CryptoDad. J. Christopher Giancarlo

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      Together, my parents were a force. They were each determined, strong, and stubborn. It was as if their unshakable will, by itself, could make things happen. And it did. In all kinds of ways. They were a force in the minds of their sons. We were expected to lead lives of achievement, self-reliance, and dignity. But each of my parents' willfulness also caused turmoil in their marriage, which began to rupture. First gradually, and then precipitously.

Groovin'

For me, the 1960s began as soon as I could stand on two feet and take a good look around. I liked what I saw. My world seemed colorful, melodic, and good. After school, we played football, stickball, and basketball in the backyards and driveways of our leafy, 10-block neighborhood until my mother's loud whistle called us home for dinner. Most everything we touched or ate was made well and produced domestically, indeed locally. Many of our clothes were sewn in New York's garment district, televisions made in Trenton, furniture crafted in Connecticut, vegetables grown on New Jersey farms, meat butchered in town. My grandfathers, Charlie and Henry, drove cars made in Detroit: Cadillacs and Buicks, respectively. They were solidly built, and just as finely made as the Mercedes that my European-styled father drove. In fact, my dad's Mercedes looked rather pedestrian compared to their cars. Theirs were aspirational. The tail fins on Grandpa Charlie's 1962 Sedan DeVille made it appear as if it could take off and fly. The tiny tail bumps on Dad's Mercedes made you wonder how it ever got across the Atlantic.

      I respected the cultivation and the language facility of my European aunts, uncles, and cousins—whom we visited some summers—and the many French, Italian, and Hungarian doctors who attended my parents' dinner parties. Yet, I preferred American things—especially football, rock ‘n’ roll, the Jersey Shore, the New York World's Fair, the Apollo space program, and muscle cars—all of which seemed to express the future's limitless possibility.

      We went to a cheerful Catholic elementary school. We were fortunate to attend junior and senior high at the nondenominational Dwight-Englewood School, a fine private college “prep” school that assiduously set out a broad framework for how to think rather than imposing a narrow worldview of what to think. I respected and somewhat envied my older brother, Charlie, who seemed to win every academic award Dwight-Englewood bestowed. Unlike me, he was kind, easygoing, athletic, and wickedly smart. Like my dad, he loved gadgets, spending days at a time constructing electronic devices, even TVs and early computers. Unlike him, I played electric guitar, wore my hair long, and got into some trouble. A few times, Charlie got me out. I was probably less helpful than he was to our good-natured younger brothers, Mike and Tim.

      I attended Skidmore College in picturesque Saratoga Springs, New York. There, under the guidance of some exceptional professors, I experienced a time of personal satisfaction and accomplishment. During my junior year, almost 21, I took an academic leave of absence, got a basement flat in London, and worked as a researcher for Sir Ronald Bell, a member of the House of Commons. It was during Margaret Thatcher's first term as prime minister. I was drawn to her unabashed advocacy for entrepreneurship, civil society, individual initiative, and anti-Communism. I admired her unapologetic rejection of the British welfare state, high taxes, industrial policy, and detente with the Soviet Union.

One evening, I was invited to meet Mrs. Thatcher with a dozen or so other young Americans working in Westminster. We gathered in the magnificent, crystal-chandeliered Pugin Room in the Palace of Westminster overlooking the Thames. As twilight warmed the windows, Mrs. Thatcher engaged us with her quick wit and enthusiasm. She described human liberty and free market capitalism as the essential foundation for achievement of humankind's greatest aspirations. She explained how government control and statism stymied limits on personal growth and societal advancement. Though it lasted less than 40 minutes, the meeting made a lifelong impression.

      After graduation, I spent three years in Nashville, Tennessee, mostly living with two buddies in a ramshackle apartment building adjacent to Centennial Park. I studied law at Vanderbilt University during the week and listened to country music in bars on weekends. In September 1984, I began work on Wall Street as a first-year associate lawyer at the prominent law firm of Mudge Rose Alexander and Ferdon, where Richard Nixon had once been a partner. I had accepted the offer to train as a corporate lawyer, but, after nine months, I was still spending six days a week drafting municipal bond indentures. I left for an even more venerable New York City practice, Curtis Mallet-Prevost, Colt & Mosle.

      Joining Curtis Mallet proved an important move. And not just for my career. The same week I started, so did a comic and kindhearted woman who caught my eye. Regina Beyel, from Long Island's Suffolk County, worked evenings as a floor secretary at the firm to earn tuition at New York's Hunter College, where she was studying to be a teacher. As a young associate I worked a lot of late nights—even when it wasn't necessary, as I gradually fell in love with Regina. In the fall of 1988, while we were dating, the firm asked me to do an extended stint in London. They pressed me for a quick answer and a start date. So I took courage and proposed, but with the caveat that a “yes” meant moving abroad. Regina said yes to both marriage and what turned out to be a three-year European honeymoon.

      Returning to London was wonderful. We rented a one-bedroom flat just off Kensington High Street, made friends, threw dinner parties, traveled throughout the British Isles and on the Continent and, during England's damp winters, lay by the fireplace to stay warm. In its glow, our marriage was forged.

Dot-Com

      In London in the early 1990s, I started a new program for the firm. Called “An Entrepreneur's Guide to Doing Business in the U.S.,” it was targeted at British tech startups. My law practice grew.

      In a few years, Regina and I moved back to the United States. With her encouragement, I stepped down from Curtis Mallet and launched a boutique law practice representing European emerging technology companies. With my good friend Paul Gleiberman—a brilliant lawyer—Giancarlo & Gleiberman grew rapidly to 14 lawyers, with offices in New York and Washington.

      Regina and I then started our family. Within a space of four years, Emma, Luke, and Henry were born. At the firm, Regina did the billing and bookkeeping. She'd bring our babies with her and let them sleep in drawers pulled out of file cabinets. Our client numbers increased. We moved on up the road, acquiring a ramshackle, shingle style 1897 Victorian house in a quiet neighborhood in northern Bergen county. The house had no insulation, air conditioning, finished basement or garage, but it had charm. We set about repairing and restoring it room by room. Whatever it lacked, it had an abundance of children's laughter, hearty Sunday suppers, and a warm welcome to every visitor.

The 1997–2000 Internet bubble was then inflating. To handle the enormous workload, I merged my New York practice into Brown Raysman, a trailblazing, tech-focused law firm started by the innovative Peter Brown and Richard Raysman. With their support, I cofounded the first ever legal journal of online financial trading.¹

Not long afterward, I represented a group of investors led by Michael Adam, a brilliant pioneer of automated market trading.² I advised them in acquiring Fenics, then and now, a widely used tool to price and trade currency options. In early 2000, Fenics retained a large investment bank to conduct its initial public offering in London. Again with Regina's encouragement, I took a leave of absence from Brown Raysman to manage the IPO. I found a flat in London and immediately went to work. The stock market was approaching a historic high. It was a frantic period, with weekdays spent in London and weekends in New Jersey.

Suddenly, alas, it was over. On April 14, 2000, US stocks plummeted 9%, capping off five days of stunning losses that handed the Nasdaq composite index a 25% loss, its then worst weekly performance СКАЧАТЬ