission certified its financial stability? That
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From Griffin's perspective it was a brilliant proposal because it immediately set the two groups of bondholders at each other's wallets, fighting over whether the mortgages were valid or whether the deal with Trump involved a fraud in which money due the Bear Stearns bondholders had been wrongly diverted to Trump and other stockholders. Knowing this Griffin had set aside two meeting rooms, one for the Drexel crowd, composed entirely of sophisticated money managers, and the other for the Bear Stearns crowd, which included many retirees.
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From the day the game-show mogul first petitioned them for a license the commissioners had shown their willingness to go along to win Griffin both as a prospective source of glamour in Atlantic City and as a counter to Trump. They had swept aside the stock manipulation that had fathered the deal, rationalized Griffin's decision to retain Mike Nigris for nine months as head of his noncasino businesses, and dismissed Griffin's past association with casino-stock swindler Nate Jacobsen. They had also let Drexel peddle the junk for the deal even after it was clear it would be indicted for fraud.
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Two weeks after Griffin closed his deal with Trump on November 16, 1988, Hanlon had begun cutting costs furiously. The Treniers, who had performed in Resorts' lounge since it opened, had their contract abruptly canceled because their nine-thousand-dollar weekly fee was too high. So did other entertainers, all* replaced with the cheapest talent Hanlon could find. But for months Hanlon kept his polo team on Resorts' tab and he delayed selling its helicopters, which he often flew as
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Resorts did not fold, in large part because Griffin's statement that he would sew his pockets shut was only a negotiating ploy. The terms of the bankruptcy plan were mostly worked out in advance, prepackaged for Judge Rosemary Gambardella to review and sign with few hearings. "This is the harbinger of what restructurings will be like in the future," observed Tom Gallagher, the Gibson Dunn & Crutcher attorney who supervised the deal with Trump and for a time acted as Griffin's chief
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In a way the New Jersey Casino Control Commission and its favored licensee, Donald Trump, made this gaudiest of Las Vegas gambling palaces possible. Donald Trump's raid on Bally Manufacturing, which the commission could have stopped, resulted in Bally offering $440 million for the Atlantic City Golden Nugget. The nearly $200 million that Wynn took back to the Nevada desert provided the down payment so Milken could sell enough junk to build the Mirage. Without the Golden Nugget windfall even Wynn acknowledges the Mirage might have remained just an illusion shimmering dreamily in the future.
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Money alone, though, could not have created the Mirage, for even much larger sums could be squandered on a building lacking its magic touch, as Donald Trump would soon prove. Wynn is a master showman, a P. T. Barnum whose genius lies in his ability to see what the people want in entertainment even as he slowly loses his own vision to the degenerative eye disease retinitis pigmentosa.
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He has secrets to tell about boxing impresario Don King, with whom he has sparred for dominance over Buster Douglas, and about "that lightweight phony Donald Trump."
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As Resorts hurtled toward default so did the Taj — and Trump knew it. Walt Haybert, the gentle accountant he put in charge of the Taj's finances, sat down in his dark office in the collage of temporary buildings that served as Taj headquarters on Brigantine Island, six miles from the Boardwalk, and analyzed spending against the budget. Haybert warned Trump in a memo that at current spending levels the Taj would go $108 million over budget. Haybert hoped the memo would result in an end to the lavish spending spree, a thoughtful scaling back of the project, or else would prompt Trump to put in more money.
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Trump had no cash to put in, though. The $63 million Griffin paid him for the Taj management contract was gone. Although Trump had paid that same sum for the failed Atlantis, which he renamed the Trump Regency, none of the money went there. Trump borrowed every penny for the purchase price plus the modest sums he spent to replace the lumpy mattresses and worn carpets. He even charged the monthly mortgage payments on the loan, adding them to the balance owed Manufacturers Hanover until the debt soared to $81 million. Even if the Atlantis ran at full occupancy every day it would barely generate enough revenue to pay the mortgage interest. Why the bank, which foreclosed in 1992, made such a stupid loan was a mystery.
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Instead Trump used some of the Griffin money to plug other pressing financial holes and lost most of it in a feigned raid on American Airlines that his brother Robert said cost him some money, too. The deal fell apart when the market realized he was not a real raider and the stock of the airline's parent dropped like a jet out of power.