J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Maybe I know something about a judge, but …”

  “What judge?” J.T. asked eagerly.

  Now Lewis had touched a nerve.

  “I’m not saying I can give you a judge. I’m just thinking out loud.” Lewis shook his head slowly. “I can’t give people up. It’s against my nature.”

  “Is it your nature to leave your wife and kids out in the cold while you go to the can?” asked J.T.

  Lewis looked down at his shoes.

  Stern looked at J.T. and winked.

  “I didn’t have nothing to do with the judge personally, you know. But I remember, a couple of years ago … ahh, shit,” said Lewis, stopping abruptly.

  “Don’t stop now,” urged J.T.

  “One of my cops collared a guy on a gun possession. I wasn’t in court, but the cop told me that the lawyer told his punk client that he could work something out with the judge, but that it would cost a couple of large …”

  “That’s a couple thousand,” translated Stern.

  “What happened? asked Marty.

  “I don’t know what the lawyer did with the judge. I know the guy got a walk, though.”

  “Who was the judge?” J.T. asked.

  “Tauber.”

  “Harry Tauber? In the Supreme Court?” J.T. asked gleefully.

  “Yeah, only he was in the criminal court at the time.”

  Marty was making notes.

  “Who was the lawyer whose client got the walk from Tauber?” asked J.T.

  “Seymour Fine.”

  “Anybody know him?” asked J.T., looking around.

  “Sure, he’s one of those nickel-and-dime guys that hang around in the courthouse picking up cases,” said Stern.

  “Probably gives that ‘talk to the judge’ crap to all his clients, just so he can beat them for a few extra bucks.”

  “We don’t know that for sure, do we?” said J.T.

  “No …”

  “But we’re sure going to find out. We should talk to this Seymour Fine. He doesn’t want to lose his sheepskin any more than Mr. Lewis here wants to lose his badge and gun.”

  “What’s going to happen now?” asked Lewis.

  “Take Sergeant Lewis’s name off the indictment before you file it tomorrow,” J.T. said to Marty. “We can always indict you again, Sergeant, if this information isn’t on the level. Meanwhile, you can keep your badge and pistol.”

  Lewis sighed with relief.

  “It’s only temporary,” cautioned Stern.

  “Go ahead back to the job,” said J.T. “Don’t say anything to anybody, you understand?”

  “I’m going to keep my job?”

  “Do you think this is your birthday?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We told you you could retire, if the commissioner approves, which he probably will. You don’t think you can stay on the job after being a member of the sergeants’ club? The police department isn’t an old-age home for thieves.”

  “You are one son of a bitch, Mr. Wright.”

  “That’s what I’m paid for.”

  “You mean to say I’m off the job even though I’m giving people up?”

  “I mean to say it’s better than going to jail. Show Sergeant Lewis out, will you, Carl?”

  “You want me to debrief him first?”

  “Yes, I guess that would be a good idea.”

  May 19, 1965

  Rhoda Fine drove slowly along the winding, tree-lined road back to her home in Chappaqua. She had just bought a brisket of beef for Seymour’s dinner. That was his favorite meal, and Rhoda wanted to cheer Seymour up. He had been so depressed lately, picking on her and the kids, sometimes bursting into tears. But they understood he was under a lot of pressure because of the bribery investigation by Special Prosecutor Wright’s office.

  Rhoda still didn’t understand how it all had happened. The only thing she knew was that Seymour had not been himself since he received a subpoena from Wright.

  And then, all Seymour had told her was that this Wright son of a bitch wanted him to admit that he had bribed Judge Tauber. Seymour told Wright that he never bribed the judge, that he had just made up that story about fixing the judge to ream a few more dollars from his client. But Wright refused to believe him. Wright told Seymour he’d be indicted for bribing a policeman; that the policeman was ready to testify against him. And still Seymour refused to admit he’d bribed the judge. There was no bribe, Seymour screamed to Rhoda as he paced their bedroom night after night, pondering what to do.

  Now Seymour faced not only losing his license, but disgrace and imprisonment. In addition, he was almost broke—they had always lived right up to the hilt of their means—and Seymour wasn’t making any fees now. On top of that, the lawyer representing Seymour wanted six thousand dollars. And that was a professional courtesy, less than half the normal fee. Some courtesy, Rhoda thought bitterly.

  A car came out of a narrow side road and Rhoda had to swerve to avoid it. She thought she’d better concentrate on her driving rather than on thinking and rethinking Seymour’s plight as she had done every day and night for the last three months.

  Seymour had gone to see his lawyer today, to prepare for the trial. What an ordeal that was going to be. They had already contacted their rabbi and friends, to see whom they could use as character witnesses. Seymour was so humiliated, he had already lost fifteen pounds, and was constantly tired and irritable. That was why Rhoda wanted to get Seymour’s mood off the floor, at least for tonight.

  As she turned into the long gravel driveway leading to their house, she saw Seymour’s car in front of the garage. He had returned earlier than he thought he would. The house was a beautiful colonial, about fourteen rooms, with a barn where Debbie, their youngest daughter, kept her pony. Would they be able to stay here if Seymour lost his license, she wondered. She hoped they wouldn’t have to give it up. It had taken so many years for them to be able to live in Chappaqua. How awful it would be, she thought, if they had to move back to an apartment in the Bronx.

  Rhoda parked her car next to Seymour’s and walked to the front entrance, wrestling her key from her bag as she juggled the bundles in her arms. The carved front door had solid brass trimmings. Just inside that door, in the now-dark foyer, a crystal chandelier her mother had given them as a housewarming present hung majestically in the center of a graceful circular staircase.

  Debbie probably wasn’t home from volleyball practice yet. All their other kids were at college, so she, Seymour, and Debbie would have a lovely dinner, and try to forget the heartache that Wright creature had brought them.

  Rhoda turned the key in the front lock, still juggling her bundles. She eased the door open with her foot, bracing the packages against her body so they wouldn’t fall. The door swung open. There was a light on in the den to the left, but no light in the foyer. She didn’t have a free hand to flip the switch, but she knew the way to the kitchen in the dark.

  “Seymour,” she called as she walked slowly. “I’m home.”

  There was no answer.

  Suddenly Rhoda bumped into a heavy object that shouldn’t have been in the middle of the foyer. What was that, she thought to herself, reeling backwards. She peered into the dark to see what it was. She heard a noise, a creaking from the landing above.

  “Oh, my God!” she thought, burglars.

  Suddenly, whatever it was that she had bumped into now bumped into her again. What was this? She reached a few fingers out and touched something that felt like … a shoe. A shoe … in the middle of the air …?

  Rhoda screamed. She ran in terror to the light switch ‘and flipped it on.

  “Oh, Seymour … oh, Seymour … oh, Seymour …” she screamed, moaned, cried as she sank to the floor. “You son of a bitch, J.T. Wright, you should have cancer everywhere in your body! Oh, Seymour, Seymour.…” she sobbed as the body of her husband swung lazily on the end of the rope attached to the landing above. “You son of a bitch, Wright! You motherless, soulless son
of a bitch …”

  November 23, 1967

  Muffy was a happy child at her fifth birthday party. And since this was the second party she had had that day, the first in nursery school, this one with her parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunts, she was socially exhausted but happy.

  “Where does the time go?” asked Mrs. Crawford, turning to J.T. “Remember, it seems just yesterday that we had her first birthday party. That was when Kennedy was shot. That was in the Crawford’s apartment, wasn’t it, Courtnay?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Courtnay and Marty had moved from the little three-room apartment they had rented when they came up from Washington to a luxurious six-room duplex cooperative that Courtnay’s parents had purchased for them on Park Avenue and Eighty-third Street. Marty hadn’t been too happy about his in-laws buying them the apartment; but Courtnay wasn’t happy living in cramped quarters. On state salary, it was hard for Marty to afford anything larger. So when Courtnay came home with the news that her mother and father wanted to give her an apartment as a fifth-anniversary gift, he resisted—but not vehemently. After all, it was one thing to want to be independent, but, he thought, it was yet another thing to let that quest for independence stand in the way of Courtnay’s family being able to do for their daughter what they ordinarily would have, what gave them pleasure, what made her happy. Since Courtnay was now expecting their second child, Marty wanted to do everything possible to make her happy.

  In the meantime, J.T., too, had found new living quarters. The little flat in Greenwich Village had been all right when he first came to New York, first began working on Wall Street. But now he had a certain image to project. He arranged, through DeValen, to take a lease—with an option to buy later—on a small brownstone in the Chelsea area. It was a lovely house on a charming street—but it didn’t change J.T.’s slovenly living habits. Now, however, with a larger apartment, there was more to be unkempt.

  “Been reading about you in the papers, J.T.,” said Mrs. Crawford.

  “We have been rather busy,” J.T. crowed softly.

  “Who are you after these days?”

  “The usual,” he shrugged. “Nothing outstanding. We’ve pretty much decimated the grafters. The remaining ones are too scared to make a move.”

  “Do you want a big piece or a little piece, Uncle J.T.?” asked dark-haired Muffy.

  “A little piece, Muffy.”

  Muffy very seriously cut the cake and Courtnay helped place it on the plate. Later, when all the guests had departed, Marty and J.T. sat in the library having a nightcap—a beer for Marty and a ginger ale for J.T.

  “I’m not sure that’s a sound idea, J.T.,” said Marty. “I realize we’ve been on the trail of Judge Tauber for quite some time now without result, but I think your idea is a little off the wall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you want to manufacture a case where none exists. Frankly, what you’re proposing is illegal.”

  “Look, all we do is have one of our undercover men indicted by the grand jury. We won’t even let the DA know he’s undercover. Let him go through the system as if it’s a real case. Then he’ll retain Tauber’s son—what’s his name?”

  “Randolph Tauber.”

  “Randolph Tauber! What kind of a name is that anyway? The undercover man will retain young Tauber and tell him he’s looking for a fix, a guarantee, for which he’s willing to pay exceptionally well. We’ll see if Randolph asks his father to influence the judge before whom the case is tried. What’s wrong with that?”

  “For starters,” said Marty, “you’d have to get a phony complainant to swear in front of a grand jury that he or she has been the victim of a fictitious crime perpetrated by our undercover investigator. Now, to have our undercover man indicted for a phony crime is to subvert the entire function of the grand jury—not to mention that our office will be suborning perjury. Our investigator—the alleged victim—will have to swear he was the victim of a crime that never actually took place, won’t he?”

  J.T. nodded.

  “So far you have the following crimes: the phony complainant, perjury, a class D felony punishable by seven years. We put him up to it. Subornation of perjury. Another D felony, subjecting us to seven years. Not to mention, of course, obstruction of, or interference with, governmental function. You can’t abuse the legal process to catch people who are abusing the legal process, J.T. We’ve been over this ground before.”

  “We’re not actually abusing the legal process. We don’t intend to commit a criminal act. We’re doing this specifically to uncover people who have violated their oaths of office.”

  “But we’d be violating the law ourselves.”

  “We are the law.”

  “No, we’re not. We’re just administering the law. We’re just people. We’re not the law. We’re torch-bearers, conduits.”

  “Can you figure another way that we can catch Judge Tauber?”

  “We’ve been trying for years now. Maybe he’s really straight.”

  “Horseshit. I’ve seen the smoke myself. Now I want the fire.”

  “What smoke, Seymour Fine?”

  “Let’s not talk about that,” J.T. said. He never liked discussing what had happened to Fine.

  “What smoke has there been about Judge Tauber?”

  “It’s a hunch, all right? A hunch. I know we can get this guy. And God damn it, Marty, whose side are you on, anyway? We need some big cases. All we’ve been getting lately are cops taking bribes for not giving traffic tickets. We’re putting ourselves out of business.”

  “Maybe it’s about time. This was only supposed to be temporary.”

  “That’s true. The time has come to move. But we can’t just yet. We’ve got to go out in a blaze of glory. One big case, publicity week after week for, say, six months, so when we go out we’ll have to beat clients away with a stick.”

  “Where are we going to get these phenomenal cases?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you,” said J.T. emphatically. “We need a sitting Supreme Court judge on the griddle. Maybe a lot of them.” J.T. leaned back pensively. “Maybe we could go after DiFalco again.”

  “Again? They threw out our first case against him. I told you not to—”

  “Don’t tell me you told me, okay?”

  Marty nodded unhappily. This was another area about which he and J.T. constantly disagreed. “I don’t mind trying to indict a Supreme Court judge if he’s done something wrong. But let’s not manufacture a case just to keep up publicity.”

  “I don’t intend to manufacture a case. We’re just putting all the ingredients together to see if we can have someone make a cake. Let’s see what kind of baker Judge Tauber is.”

  “What makes you think young Tauber would involve his father?”

  “If he doesn’t, and goes out and does something on his own, we’ll still nail him. The newspapers will beat the drums almost as big when we have the lawyer son of a Supreme Court judge on the fire. If young Tauber goes around bribing people, I’m going to get him. If his father helps him, I’ll get him too. That’s the way it is, Marty. This isn’t necessarily a job for the fainthearted.”

  “Let me ask you this. If someone went into one of our grand juries and perjured himself about a phony case, would we prosecute?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Then what’s the difference when we send someone in to perjure himself? Just because we know in advance that it’s going to happen doesn’t change the fact that a person who takes an oath and lies in front of the grand jury is guilty of perjury. You know, in ancient times the punishment for perjury was death.”

  “When we know about it and it’s for a specific purpose, it isn’t perjury.”

  “Will the witness have his fingers crossed?”

  “Stop busting my onions, Marty.”

  January 11, 1968

  The auditorium of St. Bernadette’s Church in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn was set up with rows of long tables covered
with paper tablecloths. A dais festooned with American-flag bunting stood on a stage at the front of the hall. American flags were arranged in stands behind the dais. Miniature flags were in the center of every table in the audience.

  Pitchers of orange juice were distributed to each table as the young men and their fathers began to arrive for the Seventeenth Annual Father-Son Communion Breakfast of St. Bernadette’s Parish. The sons scrambled between the rows of tables to snare chairs so they could sit with their friends and fathers. The moderator-priest grabbed a couple of overexuberant boys by their ears to calm them down. He was an Italian priest, and most of the fathers and sons of St. Bernadette’s were also Italian, so a little ear-grabbing for discipline incurred no protest.

  Carl Stern lived in St. Bernadette’s parish and was on the breakfast committee that coordinated the annual affair. The German-American Stern family had blended immediately into the St. Bernadette parish activities when they moved into Bay Ridge fourteen months before. Several things accounted for the easy blending of the new German stock into the Italian enclave. Stern found many policemen and ex-policemen living in Bay Ridge. Only the stereotypical movie police department is still dominated by Irishmen; the major ethnic group in the New York Police Department is Italian, which makes up more than a third of the force. Those parishioners who were not policemen themselves were police buffs and supporters, conservatives who quickly accepted Stern and his tough stance on law and order.

  Stern’s close work with J.T. Wright did not affect him adversely in his neighbors’ eyes. To the people of Bay Ridge, J.T. Wright was a crusader, a knight astride the white steed of righteousness, whose every skirmish in the press was met with vociferous support. The lambasting that Wright received from what were considered the liberal, pinko, double-dome Jews in the Times were met with rank outrage in Bay Ridge.

  When Stern reported to the breakfast planning committee that J.T. Wright had agreed to be the guest speaker at this year’s affair, they were ecstatic. Tickets sold out immediately. Extra tables had to be squeezed in to accommodate the record crowd.