By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Trevor Bach
By Kyle Munzenrieder
"He was actually giving a little tour of the house at some point, like here's this room, check out this jewelry, here's where we have our theater room," Damian says. "It was like he was showing off — who shows off to the receiver that's taking their things?"
Damian seized the hard drive of Healy's office computer, the one he swore he'd done all the trades on, and turned it over to the court. There were no trades.
Instead, the computer was filled with contracts for sports boxes and country club memberships and private jets, photos of their Lamborghini in stages of customization, pictures of the Versace goblets and dream cars and exotic linens.
With the accounts frozen, Shalese didn't have money to buy diapers.
At a deposition August 20 in Miami, Turner told Shalese to look at two sets of bank statements. He asked her if she noticed anything suspicious. She did. The bank's copies of the actual statements were different from Healy's sloppily prepared fakes.
Shalese walked out of the room and began to cry. "What's going on?" she asked.
She climbed into the car with her husband, who immediately said, "Don't worry about it. We knew about that. It's all going to be fine."
A few days later, Healy called Shalese into his office, a wedding of marble and granite. From his desk chair, Healy had a direct line of view of the desk of his bodyguard, and behind him was a touchscreen that let him scan security cameras that covered every inch of his 100,000-square-foot mansion. To his right, he could see through the hallway window to his circular driveway, past the fountain he'd had custom-installed, to anyone entering his home. From this spot, he could see anything coming at him.
"Look," he told Shalese, "I don't want to scare you. But there have been threats against you and the kids."
A third party, "a really bad guy," had run off with all the money Healy and Madeira had invested, he explained. Maybe it was the fictional Matt or a man named Mike Hein or whatever — but he was gone, and he had called Healy. The man said he'd kidnap Shalese and the kids and kill them.
Shalese and Sean decided to take the kids to visit Healy's mother in New York. While they were en route, cops showed up at the Weston mansion looking for Healy. On October 15, he reported to the U.S. District Court in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. One night, when Healy was away at court and his parents had gone out of town, the power went out. It wasn't storming. The weather was fine, clear. Shalese and the two kids were alone in the house, and suddenly, she knew: The bad person had come for them.
Her children's hair was still wet from their baths, and they were all barefoot. She felt around for her keys, and they ran, sobbing, out the front door. Shalese locked herself and the kids in the car in the driveway. She called the police, trying to explain. They came. A circuit breaker on the street had blown.
On November 23, Healy pleaded guilty to the wire fraud and unlawful monetary transactions charges. Twelve days later, U.S. District Court Judge Jose Martinez in Miami awarded Madeira a $48 million civil judgment against Healy and Shalese. Anything bought with the stolen money was to be sold, and the investors will split the proceeds. But it will be only a fraction of the money they put in. Healy and Shalese will always owe the rest of the money.
At his criminal sentencing on March 31, Healy stood up in courtroom number three on the eighth floor of Harrisburg's Federal Building and wept.
"I'm very sorry for everything I've done. I really messed up," Healy told U.S. District Court Judge Sylvia Rambo. "I know everybody here has children, they have problems, things like that, because of what I created. I have four kids at home. They don't deserve it. I did a really bad thing.
"I'm not a con man by any stretch of the imagination," he trembled. "I'm a family man. I have kids."
Madeira was there. "I'm hoping it was sincere, but he's a professional actor, second only to Madoff. Who knows? Who knows his heart? Who can have you over at his house, have barbecues with the kids, have you out to dinner with his parents — who does that? Who takes advantage of you and acts like he's your best friend? He begged me to be the godfather to his daughter. Who does that?"
Turner didn't buy it. "In my opinion, you've been running cons your entire adult life, and you go to prison... He's just going to come out with new tricks."
Judge Rambo sentenced Healy to 188 months — nearly 16 years — in prison.
Shalese wasn't there. It was too expensive, she explains. She was living with an old friend in Hollywood, working as a bartender five nights a week. It didn't make sense to skip work, get a sitter for the kids, buy a flight, pay for a hotel room, just to sit in a courtroom for one day, she says.