J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  The contrast between Cooper and J.T. was striking. Cooper was the epitome of how a Wall Street lawyer should look: dark blue pinstriped suit, metal-frame glasses, rep tie, plain brown shoes. And the coat and hat Cooper wore in the street were superb examples of eclat: a black Chesterfield with velvet collar and an aged, wrinkled fedora. Those battered fedoras were really the badge, the panache of the Wall Street law-firm denizens. If you could handle wearing a hat that didn’t match your coat, and appeared literally to have been run over by a car, then you passed the first test. You really looked Wall Street. J.T., on the other hand, didn’t look Wall Street at all. He wore no-style, odd-colored suits, penny loafers that he never shined from date of purchase, and a trench coat in winter snow or summer rain, belted with a knot around his waist.

  In addition to the sartorial difference, J.T. and Cooper were a physical contrast. Cooper had pale, almost transparent skin, slicked-down hair parted close to the center of his head, thin slices of lips. He would have looked a Wall Streeter in the nude. J.T. never could resolve, in his own mind, whether Wall Street lawyers looked as they did because they thought this appearance marked them apart from everyone else, or because they were so out of touch with the real world that they didn’t realize how other people looked and behaved. Either way, J.T. figured, they were pure phony. He learned in a very short while that he didn’t much enjoy the company or style on Wall Street.

  “Can you sit in on the conference?” Cooper asked.

  J.T. shrugged. “I’m working on this other matter, the one out of Syracuse. The infringement of a dictating-equipment patent.”

  This work was tedious bullshit, J.T. thought. Contracts, patents, claims against RBM, all requiring him to read masses of paper. That was another thing J.T. discovered. Law firms here on Wall Street buried each other in paper like pigs burying each other in mud. Not all the work the young lawyers produced was brilliant or even clever, but there was a lot of it, all heavily documented. Everything that happened had a memo and a time bill attached to it. And this procedure was slow, ponderous. The pace was entirely too slow for J.T. He wanted action, not papers, not memos.

  “Perhaps you could sit in for a minute or two,” suggested Cooper. “It would really be stunning. If the other side realizes that you are going to try the case against them, they’ll choke.”

  “What time?”

  “About two thirty.”

  “I’ll try to make it,” J.T. said to Cooper.

  “Splendid.”

  J.T. watched the empty door frame after Cooper left. He wondered how, in so short a time, he could find this work so totally bland and boring. He just had to get used to it, he said to himself, looking down and beginning to read a memo for the fourth time, a memo by one of the junior members of the firm about a meeting with attorneys from Cadwallader, Wickersham & Taft, who represented Taylor Aluminum. The two companies had an ongoing disagreement over a contract that required Taylor to supply metals for RBM’s manufacturing needs. The cost of manufacturing and raw material had risen dramatically, and Taylor wanted to pass the increase on to RBM. Naturally, RBM didn’t want to pay the increase.

  J.T. yawned and stretched as he rose to his feet. He walked out of his office, along the corridor that led to the elevator to heaven, as the twenty-sixth floor was known.

  The decor became noticeably plusher as J.T. walked past the more expensive secretaries at more expensive desks, past larger, more impressive offices. He was walking through the private preserve of the senior partners, the ones who shared the substantial booty remaining after all the members, associates, lawyers, clerks, secretaries, and librarians were paid. J.T. stopped at Chauncey Delafield’s office. Delafield’s secretary, an older woman with glasses, buzzed Delafield, then told J.T. he could go in.

  “Hello, J.T.,” said Delafield. He had a copy of The New York Times spread before him on the desk. “What brings you to these parts?”

  “Had to take a break from the reading.”

  “Got you poring over many a volume of forgotten law, eh?”

  “I wish somebody had forgotten some of these contracts,” said J.T. “I’ve been here a couple of months and have yet to get off the chair at my desk except to go to the men’s room. My eyes, my rear end, and my brain are all going soft.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Delafield laughed.

  “I’m starting to feel like I’m a copy editor instead of a lawyer. I’m just reading RBM contracts.”

  “Don’t bite the hand that feeds us,” Delafield said mockingly.

  “I know, I know. But any law-school student could do what I’m doing. Remember what Mr. Reynolds told me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Men think, machines work.’”

  “Ah, yes. I get it.” Delafield looked at his watch. “To tell you the truth, the reading bores the bejesus out of me too. How about an early lunch?”

  “I have to be back about two fifteen to pound my chest like King Kong in front of some adversaries.”

  “We’ll make it,” Delafield said. “Let’s go to the Lawyers Club. This way we won’t have to fight the traffic all the way to ‘21.’ We’ll drink fast.” They walked toward the door. “Of course, I should know better than to talk drinking to you. I have to tell you honestly, J.T., you are the most boring drinking partner I ever met in my life.”

  J.T. laughed.

  “I’m going to lunch,” Delafield said to his secretary.

  “Yes, sir. Don’t forget that you have an appointment at two thirty with Mr. DeValen.”

  “Very well.” They walked toward the elevators. “DeValen was asking for you, J.T. Do you know him?”

  “Don’t you remember? We met the night of the dinner party at the Reynoldses.”

  “Of course. How could I forget?” Delafield laughed. “The woman with the …” Delafield made a discreet motion toward his own bosom. “Archie and I got a little smashed,” he said just as an empty elevator arrived. “DeValen was asking for you, saying how delighted he was that you were with the firm now, and that if possible, he’d like you to work on his matters.”

  “That was kind of him.”

  “He’s involved in some new corporate machination, taking over other companies, paying them with their own stock. I don’t know exactly how he does it, but whatever it is, it works.”

  The elevator reached the ground level.

  “Perhaps it might be more interesting for you to work on some of his matters. It isn’t court work, but it might be a change of pace.”

  “Sounds interesting. I’d like to try it,” said J.T.

  “I think we can arrange to have some of his work transferred to you.”

  They walked along Broad Street, past the old Treasury Building with the bronze statue of George Washington on its steps, in the spot where he had taken the oath of office as president. At Broadway, St. Paul’s dark bell-tower overlooked an ancient graveyard; Alexander Hamilton was buried there.

  The Lawyers Club was just north of St. Paul’s.

  “Do you think there’ll be much court work for me, sir?” J.T. asked as the elevator rose toward the dining room.

  “I’m sure there will be. Fact is. ” The elevator door opened and they were greeted by a maitre d’ who escorted them to a table. Delafield ordered his usual drink. J.T. ordered a vermouth cassis.

  “Vermouth cassis? By God, J.T., you’re a pisser.”

  J.T. just grinned, with a little shrug. “You were saying about the court cases.”

  “Oh, yes. You have already saved us from a couple of cases in court. You didn’t even know about it. But our adversaries know that you’re with the firm. And threatening them, with you as our tomahawk, has worked quite well.”

  The drinks arrived, and J.T. and Delafield placed their lunch orders.

  “Cheers,” said Delafield, hoisting his glass. J.T. sipped at the vermouth cassis. It wasn’t too bad, he thought.

  “Of course, that probably doesn’t satisfy your thirst for blood,
I know. But you’ve only been here two months. We’ll have some court for you.”

  “Does DeValen’s work have to do with court?”

  “Not at the moment. It’s mostly stock … I guess the word is ‘manipulation,’ but I don’t want it to sound sinister. He thinks up high-finance schemes that put ten or twelve companies together under one roof—his, of course. That’s what he’s doing now. Getting more companies.”

  Delafield ordered another drink. He looked to see if J.T. wanted another, saw J.T.’s glass practically untouched, and frowned.

  “I never asked this before,” said J.T., “but if I were to get some cases, clients who came to me because they know me or know of me, would I be able to handle them in the office?”

  “Perhaps. It would depend.”

  “Depend on what?”

  “On how much the fee was. If the fee was substantial, then I imagine you could. Of course, the fee would be paid to the firm. You would be recompensed for having brought the business to the firm by way of a bonus or raise in salary.”

  J.T. nodded.

  “You have some prospective clients?”

  “No. Just wondering. Now that I’m out in private practice, perhaps people who saw me and were impressed might look me up.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  Delafield had two more drinks. By the end of lunch, he was robust, red-cheeked, and quite affable. They walked back to the office.

  The lunch crowds were gone, but the sidewalks were still quite crowded with messengers, salesmen, brokers, buyers, sellers, all kinds of people hustling and bustling to get somewhere before the market closed. Lawyers, clients, and clerks rushing to get to or from court. This area was always filled with people during the work day.

  “When you finish pounding your chest, J.T.,” said Delafield as they rode up in the elevator, “come to my office. DeValen will be there.”

  “Great,” said J.T., envisioning corporate empires as the elevator door closed. His vision disappeared as he walked back to his office. All those dreary documents were still piled on his desk.

  November 20, 1961

  DeValen’s blue limousine coursed slowly, languidly through the blaring, hectic canyon of Park Avenue. The sound and confusion outside, however, could not penetrate the thick glass windows. The car was opulent—actually ostentatious—complete with a telephone, a built-in bar with cut-crystal glasses and decanters, and a chauffeur. The DeValen coat of arms was discreetly painted on the rear doors. J.T. had a ginger ale as DeValen sipped a Scotch and water.

  “I’m glad Chauncey had you in on the conference this afternoon,” DeValen said. He wore a two-button suit of silk mohair, and a diamond pinky ring. “I liked your style on television, and when I met you I knew that you’d be right for the kind of work I’m doing.”

  “You only talked with me for a minute, then rushed off to Le Club,” said J.T.

  “Wonderful. You have a superior memory as well.”

  “I’d never heard of Le Club before your wife mentioned it. I asked Dana about it.”

  DeValen frowned. “That wasn’t my wife. But you remembered, that’s the point.” He sipped at his drink. “No, that’s not really it, actually. Not your memory. It’s your drive, your intensity … I hope you don’t mind my being frank?”

  J.T. shook his head.

  “You see, I’m rather down-to-earth. Brought up the hard way. My father was a rather ordinary Methodist minister, and we were naturally as poor as the proverbial church mice. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like some people you and I know. And Dad didn’t leave me a million dollars to play around with. I made my own millions. And I’ve become bloody bored with these pantywaist lawyers you usually meet on Wall Street. Chauncey’s quite a guy, though. I like him …”

  J.T. nodded.

  “But he doesn’t want to—isn’t able to, actually—handle all my legal matters by himself. And I know this is your kind of action.”

  “That’s the thing I really miss right now, action.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. You’re a real street fighter. You aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. That’s why I want you to work on my legal matters. Those other twits Chauncey recommended, I tell them what I want to do and they tell me we’ll have to check this statute, that regulation. By the time they stop worrying about every little detail and writing me a memo … Good Lord, the memos … I must have some fifty thousand dollars worth of memos that say absolutely nothing. Then another fifty thousand dollars worth that tell me I received the first batch.”

  J.T. laughed.

  “You can laugh, you wretch,” DeValen kidded, “but I’m the one who has to pay. I don’t really give a damn about the money. What the hell? No sense being greedy. As long as I get something in return for paying. But after all the memos, I’m still where I was when I started. I need someone who can move fast on his feet without worrying about picky legal niceties. When I move, sometimes I’ve got to move fast.”

  J.T. liked the sound of DeValen’s approach.

  “Sometimes I’m working on a takeover of a corporation, for instance, and management drops its guard for a moment. That’s the time to strike. But I can’t. Not with the lawyers I have working for me now. They fudge around this way, then that. And by the time they’re finished, I’m lucky I haven’t lost my deal. I can’t afford that anymore.”

  “I understand,” said J.T. “But there are several lawyers handling your matters right now. I couldn’t very well just walk in and tell them that I’m in charge.”

  “Of course not. I will. That might be stepping on their egos, I know, but I don’t give a good damn. They already think I’m some kind of madman because I have no reverence for money. Most people worship at the altar of money. I like the money, of course, but I like the action more.”

  “I know there’s something wrong with me, too. Because I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Good. Chauncey does too, by the way. But he’s got a little red wagon. He reveres neither money nor work.”

  “He and I can’t handle your account alone, either,” said J.T.

  “You’ll supervise the others.”

  The limousine stopped in traffic.

  “Where are we?” asked J.T.

  “Around Forty-sixth Street. Where are you headed?”

  “I’m just taking a ride with you,” J.T. replied. “I live down in Greenwich Village.,”

  “I like the Village. First apartment I had in New York was in the Village. It was different then. No weirdos. There were plenty of writers and artists, and a lot of nuts. But not the kind of weirdos who go out of their way to make themselves weird. Do you want to stop for a drink?”

  “I really don’t drink.”

  “I thought all lawyers drank. Jesus … did you ever see anyone in your life who could drink the way Chauncey can? But he never gets sloppy or mean. Just mellow. I don’t drink either,” DeValen reflected. “Well, on occasion,” he said, looking at the glass in his hand. “I have to have my wits about me all the time. When the opportune moments arrive, you can’t be out to lunch.”

  J.T.’s credo was reaffirmed from on high.

  DeValen pushed a button and lowered the window that separated them from the chauffeur. “Frank, after you drop me off, drive Mr. Wright wherever he’s going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The partition slid up again.

  “Frank is an ex-cop. He’s very good. Carries a gun, has a lot of friends still on the force.”

  “It isn’t necessary for the car to take me downtown.”

  “Of course it is. I don’t need it anyway. I have a meeting, and Frank will be sitting doing nothing.”

  The traffic began to move a bit.

  “I was just thinking …” J.T. began.

  “What’s that?”

  “If we really want to get things done, I know this young lawyer who’s really on the ball. We worked together in Washington. He’s great at taking care of details, seeing that peo
ple get things done. You must know him. His name is Marty Boxer. He’s married to Courtnay Crawford.”

  “You want him to work on my account?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll talk to Chauncey. Does Chauncey know him?”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “I’ll get Chauncey to put him on the payroll. After all, I’ll end up paying for him in the end, won’t I?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Everything costs me down there. I think they charge rent for the time I sit in their chairs.”

  The limousine made its way through the ramps beneath the Grand Central Building, emerging on the other side of Park Avenue.

  “I’ve got a meeting now, I’m trying to get control of Horn & Hardart.”

  “The Automat?”

  “Right. That’s the first thing I want you to work on. It’s a sweet deal. Horn & Hardart owns the real estate on which most of their restaurants are located. Some of that is prime. Fifty-seventh Street, Times Square, Lexington and Forty-fifth. The real estate alone is worth around fifteen million dollars. The company’s stock is selling today for about seven dollars a share. There are just a little over a million shares outstanding. That means the whole company is theoretically worth under eight million dollars.”

  “I don’t understand,” said J.T. “If the real estate is worth fifteen million dollars, how can the company be bought for less than eight million?”

  “Management. One of the things that you can rely on in this world, J.T., is the inefficiency of other people. You think Horn & Hardart is running efficiently? Wrong. General Motors? Wrong. The United States government? Wrong. Always take inefficiency into consideration—don’t bank on it, but take it into consideration when you’re trying to accomplish something, and when you’re evaluating the other side. When you ask how could a company with assets in real estate of over fifteen million dollars be selling for only eight million on the market, the answer is management. But what do I care? That’s what makes the deal so sweet. What do you think is the first thing I’ll do if I get hold of this company?”