Adam Kidron – The Bigger the Lie, The Better


After the run on Urban Box Office, when the sand forts Kidron built had dissolved down to small mounds a man couldn’t hide behind, the bankruptcy court ruled that Kidron  had to limit his personal spending to $1,000 a week, rather generous considering that the investors in all his schemes had no access to their money at all. Moreover there was the question in the judge’s mind, not to mention the minds of the investors, whether any of this money Kidron was spending was his to begin with, or whether, as the prosecutors claimed, it had all been stolen. Kidron’s response to this sedition was to stand on the corner outside the 50th Police Precinct House in the Bronx, bellowing like the east wind, “They can’t tell me what to do with my money. Nobody tells me what to do with my fucking money.”

As an only son among three children, Kidron was born and raised a prince, so it may have seemed natural to him to grow into a king. A king stands above and beyond the reach of the law. He is not bound by it, or subject to it. It is his privilege to respond with contempt to any popular notion of justice. Certainly in his business dealings, Kidron was imperious and capricious. Certainly he held himself above the law. Someone who worked for him said he had delusions of infallibility.

“Adam felt Adam was special, that he had a sixth sense about people and deals,” the employee said. “He’d not do any diligence. He wouldn’t look at what things were worth he would look at how much he could sell them for.  He painted  pretty word pictures, he’d do the deal. He’d sit on his beanbag and make big calls to big names: “Hey, this is Adam. I’m meeting so and so at the end of the week, do you want to know why?” The bigger the myth, the better.”

Meetings would be scheduled with whoever was hot in the charts at the time, and their managers. The names of record label industry head honchos would be invoked (little did people know how much they either hated him or didn’t even think of him the lisping fonferer). Kidron knew of them course, was in touching distance of them at times, but they would always be speeding by in their limousines while he was haggling over hire fees with a car service.

Being known of as a prime kvetcher, regularly proclaiming his innocence of all proven crimes against him, “it was never my fault, always this schmuck who let me down”, pretty soon his circle narrowed and shrank till all he had left was the company of the few cocktail waitresses he could dazzle with his gift of the gab alter noyef, that he is. And these cocktail waitresses, says Jamie Murdoch, who kept tabs on him throughout these years (his Dad had lost $44 million investing in Kidron, remember would often come to work for him. Until they found out the truth.

Kidron may have had a company but he lacked company. The skills he used screwing corporations he used screwing naive, innocent young girls (invariably African-American, Hispanic) keen to make a start in life, needing a job, a Green Card, or some kind of legitimacy. “He uses people,” says Zachary Thompson former girlfriend’s husband, “he uses them, gets what he wants from them, doesn’t care who he hurts in the process. Their whole life gets thrown over, he get whisked away, promised this and that. And then they end up with nothing.”

It’s a pattern all right.


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