“What other projects are in the works?”
“He’s buying gas and oil rights on land in Alaska. He wants to start drilling. We formed a new company for exploration.”
“That costs a lot of money, doesn’t it?”
“Millions. But the holdings of all his companies are intertwined, all the funds are pooled into the drilling operation. When the oil starts flowing, we’ll use dollar bills for toilet paper.”
“Just as an aside, what happens if this oil and gas doesn’t prove out?” Marty asked. “Are the stockholders of the various companies in a position to beef about misuse of corporation assets?”
“When DeValen took them over and their stock ran all the way up, nobody was heard to complain. As long as they keep making money, why should anyone start?”
The phone on J.T.’s desk buzzed. He picked it up. “Yes?”
“There’s someone on the phone for you, Mr. Wright. He said his name is Jim.”
“Jim who?”
“I asked him. He said it was personal.”
J.T. pushed another button on the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, counselor. My name is Jim. I’m a friend of Patsy Bedardo. He asked me to call.” The voice was raspy and low.
“Patsy Bedardo?” said J.T., his mind seeing flashes of the committee charts of organized crime families.
“Patsy’s been indicted, arrested this morning. He’s over at the Southern District magistrate’s. He wanted me to pick you up and take you over there.”
“Hold on a moment.” J.T. put the phone on hold. He looked at Marty, his eyes wide. “Somebody says he’s calling for Patsy Bedardo, who’s been arrested. Wants to pick me up to take me to court. What do you think?”
“I think you should be careful. You know how these people are.”
“You think it could be somebody trying to rub me out because of the hearings?”
“Would you put it past them?”
J.T. thought a moment longer. “They wouldn’t do something like that at the courthouse,” he said to Marty. “They’d want to meet me someplace where there wouldn’t be other people.”
“Maybe this is a new method.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Hello,” J.T. said into the phone again. “I didn’t even know he was arrested. I didn’t hear anything on the radio or see anything in the papers.”
“It just happened.”
“Perhaps he can come to my office.”
“Can’t do that until he gets bailed out, counselor.”
“Hold on. I have another call.” He pushed the hold button. “This guy sounds like an enforcer,” J.T. said to Marty. “You really think they want to bump me off?”
“Why would Bedardo call you to represent him?”
“Don’t worry, you’re not scaring me, Marty. This guy on the phone already used up all my scare. Maybe I should call the police?”
“Tell the enforcer to call back in ten minutes. That’ll give us a chance to talk about it.”
J.T. pressed the phone button. “Can you call back in ten minutes? I have something I must finish before I go to court.”
“Sure, counselor. Ten minutes.” He hung up.
“What could I tell the police?” J.T. said to Marty. “That someone called and wanted me to represent Bedardo?”
“Let’s see if Bedardo’s really been indicted. Then we’ll know if this is a ruse to set you up.”
“I’ll call one of the FBI agents who worked on the hearings,” J.T. said. “They ought to know.” J.T. took a small personal phone book from the drawer of his desk. His hands were trembling.
“Take it easy, Otto.”
“Shut the door, Marty.” His voice was starting to rise. “Jesus Christ. These animals don’t fool around when they get going.” He dialed the phone.
“It may very well be a legitimate situation.”
“What do we do, assuming there is no indictment?”
The number he dialed began to ring. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Let me speak to Special Agent Howard Leighton, please.”
“One moment.”
“What do we do, assuming there is no indictment?” J.T. pressed Marty.
“Ask Howard. He’s in the FBI.”
“Leighton,” said a familiar voice on the other end of the line.
“Howard, am I glad to talk to you. This is J.T. Wright.”
“Hey, J.T. How’s it going?”
“I just got a call from someone who said he was calling for Patsy Bedardo …”
“You’re going to be handling Patsy’s case, J.T.? Congratulations.”
J.T. looked at Marty and nodded, grinning. “When was he arrested, Howard?”
Marty blew out the breath he had been holding.
“There was a sealed indictment that was unsealed today. We’re rounding up a whole bunch of people in New York. It’s a major narcotics bust. It’s already hit the papers. Bedardo’s got to pay a big fee, J.T. Now I know you’re in the chips.”
“I wasn’t sure it was a legitimate call,” said J.T.
“Nothing involving Bedardo is legitimate, J.T.,” Leighton remarked.
“Howard, I’m going to send someone to get me a newspaper. Thanks for the information. Sorry to bother you.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re doing so well, J.T. Don’t be such a stranger.”
“Take care, Howard.” J.T. hung up the phone quickly. “Bedardo’s been indicted,” he told Marty, happy and relieved.
“That still doesn’t mean it isn’t a ruse, using a good moment to get you.”
“Holy cow, you’re a pleasant soul. Now what?”
“I don’t know. Call Howard back and ask him.”
“I’d seem like some kind of frightened fool, jumping at shadows.”
“You are frightened.”
“I don’t want Howard to know that. He was congratulating me on all the money I was going to make.”
“Did he say what kind of case it is?”
“A major narcotics arrest. Rounding up a bunch of people here in New York.”
Marty turned on a small radio J.T. had on a bookshelf. He hunted the stations for a news report.
“… the latest arrest brings the total to thirteen in this case. We repeat, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has made arrests—including Patsy Bedardo, reputed head of an organized crime family here in New York. More details at eleven twenty-five …”
“I still don’t know who called me,” said J.T.
“Let’s assume that Bedardo wants you to represent him. Are you going to take the case? And, more important, are the powers around here going to let you take it?”
J.T. mused. “It would be some case, wouldn’t it? Front-page publicity every day of the trial, coverage everywhere. Just like the old days. Couldn’t do any harm, could it?”
“That’d make it worse, from the firm’s point of view.”
“I discussed with Delafield the possibility of handling my own cases in the office. He said, basically, that the name of the game is making money. So … if Bedardo pays a high enough fee, we ought to be able to convince them around here that he’s sufficiently respectable to be represented by counsel.”
The phone on the desk buzzed again. J.T. picked it up.
“Yes.”
“A Mr. Entrerri for you.”
J.T. looked at Marty. “It’s Gentleman Johnny!”
Marty sat on the edge of his seat.
J.T. picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, counselor,” said the familiar voice.
“Hello, Mr. Entrerri,” J.T. said coolly.
“I can understand you might have been somewhat skeptical after the first call,” Gentleman Johnny said. “Patsy sent word that he wants to have you represent him. He never stopped talking about the way you took on all comers at those hearings. Said if he ever picked up an indictment, he’d want you. Can you handle his bail application?”
“The bail applications?” J.T. said calmly, wondering
how one handled a bail application.
“He’s already told the U.S. Attorney he wanted to wait for his lawyer. So they’re all waiting, and not too patiently.”
“Is there a number where I can reach you?” J.T. asked. He wanted a bit more time.
“I’m on the outside right now, counselor. I’d very much appreciate it if you could handle the case. If it’s a question of fee, either Patsy or I will straighten it out with you this afternoon, or maybe tonight over dinner.”
“I only see clients in my office,” J.T. said firmly. He looked at Marty. Marty winked.
“Does that mean you’ll go to court?”
“I’ll call the magistrate right now and arrange to go over there.”
“Terrific, counselor.”
J.T. hung up the phone. Marty was staring at him with curiosity. “Well?”
“Right now, we have to handle a bail application for Bedardo. He’s at the magistrate’s office.”
“Shouldn’t you talk to Delafield first?”
“Maybe I should,” said J.T. He dialed Delafield’s intercom number.
“Mr. Delafield’s office,” said the secretary.
“This is J.T. Wright. Does Mr. Delafield have anyone with him right now?”
“Not right now. Shall I buzz him?”
“No, I’ll come right up.” He hung up the phone. “You get to the library, Marty. Check out the statutes, so we handle this thing properly. I’ll pick you up there.”
“Okay.”
J.T. walked quickly through the corridor toward Delafield’s office.
“Yes, J.T., what can I do for you?” asked Delafield.
“I’ve just received a phone call asking me to represent Pasquale Bedardo,” J.T. started. “It’s a criminal case.”
“Oh?”
“It won’t interfere with anything I’m already handling. And I’m sure he can pay a substantial fee.”
“What kind of criminal case? Well, what’s the difference, I wouldn’t know what you were talking about if you told me. I’m not sure, frankly, J.T., how the other partners are going to react to your handling a criminal case in the firm name.”
“Perhaps I could handle it in my own name?”
“That’ll present a problem too. I’m going to have to ask around.”
“What should I do meanwhile? This man’s over in court right now.”
“You could go over there to see what’s going on. But I wouldn’t get too involved in the situation until we find out what the reaction is over here.”
“What’s your reaction, sir? The only reason I even entertained this matter was that you said you thought I might be able to handle cases of my own, so long as the fee was appropriate.”
“Yes, I remember that, J.T. I have no reaction to speak of. A criminal case should be like any other court case. Go over and see what the lay of the land is, and meanwhile I’ll make some inquiries here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
March 16, 1962
J.T. walked quickly up the steps of the Federal District Courthouse on Foley Square. The building was a tall, thin tower with a pointed, gold-leafed roof set amid a variety of other government buildings. Next to the Federal Court building on the north was the New York State Supreme Court, and next to that was the State Office Building, and next to that was the Criminal Court for New York County. On the south side of the Federal Court was the giant Municipal building, with an archway cut through the bottom; cars exiting the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge drove right through the building into Chambers Street.
Because traffic was so heavy, J.T. and Marty had left the taxicab a couple of blocks away from the courthouse and begun to walk. People in this legal community immediately recognized J.T. Wright from television. He smiled or nodded to some. They smiled back.
“I guess a lot of people look at television around here,” said Marty.
“How could they forget a face like this?” J.T. whispered lightly.
“That’s true too,” Marty laughed.
They pushed through the revolving door and entered the courthouse. “Excuse me, where is the magistrate’s courtroom?” Marty asked a guard.
“Straight through those bronze doors at the back of the lobby, and all the way to the back.”
“Thanks.”
They walked along a narrow, angled corridor to the very back of the building. The small courtroom was filled with standing people, all talking in small groups. At the front of the room was a judge’s bench and, next to the bench, a lectern. The young man who stood at the lectern looked just like someone who might work in J.T.’s office: wire-framed glasses, dark blue suit, brown shoes. When J.T. entered, there was a marked silence.
“Can I help you?” asked a young woman standing in a doorway to the side of the judge’s bench.
“We’re here for the Bedardo arraignment,” said J.T.
A buzz of conversation filled the air. The newspapermen in the room rushed over to J.T.
“Are you going to represent Bedardo, J.T.?” asked a reporter familiarly.
“Are you going to the other side now, J.T.? Representing criminal cases?” asked another.
“Who called you?”
“How does it feel on the other side?”
“Are you going to be able to get him bail?”
“What kind of bail do you think the magistrate will set?”
J.T. was against the wall, fielding the reporters’ questions coolly.
The young woman came back to the doorway. “Would you gentlemen come this way, please?” She spoke to the young assistant U.S. attorney at the lectern, as well as to J.T. “Magistrate Bishop would like to see you.”
“No one else in the magistrate’s office now,” she said as the newsmen tucked in right behind the prosecuter.
The magistrate, an old, thin man with gray hair, sat behind a large desk.
“How do you do, Mr. Wright? I’m Magistrate Bishop. Do you know Mr. Keating?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” said J.T., turning to nod at the prosecutor. Keating nodded back coolly.
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” said the magistrate. “Except on television, of course.” He smiled. “Are you going to represent Mr. Bedardo?” The magistrate was making notes on a piece of paper.
“I received a phone call that Mr. Bedardo had been arrested and was going to be arraigned,” said J.T. “I’m going to represent him, at least for the arraignment.”
“There’s no need to discuss the matter, then,” said Keating, “unless you’re actually going to file a notice of appearance on behalf of Bedardo.” There was obvious hostility in Keating’s attitude.
“There’s no question about that,” said J.T. in kind. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Bedardo.”
“Perhaps the marshal can bring Bedardo up from the pen so Mr. Wright can talk to him,” said Keating. “We’ve been waiting almost an hour already.”
“It might be better if you went down to the pen to talk to Mr. Bedardo for a few minutes,” said the magistrate. “Especially with this crowd up here.”
“I think that might delay us even further, Your Honor,” said Keating.
“There are many people waiting,” Bishop wavered.
“I came as soon as I was notified, Your Honor. I have no idea when Mr. Bedardo was arrested, or how long these people have been here, or even what they have to do with this case.”
“These are the arresting agents, newspaper people, other assistant United States attorneys,” replied the magistrate, sitting back in relaxed fashion. There was something accommodating about him, as if he not only recognized J.T. but extended him a friendliness and familiarity ordinarily reserved for longtime acquaintances.
“I think I should at least speak to Bedardo before the arraignment,” said J.T. The more hostile Keating was, the firmer became J.T.’s resolve to get into the case. “How can I make a bail application on his behalf without talking to him?”
“That’s quite true, of course. I don’t think
a few more minutes are going to make any difference, Mr. Keating. Why don’t you show Mr. Wright and his associate down to the marshal’s office,” the magistrate said to his secretary. “I’ll call and advise them you’re coming down.”
“Thank you, sir,” said J.T. “I’ll be as quick as possible.”
Keating was clearly displeased by the magistrate’s obliging attitude. His mouth grew tighter and thinner.
“Come this way,” said the secretary as she led J.T. and Marty out to the corridor, down a stairwell, and into the marshal’s office. Just inside was a large cage that formed a reception area. Beyond the cage was a large office.
“Can I help you?” a marshal asked. As he looked at J.T., recognition spread across his face. “How are you, Mr. Wright?”
“Fine, thanks. The magistrate said I might see Mr. Bedardo.”
“Right, he just called down. He didn’t say you were his lawyer.”
The marshal turned a large key in a lock on the inside of the cage. “Is this counselor with you, Mr. Wright?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Sign in, and then I’ll take you to the pen.” He pointed to a large book on his desk.
“I’m going back upstairs,” said the secretary. “Call when they’re on their way back up, Bernie?”
“Right, Sally.”
The marshal led J.T. and Marty across the large office. Conversations had become subdued as people studied J.T. The marshal opened the door, beyond which J.T. saw cells on both sides of a wide corridor. Another cage door barred their entry.
“Okay, open it up,” the first marshal said to a guard inside the cell area. He opened the barred door and J.T. and Marty entered the pen.
“Which cell is it?” asked J.T.
“Second one on the left.”
“Right here, counselor,” said a thickset bald man with a stub of a cigar in his mouth. Bedardo reached his hand through the bars to shake J.T.’s hand. His grip was very strong. His eyes were so dark they looked black. He studied Marty with suspicion.
“This is Marty Boxer, my associate.”
“How are you?” Bedardo said coldly. He studied the two lawyers as they looked at him with equal curiosity.
If someone saw Bedardo on the street, J.T. thought, and didn’t know who he was, he would just see a short old man with dark eyes. Yet here, in this atmosphere, knowing who the man was, there was something electric, something powerful, something sinister.
J.T. Page 17
