“Between now and tomorrow morning, you have to do nothing. We have to do some legal research here at the office,” J.T. said, looking from Bedardo to Marty. He already had Marty hard at work on the law books, so he would have citations ready for Morgan.
“In addition, I want to get my investigators working, talking to everyone who will talk to me, taking statements from them, the whole works.”
Bedardo pursed his lips and nodded approval. “Excuse us a minute,” he said to Joey.
Wordlessly, Joey walked out of J.T.’s office.
Bedardo looked at Marty. “Forgive me, counselor, but I have something personal I want to discuss alone with Mr. Wright for a moment. Is that all right?” Bedardo said, turning to J.T.
“Marty is going to be working on this case right down the line. In fact, if I’m not here, he’s the man you should talk to; it’s the same thing as talking to me.”
“I understand that, don’t get me wrong. I just have something that I want to discuss with you personally.”
“Marty, would you mind for a moment?” J.T. asked.
Marty nodded and stepped out of J.T.’s office, closing the door behind him.
“I wanted to talk to you about your fee,” Bedardo said, taking the attaché case that Joey had left next to his chair. “What is your fee, anyway?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to see just what’s involved in this case, and then I have to talk to the senior partners. Of course, whatever fee is set doesn’t include expenses or investigators, or an appeal if that’s ever necessary.”
“Counselor, I don’t intend to argue with you about money,” he said, putting the attache case on J.T.’s desk and opening it. It was filled with packets of bills in wrappers: tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds. J.T. had never seen so much cash in one place.
“What’s this?”
“I brought a retainer. Lawyers have to be paid.”
“As I said,” J.T. spoke a bit breathlessly, “I don’t know yet what the fee should be, or just how the senior partners want it handled.” J.T. couldn’t take his eyes off the contents of the attache case. “I’ll have to ask what they want to do about cash. I guess cash, check, doesn’t make much difference.”
“What I’ll do is give you this, and then I’ll make out a check. That is my daughter will make out the check. Her husband is an accountant. They’ll make a loan to me and I’ll give you the check. That you put in the bank. That’ll be the fee, in case the Internal Revenue people come nosing around. Another check I’ll give you myself. The rest, whatever it is, I’ll give you like this, and you make it go south, you know what I mean?”
“South? You mean not report it to the Internal Revenue?”
He nodded, automatically looking over his shoulder at the empty room.
“And if the Internal Revenue comes here to inquire about the fee you paid?”
“Counselor, I don’t have to tell you what to do, do I? You do whatever you think is best. The people around here’ll go along with whatever you say, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You’ve got nice ways about you, counselor. I know you can talk to them. You keep this meanwhile,” he said, closing the attache case.
“I can’t keep this kind of money around.”
“You keep it here,” Bedardo said with a gesture of finality. “You don’t have to say anything to me about what you do, who you know, what kind of arrangements you make, counselor. Maybe some of your friends want something, the judge wants a vacation.” He winked at J.T. “You need more, I’ll get it. Just give me a couple of days.”
“I don’t think the firm is going to go for any of this. And I don’t particularly go for the idea that you think I’m a fixer. If that’s the reason that you’ve come to me to represent you, I think you’ve come to the wrong man.”
“Counselor, don’t get offended. I came because you have a good mouthpiece. I saw you use it in court yesterday, just like I thought you would. That was great, you know? That’s what I want, okay? But if there’s something you have to do, do it. Okay? Investigators, expenses, whatever. I’m not going to question you, you know what I mean? And if, as it happens, because we’re living in the real world, somebody is on the take, give him a taste. If not, it’s okay too. You get me?”
“I guess.so. I just want you to know I’m not here to bribe people.”
“That’s not what I’m here for, either.”
“The firm is certainly not going to get involved with covering up whether or not they received a fee. Frankly, there are too many people involved for that. The whole situation is unwieldy.”
“Unwieldy. That’s a good word. You think good, counselor. Good thing you weren’t a wise guy, with that head of yours. The world would be in for a lot of trouble. You’re right. There are too many people involved. Why don’t you just keep the money for yourself; don’t say nothing to the firm.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? It’s a nice amount of money to have in your back pocket to start your own practice with, you know what I mean?”
J.T. studied Bedardo. “I’ll meet you in court tomorrow morning, at nine thirty,” he said. “By that time I’ll know how the firm wants to handle this.”
“Okay, counselor. Don’t let the bastards in that U.S. attorney’s office get away with a thing.”
J.T. and Bedardo rose at the same time, J.T. walking around the desk to open the door. Marty and Joey were still in the corridor outside.
“Come on,” Bedardo said, walking briskly toward the elevator. Joey followed silently.
“Come on in, Marty. I want to discuss something with you,” J.T. said.
Marty entered the office. J.T. shut the door, walked to his desk, and picked up the attache case.
“Look at this,” he said, opening the case.
Marty’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
April 1, 1962
The bandleader’s baton guided the usual, syncopated rinkytink rhythm as dancers in a fantasy of costumes foxtrotted. J.T. was not in costume, although the tuxedo he wore was so unorthodox for this crowd that it might as well have been one. It was a dark tuxedo, not exactly black, its satin lapels faced with a quilted design. He wore a ruffled shirt with a clip-on bow tie, one side of which occasionally lost its grip on his collar. Dana refastened his tie each time it lost its purchase, thinking J.T. was cute, his lost-little-boy quality appealing to her.
The Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf was ablaze with crystal chandeliers, candles at the tables. Laughter filled the air.
Dana and J.T. moved with the dancing traffic, passing George Washington, Captain Hook, Napoleon, and Henry VIII, who were dancing with Pierrette, Hester Prynne, Madame Pompadour, and someone who looked like Isadora Duncan. There were also Cleopatra and Robin Hood, Alice in Wonderland with the Lone Ranger.
Dana herself wore a costume that she had told J.T. represented Pocahontas. To J.T., she looked like any Indian squaw.
Chauncey Delafield wore the costume—except for the martini glass—of someone from the court of Louis XIV, or maybe he was Louis XIV himself. J.T. wasn’t up on the intricacies of the court of the Sun King.
Delafield’s wife wore a Quaker woman’s outfit. Archie Reynolds seemed to be a French moving man, horizontally striped sweater, beret, and all. Mrs. Reynolds was a French apache dancer.
“And what else did Uncle Chauncey say?” Dana asked J.T. as they stepped slowly to a beat that was only in J.T.’s head, the one to which he always danced, regardless of the music.
“He said that the senior partners were very disturbed that I would suggest a client like Bedardo to the firm for any reason, considering all the other clients and business that it might jeopardize. He also said the situation with the money was utterly preposterous.”
“And what did you say to him?”
“I told him I didn’t do anything to purposely upset anyone, but since it was Bedardo’s idea, not mine, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about ei
ther.”
“You didn’t tell him that you thought they were wrong, the partners?”
“No, I said they were entitled to run the office and to represent any clients they wanted to or didn’t want to.”
They danced next to a couple who looked like the Grim Reaper dancing with a bedsheet.
Adults in silly costumes always bemused J.T. He was befuddled, really, by the exhilaration of adults in children’s fantasy, perhaps because he had no images dancing in his head, waiting to leap out full-blown in costume.
“What did he say then?”
“He said that was a good attitude, because that’s exactly what the partners had in mind. To run their own office their own way, handling the clients they want.”
“He wasn’t angry with you or anything, was he?”
“I don’t think Uncle Chauncey cared one way or the other. He was just telling me what the others thought. I imagine he went along with their thinking, but he wasn’t angry.”
“And then what?”
They passed another Robin Hood and a woman dressed in brown burlap. J.T. imagined she too was supposed to be an Indian maiden—if you were willing to accept a five-foot-two-inch, one-hundred-eighty-pound Indian maiden with several inner tubes of fat around the waist.
“I said I understood. I should have said that I thought it would be a bit more interesting handling Bedardo’s case rather than the day-in, day-out drudge paperwork of their kind of lawyering.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say that. Not to Uncle Chauncey. He’s so nice. That would only hurt his feelings. He really likes you, you know?”
“I really like him too. He’s not like the rest of those Ivy League drones down there.”
“You were graduated from the same kind of school they were.”
“Somehow. I can’t understand that, either.”
They repassed Marie Antoinette, who was now dancing with Captain Hook. The Captain’s sword hit J.T. in the legs.
“Sorry,” said the Captain in a feminine sort of way.
A fag interior decorator dancing with one of his customers, thought J.T. The bitchy personalities of some of the gay crowd seemed to fascinate the lady socialites. J.T. figured that the boredom of having money and leisure, with no challenge of survival, caused the wealthy to drift toward the unusual, the different, sometimes the perverse and self-destructive.
“Do you think you’d be happier somewhere else?”
“Perhaps. That’s why I asked Uncle Chauncey if I could get a leave of absence.”
Dana stopped dancing.
“I really want to handle this case. At least I’ll find out if it’s the kind of thing I enjoy. Besides, it’s exciting. And there’s a big fee,” J.T. whispered softly, his mouth close to Dana’s ear. He started her moving to his imaginary beat again. “There’d be publicity too. Good publicity. Perhaps it could lead to my own office. I told Uncle Chauncey that I really wanted to stay with the firm, that I didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize my position there. If I took a leave of absence, I wouldn’t embarrass the firm and wouldn’t be severing my ties with it, either.”
Dana listened carefully. She thought J.T. was about the cleverest person there ever was.
“I told him that the experience and the trial work would ultimately benefit the firm. By handling cases like this, I would build my big bad reputation even bigger and tougher.”
“What did Uncle Chauncey say?”
“He said I was a clever son of a bitch.”
Dana laughed as they passed Napoleon and Hester Prynne.
November 23, 1963
Marty and Courtnay’s daughter, Stephanie, was a fine, robust girl, eight pounds when born on November 23, 1962. Her first year had been fairly uneventful, except that her parents and grandparents took to calling her Muffy. During that time, Marty didn’t see her as often as he’d have liked to, but then he was busy with J.T. on the Bedardo case. He too had obtained a leave of absence from the firm.
That circus of a trial—which lasted three months—was now behind them. Bedardo and twelve others were convicted on all counts, but not before the judge had to gag several of the defendants and have them tied in their chairs for disrupting the court proceedings.
Bedardo was sentenced to fifteen years and was awaiting the outcome of his appeal in Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. Despite the conviction, Bedardo was satisfied with J.T. as his defense lawyer. The telephone taps of others had yielded a wealth of incriminating evidence, and since Bedardo was charged in the common scheme of a conspiracy, answerable for all the acts and words of the coconspirators, his conviction was virtually inevitable and not at all a poor reflection on J.T.’s ability. Bedardo, convinced that J.T.’s contacts could be helpful with the Parole Commission, asked J.T. to continue to represent him on the appeal. He had even sent another attaché case to J.T. J.T. had to importune the firm to extend his and Marty’s leaves of absence at least another six months until the appellate procedures, which were going slowly, were complete. There were partners in the firm who openly preferred that Wright never return.
Muffy’s first birthday party, which had been scheduled to take place at the Crawford’s cooperative on Park Avenue, turned into a very somber affair. The television in the den was turned on, and everyone sat silent as they watched the newscasts of the day following the assassination of President Kennedy.
“God, this is awful,” said Dana, sitting on the floor in front of the couch.
Some of the women had tears rolling down their faces. So did Chauncey Delafield. So did Marty Boxer, sitting next to Chauncey.
J.T. was on the phone in another room.
“Yes, yes, well, the court hasn’t decided the appeal yet,” J.T. said into the phone. “That’s about all I can tell you. I know Patsy is sitting in the can waiting. Tell him the judges are sitting on their big fat butts and there’s nothing I can do to speed them up.”
J.T. had returned the call of Fat Augie, one of Patsy Bedardo’s men, who had made the weekly inquiry: when would the Second Circuit Court of Appeals decide whether Patsy would get a new trial. Surely J.T. had no objection to Patsy having a new trail. A third attache case would be forthcoming.
“Yes, yes, it’s awful,” J.T. said phlegmatically, his mind racing with other things. “Yes, I have the television on here, too. I’ve been glued to it all day,” he lied. “Tell him when you go down to see him—” An interruption. “All right, when his wife goes down to see him, tell him that no news is good news. That’s right, no news is good news. The court must be bogged down on some point and they’re arguing among the three judges. That’s good, because that means that something about the convictions is bothering them. Right … right. I hope so too. Okay then, give me a call in a week. If I hear something before then, I’ll call you.”
J.T. hung up the phone and looked at the list of calls from his answering service. Most of them could wait until tomorrow. He decided to answer one more. He dialed the number and waited.
“Hello, Mrs. Morris Steinfeld, please. J.T. Wright. Yes. I’ll hold.”
J.T. had read in the papers that Morris Steinfeld, the president of the vast Blackstone hotel chain, and his wife were on the verge of a divorce. This call might bring a lucrative matrimonial case.
“Hello, Mrs. Steinfeld. This is J.T. Wright.” He listened. “Yes, my office does handle matrimonial cases.” J.T. wasn’t exactly talking about Stevenson & Stetinius now. In fact, it had been so long, and so much had happened on his leave of absence, that he often forgot that he was only on his own temporarily. “I certainly would represent you if you wanted me to,” J.T. said. “My experience is that these things should be explored and the initiative taken at the first opportunity.”
J.T. was actually thinking that Mrs. Steinfeld should come to his office and retain him before she changed her mind or was sold a bill of goods by some shark of a matrimonial lawyer.
“How about first thing in the morning? If there’s anything that needs to be done, we’ll do
it tomorrow. Is nine thirty too early? Well, make it ten o’clock. Tonight? That’s a little unusual. Where are you located? Eighty-third and Park? Well, the first steps are very important. Very well. In about forty-five minutes.”
J.T. hung up the phone, quite delighted. Handling Mrs. Steinfeld’s divorce proceedings meant a big chunk of money. Marty came into the room.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” Marty had taken J.T.’s seclusion as private grief.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?” asked Marty.
“About going back to the firm.”
Marty looked puzzled. “What do you have in mind?”
“Staying out. Doing what we’re doing now—permanently.”
“I don’t know much about the finances of it all,” said Marty, “but there would be a lot of expenses involved—a library, secretaries, furniture, copying machines, all kinds of things.”
“I know. That’s why I’m just thinking about it. If we could generate enough fees during our leaves of absence, maybe we could afford to make it permanent. If not, we go back.”
“Where do all these new clients come from?”
“Different places.”
“What are you two doing in here?” Dana asked, coming into the bedroom.
J.T. looked up at her blankly. Lately he had felt a kind of pressure from her. Whenever they were together, she seemed to be on top of him, following him, standing next to him, wanting to listen to each word he spoke. He was starting to feel smothered.
“We’re just talking,” J.T. said flatly.
“Courtnay wants everyone to come into the dining room. We’re going to cut the cake now.”
J.T. rose. Marty walked out of the bedroom, toward the dining room. Dana let Marty pass, waiting to take J.T.’s arm.
“Go ahead, Dana,” J.T. said chivalrously, wanting her to go through the door ahead of him.
She smiled, waiting for him on the other side of the door. “What’s the matter, J.T.?” she asked, finally taking his arm as they walked toward the dining room.
J.T. Page 19
