(continued)

When Radar paid a visit to the Trans Continental complex in mid-July, the former nerve center of teen pop appeared frozen in a particularly turbulent moment in time. Pearl Steakhouse, where it's said Pearlman routinely ordered three-pound lobsters as appetizers, was empty. Scale replicas of vintage bi- and tri-wing World War I fighter planes emblazoned with the Trans Con logo hung from the ceiling, rebranded props from the complex's kitschy past. In Pearlman's office, shredded documents, canceled checks, Post-it notes, Bop magazines, half-empty grape jelly containers, and a pair of 4XL sweatshorts were strewn about the floor. The walls were covered with posters of US5, Jordan Knight, and other recording artists. A lone Chippendales calendar hung askew near the doorway. Amid the detritus on Pearlman's floor was a youth soccer league's schedule, with games highlighted in hot pink.

Pearlman's financial records had been carted away by federal investigators, and in June, a bankruptcy trustee auctioned off $225,000 worth of platinum records, Pearlman's key to the city, and other tawdry keepsakes. A fire sale of Pearlman's household goods—including furniture, fine china, handguns, and a golf cart version of a Cadillac Escalade—was scheduled for August 25 at press time. Pearlman's Rolls was repossessed in January, and the Orange County Sheriff's Department has seized his Gulfstream V.

As for the rest of the money he allegedly stashed away, no one—aside from Pearlman himself—seems to know where it is. "It's obviously hidden somewhere," says Soneet Kapila, a court-appointed trustee. "It's too early to say where."

Unsurprisingly, J. Cheney Mason, an Orlando attorney, now questions his own role in defending Pearlman against numerous lawsuits (including those brought by the Backstreet Boys and 'N Sync): "This all makes me wonder how valid some of the positions I took were when [plaintiffs] were claiming he was a cheat and fraud."
I would just love to take him and put my hands around his neck and choke him until his eyeballs pop out.Mason thinks Pearlman has only begun to face the music. "My belief is that he's going to be charged with a whole lot more," he says, adding that Pearlman owes him $15.5 million in legal fees. "If he had any concept of reality at all, he'd be directing the bankruptcy court to that money so he could make restitution. I believe he's stashed somewhere between $150 and $200 million." Asked for his theories as to where the cash might be, he laughs. "If I knew, I'd be over there with my shovel getting it myself!"

Many of Pearlman's victims feel the same way. Marie Weber and her husband and mother-in-law initially invested $500,000 in Pearlman's savings program. Her last statement showed a balance of $864,000. Now, she has nothing. The Naples, Florida, couple had earmarked the money to pay for their son's college education and the mortgage on their retirement home in Georgia. "This man, I just would like to look him in the eye and ask him how in the world could he enjoy his life," Weber says, tearfully. "I would just love to take him and put my hands around his neck and choke him until his eyeballs pop out."

These days, the man who once lived it up in a six-bedroom, 11 1/2-bathroom mansion occupies an 11-by-7-foot cell in Orlando's Orange County Jail, where he spends an average of 23 hours per day alone, meeting occasionally with his court-appointed public defender. He's allowed thrice-weekly guest visits, and when Radar turns up for one of them, he hobbles to his chair in a bleak videoconference room and squints into a camera, straining to recognize the person on the other end. Though he appears out of breath, he claims he's in great spirits and has been shedding pounds by doing 100 to 200 sit-ups per day. His standard-issue prison jumpsuit is nearly the same shade of blue as his beloved Rolls. His hair is grayish-blond. Though he smiles broadly and frequently, his gaze is darting and suspicious. He's declined all official media requests since being incarcerated, so when I identify myself as a reporter, he seems nervous, politely declining to speak about any specifics relating to his current legal woes. "I'd love to come out about a lot of things," he says. "I think there are things missing from the story. Nobody's heard my side, which is unfortunate, but my lawyer has advised me against talking about anything having to do with the case."

Asked how he thinks the charges will impact his legacy, he softens a bit. "I'm planning on this chapter ending relatively soon," he says. "There are a lot of nice young fans out there who will always love what I've done." He talks about his blimp company—"the first to rival Goodyear," he boasts—and reminisces about his many successes and accolades. "I got the World Award from Mikhail Gorbachev," he says, proudly noting that other recipients include Steven Spielberg and Morgan Freeman. "I got that two years ago at the Hofburg Palace in Vienna."

It's clear Pearlman fancies himself a king in exile, convinced that virtually no amount of wrongdoing can overshadow the contribution he has made to music. The more he talks about his artists, the more relaxed he seems. He even jokes about his diminished circumstances. "It ain't the Four Seasons!" he says in a nasally voice, jiggling a bit with laughter. "This is just one of those hurdles in life that you have to get past," he adds, suddenly serious. "There will be more artists we'll develop in the future. I think the time is right for it again. I mean, the Spice Girls just got back together. The Backstreet Boys are about to get going again. They had a band member quit, but they're about to stage a comeback." Wright, who now represents the group, counters that Pearlman hasn't had a stake in them since 2005. But no one seems to have told Lou, who's eagerly awaiting a reunion. "We are still entitled to a share of the revenue," he says.

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