Couture dulls ordeal of Garcia's son in NY

(NOTE: Here is the conclusion of the article “Fashion’s Night In” of New York society writer Peter Davis, based on his interview last year with Timothy Mark, youngest of three sons of former military comptroller Carlos F. Garcia, who was charged with plunder but was released by the Sandiganbayan on bail Saturday in a plea bargain arrangement. Tim, now 26, was in his apartment in the gilded Trump Plaza at 502 Park Avenue, New York, which was purchased in 2004 with his mother, Clarita, for $765,000. Email me if you want a telling picture of Tim in head-to-toe couture.)

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ON JUNE 8 (last year), Tim Garcia was released from prison on a million-dollar bail. He was despondent and in shock. Then, in a strange twist of fate, he was offered the coveted job as a publicist for Marc Jacobs. He didn’t dare tell the fashion house about his court ordeal, but then Page Six broke the news for him. His bosses at Marc Jacobs didn’t blink.

“I didn’t tell them about my situation. I don’t have a criminal record. They arrested me to put pressure on my family. I’m just fortunate that no one (at Marc Jacobs) cares and if anything, they are very, very compassionate to my situation.”

“My father is a government official in the Philippines,” Garcia explains carefully, his small voice growing deeper. “Basically they are accusing my father of stealing millions and misuse of public funds and me being his son, they locked up his entire family.”

“The picture the Philippines press paints of my family is that we were dirt poor and with my father in this position for two years, we rose to astronomical riches. We are third generation despots in the Philippines.” Garcia pauses and checks his Blackberry, which makes a ping noise every few minutes. He silences his phone. “I can’t actually talk about the legalities of it all because it’s still pending.”

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GARCIA shows me his bedroom, equipped with two flat-screen TVs and a wall of DVDs. By his computer are two vintage Cher dolls. Piled on the floor are a half-dozen orange Hermes boxes. At the bottom of the closet, three gigantic Louis Vuitton suitcases are filled with clothes. By the bathroom door, a rolling rack sags under the weight of a giant pile of couture.

Garcia has been a fashion fiend since he was a kid. He counts YSL by Stefano Pilati, Dior Homme by Kris Van Assche and Marc Jacobs as his favorite labels.

When a student, first at the University of Asia and the Pacific (run by the Opus Dei) in Manila and later at Parsons in New York, he was always dressed to impress. “I’m lacking in closet space,” he says with a groan, waving his small hand at six stuffed YSL garment bags hung from doors. Garcia cherry-picks a new, fitted black Gucci leather jacket, which he mentions Madonna wore. It’s his statement piece for fall.

“Imagine living a comfortable lifestyle and then all of a sudden you’re forced to coexist with armed robbers, organized crime people and people who sell drugs. The cream of the criminal crop.”

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HOUSE ARREST definitely dampers Garcia’s glamorous life. He’s accustomed to being a regular at store parties and nightclubs like The Rose Bar in the Gramercy Park Hotel.

But now, Garcia has a curfew of 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. and is not allowed to leave his apartment on the weekends, except to go to church for two hours on Sunday (a Catholic, he attends the service at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral nearby).

“For Fashion Week, since I am a publicist, they extended my hours. I am allowed to come back at 1 a.m. this week,” he smiles widely. “There is a 30-minute grace period for lateness.” But after that, the Homeguard 200 (a device linked to his phone) alerts the authorities and Garcia could end up back in the slammer.

Despite all the drama, Garcia claims he’s adjusted to the curfew. He orders food from Serafina and Freds, the restaurant at Barneys. Friends visit constantly.

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THE WORST PART is the actual ankle bracelet (an electronic house-arrest monitor). “It’s uncomfortable,” he moans, tugging at the plastic strap. “It hurts when I run at the gym. We have to pay for it too, the whole thing. My lawyer is taking care of it though.”

The ankle bracelet limits Garcia’s fashion choices. “I can’t even wear my knee-high croc boots by Sergio Rossi for the fall,” he laments. “I had to make adjustments with my wardrobe. When it was hot in the summer, I didn’t want to go to Marc Jacobs wearing shorts. I just felt it was in bad taste.”

The forfeiture case against Garcia and his mother was stayed on March 10 to allow the Philippine prosecution and investigation to proceed — and possibly seize the Park Avenue pied-a-terre. While Garcia waits to see whether he will lose his apartment, his bank accounts and be extradited back to the Philippines, he continues to work hard at Marc by Marc Jacobs.

On his bedside table, under a fashion book by the street style photographer “The Sartorialist” sits “You Don’t Have to Be Famous: How to Write Your Own Life Story.” Garcia plans to pen a book about his family’s whole ordeal. But for the time being, he goes on with his normal life.

He saunters into the bathroom and sprays on his favorite scent, Armani Mania. It’s hard to imagine Garcia, now decked out in couture, in the prison garb he wore last spring. “I was in an orange jumpsuit and then after a month, they changed it to khaki,” he tells me, hanging up the “Madonna” Gucci jacket. “I will never wear a jumpsuit in my life.” His slight shoulders shiver. “The thought of that jumpsuit just makes me cringe.”

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