J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Okay, thank you,” Mastretta said to the reporters.

  “Thanks, fellows,” the Governor said with his usual grin.

  The reporters started to pack their equipment and file out of the conference room.

  “We have to get going now, Governor,” said Mastretta. “We have an appointment with the Board of Trade in fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey, hiya, fella,” the Governor said, smiling widely at Big Jim Wright. Mastretta had done his usual precise job of briefing the Governor on the attending dignitaries. The Governor, a consummate politician, did not want to snub anyone. “You can be real proud of this young man,” he said, turning to put his arm around J.T.

  J.T.’s mother’s eyes glistened. She held on to Big Jim’s arm tightly.

  “This is Mrs. Wright,” Big Jim said.

  “A real pleasure.”

  “And Mr. and Mrs. Marty Boxer,” J.T. said. “Marty is going to be my chief of staff.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “This is Miss Dana Reynolds.”

  “Dana, of course. You’re Archie’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give my regards to your swell dad, will you?”

  “Yes, I will,”

  “A couple of pictures with Mr. Wright and his family, Governor?” Mastretta asked. Mastretta’s staff photographer stood at the ready.

  “Oh, sure.” He shook hands with J.T. as they looked at each other, surrounded by family. The photographer took a few shots, some with just J.T. and the Governor, the last one of J.T. and his family.

  “We’d better go now, Governor,” Mastretta urged.

  The Governor started for his office. “Oh, J.T. Talk to Al Murphy or Frank Smith to iron out any problems—office space, funds, whatever. They’ll help you along until everything is running smoothly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Congratulations, son. I’m proud of you,” said Big Jim when the Governor had left.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  His mother embraced J.T.

  Over his mother’s shoulder, J.T. saw Dana, and next to her Courtnay, looking at him expectantly. The time for his heart-to-heart chat with Dana was obviously at hand. He had to steel himself for the unpleasant task, he thought. He didn’t want to hurt her. But at the same time he didn’t want to falter, to weaken. He had been upbraided, called on the carpet, interrogated, and scrutinized about Dana for the last time. He might have had to tolerate the intrusions and the pushiness while his job and career hung in the balance. But now he was on a new flight to glory. And that’s a solo flight, he reminded himself. No unnecessary baggage was going to be carried.

  May 12, 1964

  Chauncey Delafield stood at the bar in the library of the Reynolds home, nervously mixing another drink for himself.

  “All right now, Dana, take it easy, take it easy,” urged Archie Reynolds, sitting on the couch next to his daughter.

  Dana, red-eyed, was tearing a tissue to shreds as she spoke.

  “Just calm down. We can’t understand you if you’re talking and crying at the same time.”

  “I can’t help that,” Dana said impatiently.

  Delafield leaned against the fireplace.

  “Tell us the story once again, all the way through,” uged her father. He was having difficulty controlling his anger.

  “After the ceremony he said he wanted to have lunch and a chat. We went to Edward’s. That’s a little place on Sixty-first and Lexington where we go occasionally …”

  “Yes?”

  “We were having a hamburger, and he was talking about his new career, his plans to be in every paper, every day, and about how the Governor was going to be so pleased he wouldn’t know how he ever got along without J.T. Did I tell you the Governor sent you his best regards?”

  “If I had known about this before he was sworn in, the Governor wouldn’t have been quite so friendly to him, I assure you! In fact, Wright wouldn’t have been sworn in as dogcatcher.”

  “That’s probably why he waited until after he was sworn in to tell Dana,” Chauncey said.

  “The sniveling sneak. Go ahead, darling, tell us the rest of what happened.”

  “Do I have to? I’ve been through it all already.”

  “I’m sorry this upsets you, baby,” said Archie, “but I want to hear exactly what happened, so I know what I have to do.”

  “Do about what?” Dana said impatiently. “The fact is that J.T. doesn’t think we should see each other anymore because our relationship isn’t going anywhere and he doesn’t want to waste my time. Getting J.T. to want to see me is a little beyond even your influence, Daddy.”

  “There is something to be said, at least, for his upfront honesty,” said Delafield.

  “Don’t start temporizing,” Archie said sharply. “After seeing Dana steadily for … how long is it?”

  “Not steadily, Daddy.”

  “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Three years.”

  “And after all the things we’ve done for him, all of which he was delighted to accept, now he realizes that your relationship isn’t going anywhere? Why didn’t he realize it before we moved the world around so he’d have a bigger space in it?”

  “I don’t know, Daddy.”

  “Why didn’t he realize it before you brought him into the firm, Chauncey?”

  Delafield had no answer.

  “And you can bet he knows the Governor isn’t able to un-appoint him now. The Governor would have egg on his face if he did. This little Mr. J.T. Wright is one conniving piece of work.” Reynolds was furious.

  “I don’t know that all of this was calculated like that, Daddy.”

  “I agree with Dana, Archie. You judge him too harshly.”

  “I’ve been around this world a bit, and I know a hustler when I see one. I’m going to call the Governor at home anyway. Even if nothing can be done, at least the Governor will know he’s got a snake working for him.”

  “Don’t you dare, Daddy. Does everybody in the world have to know I’ve been dumped?”

  “There’s something in what Dana says, Archie.”

  “If he wanted to just use me for our family’s influence, he could just keep stringing me along, couldn’t he? Maybe it was—even if it hurts—an act of honesty and, actually, kindness.”

  “That’s right, Archie.”

  “Don’t give me that,” Reynolds lashed out. “After all Dana’s done for him, all the time and affection she’s lavished on him, that’s what she gets? A kick in the teeth? How dare he do this to a Reynolds?” He seethed, pacing the floor. “He must be a faggot,” Reynolds snapped angrily. “That’s what it must all be about.”

  Delafield thought back, trying to see if he had overlooked something.

  “He’s a faggot,” Reynolds repeated flatly, pacing the room again.

  “Oh, Daddy. That can’t be.”

  Reynolds turned. “Why not?”

  “It just can’t. I mean—”

  “He’s pretty chummy with DeValen, isn’t he, Chauncey? Why do you suppose DeValen has been so insistent about J.T. handling his affairs? Think about that.” His eyes narrowed.

  “Daddy, I can’t believe—”

  “Why else do you suppose that he told you all this—that he doesn’t want to see you, marry you, inherit a life of absolute luxury. How could anyone pass all this up—except if he’s a faggot?”

  “You really think so?” Dana asked thoughtfully.

  “Of course.”

  “No, it can’t be that, Daddy,” Dana said. “He’s just more interested in himself and his idea of success.”

  “Don’t be defending this pansy to me,” Reynolds said angrily.

  “Do you think Daddy’s right, Uncle Chauncey?” Dana asked, turning to Delafield.

  “I couldn’t say. He never seemed to be a pansy to me.”

  “Taking advantage of a girl like Dana, as good and pure as a girl could be. Don’t worry, Dana darling, your uncle and I
will take good care of this debaucher of our family name.”

  “Daddy. J.T. didn’t do anything like that to me. Truly. He really didn’t.”

  Reynolds studied Dana. “Well! Doesn’t that tell you what I’ve been saying is true? Ask yourself, Dana, in light of what you now know. Isn’t he a queer?”

  Reynolds fixed a drink for himself at the bar.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Delafield.

  Dana was silent, pensive.

  “Want a little vermouth or something, darling?”

  “Vodka on the rocks would be fine.”

  Reynolds looked at Delafield and raised his eyebrows.

  “I guess you could be right, Daddy,” said Dana, still thinking, brooding. “A pansy? God! How disgusting!”

  May 31, 1964

  All the news media carried the story of J.T.’s first staff appointments. Martin Boxer was appointed chief of staff. The next highest paid member of the staff was Fred Balzano, a columnist from the New York Daily News who had taken a leave of absence to join the special prosecutor’s staff as communications officer.

  J.T. sat at his desk on the twentieth floor of 270 Broadway, reading the New York Times account of the appointments.

  Marty Boxer and Fred Balzano were on the couch, each reading a different paper.

  “Did you read the Times profile on me?” J.T. asked.

  “That’s not a bad picture of you,” Marty remarked.

  J.T. looked up momentarily and smiled at Balzano, whose head was buried in the News.

  J.T. had picked a man from the News as his communications officer because the News had the largest circulation of any paper in the country. He wanted Balzano’s former fellow workers at the city desk to be friendly when stories started to pour in from the special prosecutor’s office.

  “The News didn’t run a bad spread either,” said Balzano, pleased with the first day’s outing.

  “They’d better not.”

  Balzano was tall, thin, with dark-rimmed glasses.

  “Fred, I want you to keep the flow of stories in the media up until we get our first indictments. Marty, let’s really get going, show the Governor and the people of the State of New York that we really mean business.”

  “Why don’t we first hire the detectives and other personnel to staff the office?” said Marty. “Who’s going to be doing the hiring, by the way, J.T.?”

  “The chief of staff.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. The personnel people at the police department said they’d help you out on that. There’s a pool from the state police and other law-enforcement organizations you can start with.”

  “That’ll be a help,” said Marty. “Are we going to have administrative staff soon?”

  “Today. That’s all set up,” said J.T. “But Marty, don’t waste too much time with that sort of thing. Get somebody else to handle that administrative crap. I want you to jump right on top of the investigations. I want us to do the most thorough, bloodcurdling job possible on the justice system. Let’s get some indictments. We can start with this thing you told me about—what did you call it, the sergeants’ club?—where the police sergeants were picking up payoffs from construction jobs, restaurants, small businesses, that sort of thing, and then sharing the take?”

  “That’s right,” replied Marty. “It was very organized. The money was split up among all the sergeants in a precinct. And there were many precincts that had such an enterprise. We could indict perhaps twenty-five sergeants at one shot.”

  “Fabulous,” said J.T. enthusiastically. “After you get that going, I’d like our boys to really dig for our own cases. Especially go after big names, the high and mighty. Judges, commissioners, the police commissioner himself. Show that we have no ties to politics or politicians.”

  “How about the Governor?” Balzano joked.

  “That would be fantastic, really fantastic,” said J.T.

  “You have anybody particular in mind to start with, J.T.?” asked Marty.

  “How about the Honorable S. Samuel DiFalco?”

  “The surrogate?”

  “Sure,” J.T. said eagerly. “He has more money passing through his court than probably any other court in the United States. Every probated will and estate in New York County goes through there.”

  “There’ve been stories about him and his court in the papers for years,” said Balzano. “But nothing’s ever been proven.”

  “Nobody came up with anything because they weren’t me. Look, he has to appoint guardians for minors and incompetents who inherit money. Hundreds of them every year, maybe thousands. Multiply thousands times thousands and what have you got?”

  “Millions,” said Marty.

  “Wrong! Patronage, influence, kickbacks, graft, all kinds of possible goodies,” J.T. gloated.

  “Do you have anything specific, J.T.?” Marty asked.

  “No. But we can have our investigators check into it. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, especially if we blow our hot breath on it. How about it, Fred? Would DiFalco be a story?”

  “A great story, no question,” said Balzano.

  “There may be nothing there except sour grapes from lawyers he doesn’t appoint. I think we ought to go easy,” Marty said hesitantly.

  “Forget easy,” said J.T. “If there’s anything there, or anywhere else, I’m coming down on it like a ton of bricks. Put your first investigators on the Surrogate’s Court, Otto.”

  Balzano looked quizzically from J.T. to Marty.

  Marty nodded.

  “One of the ways we can get some fast leads,” said J.T., “is to squeeze information from people who’ve been caught, people we already have in our nets.”

  “Informers?” asked Balzano.

  “Exactly,” said J.T.

  “Who?” asked Marty.

  “Let’s go back to the sergeants’ club,” J.T. said slyly. “About twenty-five sergeants in precincts all over the city, right? In addition to the construction jobs and the restaurants in their precincts, I’m sure they know a lot of things that happen in court, between their men and court officers, lawyers, judges. Now remember, these sergeants have been on the force, I would assume, for a substantial amount of time. They all have pensions coming up, and they all have a lot to lose if we prosecute them.”

  The others were listening carefully.

  “So, we bring them in, one at a time, let them know that we can do something for them, help them retain their pensions, retire rather than be fired. We’ll let them leave the police department with some dignity. All they have to do is make cases for us.”

  “They’d certainly be in a position to know things,” said Balzano. “The sergeant is the hub of the precinct.”

  “Isn’t that a better way to use those sergeants than prosecuting them?” said J.T. “Another approach could be to have our investigators pose as defendants who have to retain lawyers. They push their lawyers to bribe people in the court system. Then we grab the lawyers, offer them a deal to save their shingles, if they give us judges and DAs.”

  Marty listened, alarmed at J.T.’s remarks. There was a need for their work, but there was no need to be bloodthirsty. This was the time to voice his opposition, to protest, Marty thought, but he said nothing. Maybe Courtnay’s right, I follow J.T. like a puppy dog—without a murmur. But what’s the use? He’s not going to change anything, no matter what I say.

  “I have to get back to my office,” said Marty, rising. “I have to conduct an interview.”

  “Who are you interviewing?” J.T. asked.

  “An ex-detective named Carl Stern. He’s interested in an investigator’s job.”

  “Let’s talk to him together,” suggested J.T.

  “All right.” Marty walked to J.T.’s desk and picked up the phone. “Show Mr. Stern—he’s in the waiting room—into Mr. Wright’s office.”

  A young girl with frizzy hair opened the door and showed a stocky man with slick black hair and ruddy complexion into J.T.’s off
ice.

  “I’m Marty Boxer,” said Marty, extending his hand. “This is Fred Balzano, and this is J.T. Wright.”

  Stern shook each of their hands. He had a double-pump kind of handshake. The first was a real finger-crusher; then he lifted his hand up with yours in it, like a handle on a well pump, and gave it another pump. J.T. thought his finger bones were going to break.

  “Sit down, sit down,” said J.T. He rubbed his hand unobtrusively behind the desk.

  “What kind of work are you doing now?” asked Marty.

  “Private detective. I follow people, investigate commercial crime, that sort of thing. It’s a little boring, frankly. Not enough action.”

  “What kind of action are you looking for?” asked J.T.

  “Something where I can get into the old harness, investigation, interrogation, making cases.”

  “You have experience doing that?” asked J.T.

  “Twenty years on the force. I retired a second-grade detective.”

  “Why did you leave?” asked Marty.

  “The job’s not the same anymore. It’s become a chicken-you-know-what kind of job now. All these punks running around in the street, tearing the city apart, and the commissioner tells you, don’t take out your gun, don’t raise a hand, be passive. So I tossed in my papers.”

  “We aren’t promoting violence here,” said Marty.

  “Yeah, but this is different. We wouldn’t be dealing with street crime, muggers, rapists, niggers, and punks like that.” Stern rolled his left fist in his right palm as he spoke.

  “There could be some violence,” mused J.T. “People resisting arrest, trying to escape.”

  “Nobody escapes,” said Stern. He pulled open the right side of his jacket to reveal a massive, long-barreled revolver. On his belt was a leather case containing handcuffs. “Just to show you, I was coming into this building before, and I’m down in the concourse. Some little punks, eighteen, nineteen years old, you know, try to panhandle me. I tell them get a job. And they make some remarks I ain’t too crazy about. I told them so. One guy in particular comes on a little stronger. You know how these loudmouth niggers are. The louder they talk, the more chicken they are. Bango,” Stern said, reaching under the left side of his jacket for a small flat leather-covered blackjack. “I let him have this on the side of his head so fast he didn’t know he was hit till he was on his knees. The others took off like deer. Punks like these are the ones botherin’ women and old folks that can’t take care of themselves.”