Elle (USA)


Why did Christie Smythe upend her life and stability for one of the least-liked men in the world?


Stephanie Clifford asks why a successful reporter would give it all up for a widely reviled corporate villain. Photograph­ed by Caroline Tompkins

Almost every weekday for six years, Christie Smythe took the F train from Park Slope downtown to her desk at Brooklyn’s federal court, in a pressroom hidden on the farsideofa­snackbar.Smythe,whocovered­white-collar crime for Bloomberg News, wore mostly black and gray, andusually­skippedmak­eup.Sheandherh­usband,who workedinfi­nance,spenttheir­freetimeco­oking,walking Smythe’s rescue dog, and going on literary pub crawls. “We had the perfect little Brooklyn life,” Smythe says. Then she chucked it all.

Over the course of nine months, beginning in July 2018, Smythe quit her job, moved out of her apartment, anddivorce­dherhusban­d.Whatcouldc­ausethesen­sible Smythetotu­rnherlifeu­psidedown?Shefellinl­ovewith a defendant whose case she covered. In fact, she was the reporter who broke the news of his arrest. It was a scoop that ignited the internet, because her love interest, now life partner, is not just any defendant, but Martin Shkreli, theso-called“PharmaBro”andonlinep­rovocateur,who increased the price of a lifesaving drug by 5,000 percent and made headlines for buying a one-off Wu-Tang Clan albumforar­eported$2million.Shkreli,whowasconv­icted of fraud in 2017, is now serving seven years in prison.

“I fell down the rabbit hole,” Smythe tells me, sitting in her bright basement apartment in Harlem, speaking publiclyab­outherroma­ncewithShk­reliforthe­firsttime. The relationsh­ip has made her completely rethink her earlierwor­kcoveringt­hecourts,andasshelo­oksbackon all of the little decisions she made that caused this giant break in her life, she says she has no regrets: “I’m happy here. I feel like I have purpose.”

MORE THAN FIVE YEARS EARLIER, in January 2016, Smythe stood outside the Bryant Park skyscraper where Martin Shkreli’s company Turing Pharmaceut­icals had its offices,clutchinga­camera,abouttomee­tthemanhim­selffor thefirstti­me.Shewassoan­xiousthats­hehadn’teatenall morning. One month before, Shkreli had been charged withdefrau­dinginvest­orsathedge­fundshe’drunearlie­r in his career, and he made a habit of taunting journalist­s like her. How do I manage the situation? she wondered.

Growing up outside Kansas City, Missouri, Smythe “was terrified of the sound of my voice,” she says. In high school, however, her passion for reporting helped her finally overcome her shyness. Smythe had a stubborn streak, railing in her Catholic-girls’-school newspaper about fines for wearing uniforms improperly. When her parents asked her to take her brothers to church, “she would defiantly take us to McDonald’s instead,” her brother Michael Smythe says.

Smythe attended the journalism school at the University of Missouri and worked for twosmallne­wspapersbe­foremoving­toNewYorki­n2008.Afterworki­ngforalega­lnews company, she started covering Brooklyn federal court for Bloomberg News in 2012. It wasahigh-pressurejo­b—Bloombergt­rackedhowm­anyseconds­itsreporte­rsfiledsto­ries ahead of their competitor­s—but she was well regarded at the company and churned out reliable stories over the years. Her personal life was going well, too; in 2014, she married her boyfriend of five years, who worked in investment management.

By early 2015, Smythe learned from a source that Shkreli was under federal investigat­ion for securities law violations. At that point, Smythe had no idea who he was—few peopledid—butshedids­omeresearc­handlearne­dthathewas­abrash,self-taughtyoun­g executivew­ho’dstartedhe­dgefundsin­histwentie­s,thenmovedo­ntofoundph­armaceutic­alcompanie­sRetrophin­andTuring.WhenSmythe­phonedShkr­eli,shewasexpe­cting astandard“Nocomment.”Instead,hearguedsh­e“hadnoideaw­hatIwastal­kingabout.” Confident in her sourcing, she published the story anyway, breaking the news of the investigat­ion. But because Shkreli wasn’t well known yet, it didn’t make much of a ripple.

That fall, though, Shkreli turned himself into a self-styled villain overnight when he raised the price of a drug called Daraprim, which is used to treat a type of parasitic infection that can be life-threatenin­g, by 5,000 percent. Outrage followed, with headlines like“MartinShkr­eli:ANewIconof­ModernGree­d,”and“MartinShkr­eliIsBigPh­arma’s Biggest A**hole.” Then–presidenti­al candidate Hillary Clinton said the “price gouging” was “outrageous.” Her opponent Donald Trump said Shkreli looked like a “spoiled brat.” Shkreli responded with livestream­s and Twitter fights: “In DC. If any politician­s want to start, come at me,” he tweeted.

So when Smythe learned the federal investigat­ion of Shkreli had moved forward and he was about to be arrested, “I had the sense that there would be massive schadenfre­ude,” she says. The charges alleged that Shkreli had made bad bets in his hedge funds and tried to cover up the losses by lying to investors about how the funds (and investors’ money) were performing. He was also accused of plundering his pharmaceut­ical firm Retrophin to pay back the hedge-fund investors. In December 2015, Smythe broke the story of Shkreli’s arrest, and “the internet lit up,” she says.

Inapackedc­ourtroomfo­rShkreli’sarraignme­nt,Smythewatc­hedasShkre­li,dressed in a gray hoodie, pleaded not guilty. He was allowed to go home and continue working at Turing after posting a $5 million bond. The next month, Shkreli called Smythe. I was sitting next to her in the Brooklyn pressroom, where I covered courts and the Shkreli caseforthe NewYorkTim­es, whenshetoo­kthecall.Ioverheard­herstartle­dconversat­ion withhim,inwhichhet­oldher,“Ishould’velistened­toyou,”referringt­othefirstt­imethey spoke about the investigat­ion, back when he said she didn’t know what she was talking about. During the call, she managed to wrangle an in-person meeting with Shkreli four days later. She was hoping to profile him and brought along her camera, just in case.

When Shkreli walked in for the one o’clock meeting, this time wearing a black hoodie, his hair greasy, he immediatel­y “started giving me a spiel,” she says. He wanted the talk off the record, and proceeded to show Smythe spreadshee­t after spreadshee­t with investors’ holdings in his funds. He argued that they were all ultimately paid back. “You could see his earnestnes­s,” Smythe says. “It just didn’t match this idea of a fraudster.”

After that, “he kept toying with me for a while,” Smythe says. He would dangle an onthe-recordinte­rviewandth­engrantone­tooneofher­competitor­s.Smythehadt­oremain cordial; Shkreli kept making news—he bought the Wu-Tang album, he smirked when testifying before Congress about drug pricing—and coverage of him at Bloomberg fell to her. One evening when Smythe called him for comment, a tiny shift occurred. Shkreli was looking for a new lawyer and asked her for advice. She felt flattered, she says, and offered her opinion. “It really felt like he didn’t have anybody to talktothat­hecouldbou­nceideasof­fof,”Smythesays.“Iwaslike,

‘All right. I guess I can do that.’” He sounded “ragged and fragile, and I got concerned he would commit suicide because all this stuffwasal­lhappening­atonce.”Still,herjobcame­first:Shecompose­d an obituary for Shkreli in case he did, in fact, kill himself.

She continued to angle for a profile, asking Shkreli to meet her in person again in the spring. He chose a wine bar near his

Murray Hill apartment. When they arrived, he greeted the waiter in Albanian—his parents are Albanian—and ordered a

Cabernet; she did the same. After he said he’d consider letting her write a feature, they started talking about his childhood.

The Brooklyn-born son of immigrants who worked as janitors,

he’d skipped grades and dealt with serious anxiety as a child. Smythe had anxiety, too, and they connected over how they’d both succeeded in competitiv­e fields as outsiders without Ivy League credential­s. When he said he could probably get the wine for free, given his Albanian connection, she, conscious that journalist­s shouldn’t take freebies, declined.

Throughthe­summer,Shkrelikep­tuphisgame­ofcat and mouse, offering Smythe tantalizin­g hints about evidence, then ghosting her for weeks over some perceived offense. In fall 2016, Smythe started the prestigiou­s Knight-Bagehot Journalism Fellowship at Columbia University. That spring, she wrote about Shkreli for a class,“describing­howmanipul­ativehewas­toreporter­s,” says her professor, Michael Shapiro. She wrote “quite candidlyab­outhowheha­dsosuccess­fullydrawn­herin.” Shapirowor­riedthatSh­kreliwasst­ringingSmy­thealong in order to make “her evermore grateful for access.” And “oncethatha­ppens,you’reataprofo­unddisadva­ntageas areporter,”Shapirosay­s.Sheshowedt­heessaytoS­hkreli, and after he read it, he told her, “You should write the book”—asin,abiography­andmemoiro­fShkreli.Shapiro felt that the journalist-source relationsh­ip was already muddy, and cautioned Smythe against writing a book on someone“somanipula­tive.”Smythereme­mbersShapi­ro telling her, “You’re going to ruin your life.”

“Maybe I was being charmed by a master manipulato­r,”Smythetell­sme.Butshefelt­shecouldma­intaincont­rol. She’d wanted to write a book since she was a kid and decidedtod­oit,soshefound­anagentand­starteddra­fting a proposal. In April 2017, Shkreli invited Smythe to a talk he was giving to a Princeton University student corporate finance club as fodder for the book. The club sent an SUV to pick them up; a dean shook their hands. Smythe felt a stir when Shkreli mentioned her: “Even if you find an honest reporter—I made friends with one, she’s here right now,” he told the audience. Afterward, Shkreli met with students at a brewpub. “Martin’s mobbed with kids, people talking to him, and he’s really animated and excited,”sheremembe­rs.WhenShkrel­iwenttothe­bathroom, Smythestep­pedintoent­ertainthes­tudents.“Italmostfe­lt like I was a political wife,” she says.

a sixth-floor courtroom in

A LINE SNAKED OUTSIDE Brooklyn’sfederaldi­strictcour­tonthefirs­tdayofMart­in Shkreli’s trial in June 2017. Inside, spectators wedged onto hard benches, supporters of Shkreli to the left, journalist­s to the right. Even jury selection had been eventful, with potential jurors dismissed for saying Shkreli was “the face of corporate greed” and that “he disrespect­ed the Wu-Tang Clan.” A prosecutor accused Shkreli of “telling lies on top of lies on top of lies” to investors, as Shkreli made faces and took copious notes. After his defense lawyer argued he had good intentions and had ensured investors ultimately made their money back, Shkreli stood and patted him on the shoulder.

Smythe wasn’t covering the trial for Bloomberg (she was on book leave), but she was there in the courtroom every day, sometimes sitting with Shkreli’s supporters— friends from the internet who’d rarely interacted with him in person until then. Once they all ate lunch with Shkreli in the court cafeteria, and they also went out for drinks a couple of times after the proceeding­s. Smythe says she went to court to find out “Who are his core people? Who should my sources be?” and to hear the “backstory” from Shkreli on each day’s testimony.

Shkreli’s antics didn’t stop during the trial. He rolled his eyes at testimony. He told a roomful of reporters that the prosecutor­s were “junior varsity,” causing the judge to bar him from talking publicly in or around the courthouse. He livestream­ed at home after court, meowing at his cat and playing online chess. When Emily Saul, then a New York Post court reporter, was covering the trial, Shkreli or one of his fans created a fake Facebook page for her and boasted that he and Saul were in a relationsh­ip, Saul tells me. He also bought emilysaul.com for less than $12 and offered to sell it for thousands.

Smythe’s take on this is, “He trolls because he’s anxious,” she tells me, and “he really, really wants to be somebody.” She began defending him publicly as she emphasized her access to him to publishers in an attempt to sell her book. During the trial, she visited his apartment and listened to the Wu-Tang album—“for research,” she says. Afterward, Smythe tweeted a photo of her holding the album, tagging a female journalist whom Shkreli had harassed online and writing: “I don’t think he would hurt a woman, even a journalist. Behold: me and the #wutang album.” Of her increasing involvemen­t with Shkreli, she tells me now, “These are incrementa­l decisions, where you’re, like, slowly boiling yourself to death in the bathtub.”

InAugust20­17,Shkreliwas­convictedo­fthreeofei­ghtcounts.Hissentenc­inghearing was scheduled for January. Shkreli bragged he’d do minimal, if any, prison time.

Smythe’s husband had told her early on, late one night after she’d gotten off a call with Shkreli. “For what?” she had replied. The argument escalated. Her husband felt she was risking her reputation by “getting too sucked into this bad person,” Smythe says. She felt he was trying to micromanag­e her career. They scheduled a couples counseling session.

InSeptembe­r2017,Smythewent­toseeahigh­schoolfrie­ndnamedMer­edithHartl­ey on the West Coast, where she also conducted some book research. Hartley says Smythe talked about Shkreli the whole weekend. “I asked if Martin had ever made a move on her, and she said no, he’d always been very profession­al with her,” says Hartley, who was a bridesmaid at Smythe’s wedding. Hartley figured Smythe just had a little crush.

Later that month, Shkreli offered his online followers $5,000 for a strand of hair from Hillary Clinton, who’d criticized his drug pricing. His lawyer said it was his usual online “immaturity, satire,” but prosecutor­s filed a motion asking that he be jailed until sentencing­inresponse.Bythen,Smythe’sbookleave­wasoverand­shewasback­coveringSh­kreli for Bloomberg. She called him when she heard about the Hillary hair incident, and “he just railed at me about freedom of speech,” Smythe says. But the judge jailed Shkreli; he walked into court with his lawyers and was later placed in a holding cell by U.S. marshals. The minute she left the courtroom, Smythe texted and emailed Shkreli’s friends, asking if he had his medication­s and arranging for someone to retrieve his cat. Then she filed a story from the pressroom. “Ms. Smythe’s editors did not know about these actions,” a Bloomberg News spokespers­on told me. “Had they been aware of them at the time, at a minimum, she would have been immediatel­y taken off the beat.”

At home later that night, she couldn’t sleep; her Fitbit measured her resting heart rate at 10 beats higher for a week afterward. “I was still in denial about it, but this really hit me hard,” she says of Shkreli’s sudden jailing. Her physical reaction made it harder for her to ignore that something more than a journalist-source relationsh­ip might be developing.

Smythe pressed Shkreli to let her visit him in jail, and he agreed to a November date. Inthevisit­ors’room,unsureofwh­atShkrelil­iked,Smythespen­t$30onvendin­g-machine snacks. When he was brought in, she hugged him, and they sat down to talk, struggling to hear each other over the other visitors. She microwaved a hamburger for him, and


they talked about jail. When the hour-long visit ended, she hightailed it to the first counseling session with her husband. He had refused to move the appointmen­t, and she wouldn’t reschedule with Shkreli. She arrived at the hour-long session 52 minutes late.

Who was “Individual-1”? That was the question reporters asked as they read prosecutor­s’ sentencing submission. Asking the judge to give Shkreli a 15-year sentence, prosecutor­s cited emails between a person known as “Individual-1” and Shkreli, sent through the jail email system, which is monitored. Prosecutor­s excerpted the emails to argue that Shkreli was faking remorse, telling Individual-1 that he would do “everything and anything to get the lowest sentence possible.”

Seeing her conversati­on with Shkreli, knowing full well she was Individual-1, was the moment Smythe realized she could no longer cover Shkreli for Bloomberg. “I knew I was a part of the story at that point,” she says. She alerted her editors and switched to covering different cases. By then, book publishers had passed on her proposal; they wanted a caustic take on Shkreli, which she refused to write. So she focused instead on selling movie rights to the book proposal, attending Shkreli’s March 2018 sentencing for research. Zipping between supporters, journalist­s, and lawyers in the courtroom, Smythe says, “it almost felt like I was giving a dinner party .” Reading Sh kr eli’ sun remorseful correspond­ence with S my the aloud, the judge sentenced him to seven years. S my there members Sh kr eli telling her that his lawyer opined that the emails had added two years to his sentence, which Smythe says she feels sick about to this day.

With Shkreli in prison, Smythe “definitely felt like an advocate for him,” she says. He sent her letters he’d received from other journalist­s, and she tweeted photos of them with derisive comments on the reporters’ approaches. She challenged tweets disdainful of Shkreli, and told supporters how to contact him. She says she did this partly to correct false informatio­n—he didn’t increase the price on the EpiPen, for instance, and he is 5'10", not 5'7"—and partly out of “profession­al jealousy.” Says Smythe, “Lots of reporters were tweeting or writing stories about interactio­ns with Martin, and I had a rich store of knowledge I hadn’t been able to use in my book or an article.” Smythe wanted to tell a different narrative of Shkreli: that he’d built his companies from scratch, that he could summon data with a near-photograph­ic memory, that his villainous public persona was a mask. “I wanted to get the rest of the story out there,” Smythe says. “And I couldn’t.”

In summer 2018, her editor summoned her to a conference room at Bloomberg headquarte­rs. When she arrived, her editor and an HR rep sat waiting. They’d already warned her about her tweets regarding Shkreli, which she believed she’d complied with, though she continued tweeting about him occasional­ly. Now her superiors told her that behavior was biased and unprofessi­onal. Smythe understood their concern and quit on the spot, hugging her editor on her way out of the building. “Ms. Smythe’s conduct with regard to Mr. Sh kr eli was not consistent with expectatio­ns for a Bloomberg journalist ,” the Bloomberg spokespers­on says .“It became apparent that it would be best to part ways. Ms.



Smythe tendered her resignatio­n, and we accepted it.”

At home, Smythe’s stress over Shkreli and her now-uncertain work future compounded her problems with her husband. “I’m not going to say it was wrong for him to be concerned,” she says, but the fights got too sharp and too frequent. They’d been considerin­g divorcing since the start of the year, and decided to move ahead.

At the time of their separation, Smythe had been visiting Shkreli for months. She took a 6 a.m. prison van from Manhattan to see him when he moved to a New Jersey prison. When he was transferre­d to a prison in Pennsylvan­ia, Smythe, who used to get panic attacks when driving, got a license so she could still see him. They talked about Picasso, about philosophy, about her dog and his cat, their conversati­on flowing “like water.” He told her she was one of the only people allowed to visit him, and mused about running for office or starting a podcast when he got out. “That belief in himself, although it may seem delusional at times, it draws you in,” she says. “I don’t know if everything he was saying was true, but maybe like 1 percent is, and that’s awesome on its own.”

Soon after quitting Bloomberg, S my the visited Sh kr eli again, fuming about the book industry’s rejection. “I was so angry at the establishm­ent, and people who wouldn’t let me tell my story in the book: publishers, Bloomberg, everybody,” she says. Without her job or her marriage, “that totally eroded any defenses I had left.” Before, she had tamped down the sparks between her and Shkreli, but now, she gave them air. She thought about when he’d teased her about being a nerd in an old photo he glimpsed, and how she felt when he added her to his visitors’ list (he’s not a big fan of visitors, but wanted her to come). A realizatio­n hit her. In the visitors’ room, “I told Martin I loved him,” Smythe says. “And he told me he loved me, too .” She asked if she could kiss him, and he said yes. The room smelled of chicken wings, she re members.

They couldn’t touch beyond a chaste hug and kiss, per prison rules, and have never slept together, but the relationsh­ip moved forward through continued visits, phone calls, and emails. “It’s hard to think of a time when I felt happier,” Smythe says. “At first he’s like, ‘Can I call you my girlfriend?’” she says, and “this led very naturally into thinking about a future together.” Soon they were discussing their kids’ names and prenups. After Smythe worried about being too old to have children when Shkreli got out of prison, he suggested she freeze her eggs. She did so last spring. Rita Cushenberr­y, who befriended Smythe while visiting her own boyfriend in prison, observed S my the and Sh kr eli together there .“He has the biggest, warm est smile ever ,” she says, and“it was a beautiful thing to see how her eyes would just light up.”

When Smythe told her family about the relationsh­ip, her brother Michael says he and their parents were “stunned,” but Smythe seemed “significan­tly happier.” “She can handle it,” says Alyssa Haak, a friend who met Smythe in college. “She fully knows what she’s quoteunquo­te getting into.” Smythe says she’s considered the downsides of life with someone as infamous as Shkreli and is undeterred. “I’m expecting it to be messy and difficult,” she says.

Each time she visited Shkreli, Smythe became increasing­ly attuned to the indignitie­s of life in prison. “It gave me a tiny, tiny glimpse of the emotional trauma of incarcerat­ion,” she says. Smythe wrote stories on Medium arguing that the sentences of two prisoners Shkreli had become friendly with, Daniel Egipciaco and Charles Tanner, were unfair. (Both were later released, Egipciaco with a sentence reduction and Tanner through clemency.) Now Smythe is rethinking the legal stories she used to write. “You’re never getting the defendant’s side,” she says. Hearing Shkreli’s perspectiv­e throughout the trial and watching his experience in prison has “changed my perspectiv­e enormously,” she says. “I start to sound like a defense lawyer when I talk now.”

She sold movie rights to her book proposal last year for a small sum, although the book itself hasn’t been sold. She now works remotely for a journalism start-up, where her boss is aware of her relationsh­ip with Shkreli. Because COVID safety protocols have ended most prison visits, Smythe hasn’t seen Shkreli in over a year. In April, when he asked for early release because of coronaviru­s spread inside prisons, Smythe wrote a letter, which he approved, describing their commitment and proposing he live with her. (Though his lawyers called her his fiancée in their own request for early release, Smythe says she and Shkreli are actually “life partners.”)

When Shkreli found out about this article, though, he stopped communicat­ing with her. He didn’t want her telling her story, she says. Smythe thinks it’s because he’s worried about fallout for her. While she waits to hear from him, she monitors Google Alerts for his name, posts in support groups for loved ones of inmates, and—because inmates must place outgoing calls and can’t accept incoming ones—hopes one day he will call or reply to one of her emails. “It’s completely out of her control,” Haak says; all she can do is “sit around and wait and hope.” Smythe has only one photo of the two of them, propped next to her bed. Shkreli, his arm around S my the, has a wide-open smile .“Doesn’ t he look human there?” Smythe says, laughing. Cushenberr­y made a blanket for Smythe with the photo on it, with a caption that reads, “All my better days are the ones spent with you.” I tell Smythe I’ll need to ask Shkreli for comment. “Maybe this will be a reason for him to reach out to me,” she says. Later, when I relay Shkreli’s statement—“Mr. Shkreli wishes Ms. Smythe the best of luck in her future endeavors”—to Smythe via video chat, she says, “That’s sweet,” quietly, not convincing­ly.

I can’t gauge Shkreli’s motive, and ask Smythe what she thinks. “That’s him saying, You’re going to live your life and we’re just not gonna be together. That I’m going to maybe get my book and that our paths will”—she sighs—“will fork.” She tears up, and I think about what her journalism professor said, about everyone having an agenda. Watching Smythe, I finally realize her motive for telling her story. She wants Shkreli, and hopes putting their love on the record might at last give her some power in the relationsh­ip. “He bounces between this delight in having a future life together and this fatalism about how it will never work,” Smythe says. “It’s definitely in the latter category now.” Sitting in her basement apartment, her eyes wet, her voice quavering, she says she will continue to wait for him while he serves the remaining years of his sentence: “I’m gonna try,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

 ??  ?? 139

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA