In 2005, I thought I had moved on. I was out of UBS. I had a new life. But the government hadn’t forgotten.
It started with a phone call. Then a press release.
My client had just pled guilty to conspiracy to commit fraud. That release named an “unnamed co-conspirator.” That was me. My attorney called right away. “They want to talk plea,” he said. And then he added something that stayed with me: “You could’ve helped yourself. But you lied. You gave them nothing.”
That lie cost me the one thing I needed most—credibility.
Cooperation Only Matters If You Still Have Something to Offer
By the time the government got around to me, they already had their case.
They’d started at the top. The leader. The one who ran the scheme, controlled the money, knew where the bodies were buried. He cooperated. He told them everything. He gave up records, names, strategy, details. That’s how cooperation works. You give them something valuable, and maybe—maybe—they give you leniency in return.
But I had nothing left to give. Because I had already lied.
And once you lie to the government, you’re done. You don’t get a second swing at cooperation. You don’t get to say, “I didn’t mean it,” or “I panicked.” They move on. They don’t trust you. And the value you might’ve brought? Gone.
Five Years Was the Deal—Because That’s All I Had Left
My lawyer didn’t sugarcoat it.
“You can go to trial. But I won’t be the one to take you, because you’ll lose.” He told me the plea agreement on the table was five years. If I wanted to roll the dice and push for less, there was nothing I could point to—not a letter, not a plan, not even a credible narrative.
I had no leverage. I had no credibility. And I had no cooperation to offer.
And it’s not because I was the worst actor. In fact, the person at the top—the one who brought me into this—got a shorter sentence. Why? Because he worked with the government, and I didn’t. Because he had evidence, and I didn’t. Because he told the truth when I lied.
The First Lie Seals the Sentence
When I first met with the government, I lied. I denied everything. I said I didn’t do anything wrong. I tried to play smart, like I could talk my way out of it. That meeting could’ve been the start of a second chance. It could’ve been the start of my mitigation effort. It could’ve shown I was willing to accept responsibility.
Instead, it proved I couldn’t be trusted.
That meeting ended the possibility of a 5K1 motion. It ended the possibility of a downward departure. It ended the possibility of presenting a different version of myself to the judge—one that was honest, reflective, and ready to make amends.
I thought I was protecting myself. What I did was lock myself into five years.
Judges Read the Whole Story—Not Just the Charges
If you’re reading this, you may still have time. Time to stop the damage. Time to create something credible. Time to prove you understand what happened and why. But that time isn’t endless. And every day you stay passive—every day you think the system will just figure it out—is a day you lose.
If you’ve already lied, your road is harder—but it’s not closed. You can still document your thinking. You can still build a record of effort. You can still show what matters to the people who will decide your sentence.
But if you sit back and do nothing, five years might be your starting point. Just like it was mine.
Ask Yourself One Thing
If the government called you today and said they had your co-conspirator’s guilty plea in hand, and they were naming you next—what would you have to offer?
If you don’t know, or worse, if your answer is “nothing,” it’s time to act.
Join our Tuesday webinar at 11AM Pacific / 2PM Eastern. We’ll show you what judges, probation officers, and BOP staff actually want to see—and how to document it. Or schedule a personal call with us. You don’t have to figure this out alone—but you do have to move.
Justin Paperny
