On paper, Charles Murphy had it all. He was a tall good looking man, father of two, educated at Harvard and MIT — married to a beautiful woman. He lived in a limestone Victorian era mansion in NYC that was for sale for $36 million. He was employed at Paulson and Co. where he was a partner and rubbed shoulders with the elite.
At 4:42pm today, donning a navy blue suit, Charles jumped to his death from the Sofitel Hotel in midtown Manhattan, from the 24th floor.
Why would he do such a thing?
Back in 2008, he fell victim to scumbag Bernie Maddoff and lost an astounding $7.5b in assets from his feeder fund — Fairfield Greenwich — making it the biggest loser in the Madoff scandal. In 2013, Fairfield Greenwich settled a class action suit for $80m for failure to protect client assets. His fatal mistake was believing the horseshit coming out of Bernie’s mouth.
As for his mansion, he bought it in 2007 for $33m. He tried to sell it last year for $50m — but the high price tag didn’t attract buyers. There’s a very limited market for ultra-high end properties. Shortly thereafter, he dropped the price to $36m and is still for sale.
The NY Post reported that his wife had recently crashed their Honda Odyssey, hardly a vehicle befitting a man who lives in a $36m mansion, and couldn’t afford to pay for the damage.
‘She didn’t even have enough money to pay for the damage,’ the attendant said.
At the time before his death, he was being treated for depression.
I can relate to this story, from the perspective of my grandfather. Albeit on a much smaller scale, my grandfather died penniless, after a long life in business. His downfall was two fold. He never saved money. As fast as he made any, he spent it and was very generous with friends and family. As he got older, his capacity to earn money lessened and then he lost his vision. One morning he woke up and he was legally blind. The blood vessels in his eyes had popped, due to high blood pressure, and it rendered him permanently unable to work and earn a living. For the balance of his life, he’d tell me about his regrets and how he blew it all — lamenting over not being able to buy things and instead dependent on social security to finance a meager existence — marooned at home listening to books.
I’ve always wished that I had been born earlier, so that I could’ve helped him with his troubles. When he died, I had just become a stockbroker and was making less than a cashier at the grocery store.
Money has a captivating effect on people. For those who’ve never had it, from afar, it possesses the elixir for all of life’s troubles. But for those who’ve ever made some and lost it, I doubt there are many punishments out there that can test a man’s soul with such harrowing effect. Failure is not losing money, but society often judges those on the size of their donations, model and make of their car, and square footage of their home.
On a personal level, I can think of far greater and more interesting ways to die than bouncing off the fucking pavement. I’d rather head over to Afghanistan and open up a bacon stand than take my own life — go out in style and with vigor.
Rest in piece Mr. Muprhy.
Comments »
