J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  Minutes before the breakfast was to begin, Carl Stern was in the rectory, a phone to his ear, listening to it ring at J.T.’s house. Monsignor Bonacci, short and heavyset in his crimson-trimmed cassock, hovered anxiously nearby.

  “No answer,” said Stern, putting the phone down.

  “Are you sure he’s coming?” asked Eddie Cardone, the president of the Parish Council.

  Monsignor Bonacci looked very serious as he listened.

  “I reminded him verbally and I left a note for him. I don’t know what else I could have done,” replied Stern. He was getting nervous.

  “All right, everyone find places. There are plenty of empty chairs all around the auditorium. We’re not going to set up any new tables while there are still places open,” announced Jim DeFranco, vice-president of the Parish Council, as he stood behind the microphone on the dais, watching stragglers from the church wander around the auditorium.

  “Are you sure he knows how to get here?” asked the Monsignor.

  “Sure,” replied Stern. “Besides, his driver can look up the address in the phone book.”

  “I thought you drove for him,” said Cardone.

  “Not on weekends.” Stern was feeling queasy. He knew how unreliable J.T. was, how he could never get anywhere on time. Why had he put himself on the line like this? The Parish Council would drum him out of the neighborhood if J.T. ruined this breakfast.

  “I’ll start the breakfast. He should be here by then,” the Monsignor said threateningly.

  “No question,” Stern assured him nervously.

  There was a big cheer from the kids, who were in high spirits, when the Monsignor came into the hall. He waddled up to the dais, where the officials of the Parish Council and the honored guests waited. Everyone looked past the Monsignor for J.T. Wright.

  “Good morning,” said the Monsignor, walking directly to the microphone. He had to lower the mike head so he could reach it. He couldn’t tighten the mike to stay at one height. Jim DeFranco fixed it for him.

  “Good morning,” he repeated into the mike. A deafening feedback whistle seared the room. The kids laughed. The Monsignor, annoyed, looked toward the control box just behind the curtain. One of the men hastily lowered the volume.

  “Good morning,” the Monsignor said again. “Let’s all say grace so we can begin our Seventeenth Annual St. Bernadette’s Communion Breakfast.”

  Steve Russo was crestfallen as the Monsignor started grace. He was the perennial MC, and had prepared a punchy speech, peppered with a few new jokes, to open the proceedings. After that, the Monsignor was supposed to be introduced to say grace.

  The Monsignor gave one of his rambling graces, talking about all the things in the parish that God had blessed, and that He should continue to bless, as well as the food they were about to eat. When he finished, there was a big cheer as the young guests grabbed for their chairs and the cornflakes.

  Stern and Cardone waited at the front window of the rectory, watching for J.T.’s car. Stern was becoming pale.

  “Is he always like this?” asked Cardone.

  “Most of the time.”

  “Christ.”

  A few minutes passed.

  “Is that his car?” Cardone asked suddenly.

  Stern stretched to look. “No. Shit.”

  A few people were on their way to the ten o’clock mass. Others were walking to Thirteenth Avenue to buy bread and pastries in the corner store, which stayed open until after the last mass.

  J.T., who knew nothing whatever about Brooklyn, and his driver, who knew little more, had wandered about the streets for three-quarters of an hour. They finally arrived, leaving the car in the no-parking zone in front of the church. The head usher moved toward them officiously until he saw who it was. He smiled and told the driver to leave the car there; the ushers would watch it. J.T. was led down a stairway from the rear vestibule of the church to the back of the auditorium.

  J.T. poked his head out from the stairwell. He saw a mass of people sitting at the tables, their flashing spoons in the cornflakes. He pulled back, but not before someone had seen him.

  “Hey, he’s here!” a boy shouted.

  “Where?”

  “In the backstairs.”

  The message flashed across the room instantly.

  J.T. nodded to countless smiling faces as he walked across the auditorium to a standing ovation, picking up an entourage of well-wishers and handshakers. Men reached over to pat his back and shake his hand.

  “Wright’s here,” an usher shouted to Cardone and Stern.

  “Where?”

  “Downstairs.”

  The two men raced downstairs, arriving at the dais just after J.T.

  “God, am I glad to see you,” Stern said as he took his place next to J.T., trying to catch his breath. “This is Eddie Cardone, our president.”

  J.T. shook Cardone’s hand.

  “A pleasure,” said Cardone.

  “Oh, and this is Monsignor Bonacci,” said Stern.

  “A very great pleasure to meet you,” the Monsignor said.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Monsignor,” the Monsignor corrected.

  “Thank you, Monsignor.”

  The milling around on the dais subsided and J.T. took his chair. As the others began to eat, J.T. wrote some notes on the back of a program, putting together a few remarks for the gathering.

  “You’re very popular around here,” the Monsignor whispered to J.T.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. You stand for law and order, and we support that wholeheartedly.”

  “Oh?”

  “Eddie,” the Monsignor said to Cardone, who was sitting next to him, “Mr. Wright doesn’t know how popular he is in our parish.”

  “Are you kidding, Mr. Wright? We appreciate the stand you’re taking against crime, against permissiveness. We’re from the old school around here, where people believe criminals have to pay. Around here there’s right and wrong, and no in-between.”

  “Except Purgatory,” added the Monsignor.

  “Yeah,” Cardone chuckled. “You’re our kind of people, Mr. Wright. In fact, we were talking about you the other night at the Parish Council. You’re the kind of man who should be in office to do something about crime.”

  “That’s why we invited you here,” added another voice near Cardone. “We like your style.”

  “You have our endorsement,” Monsignor Bonacci said. “And in an Italian parish, that goes a long way.”

  “And now, fathers and sons,” said Steve Russo from behind the lectern, “we have an exciting program this morning, some football Giants films …” The kids cheered. “We have our own Rocky Marchette …” They cheered again. Marchette was a minor-league ball player from the neighborhood. “And we have Special Prosecutor J.T. Wright.” The youngsters were unimpressed, but their fathers were on their feet, cheering and whistling. They loved him. J.T. felt a surge of exhilaration.

  April 15, 1968

  “Fred, the stories you’re giving the media lately are really poor,” J.T. snapped as he gazed out of his office window.

  “I just place stories in the paper, J.T. I don’t create them,” Balzano replied. He was on the couch, looking at J.T.’s back.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded J.T., wheeling around. “Besides the fact you can’t do your job?”

  “I’ve had to spend more time lately keeping people from using bad press about this office in the media than I have getting our stories in. You know that as well as I do, J.T., so don’t start pissing on me!” Balzano stared back angrily at J.T.

  “Look, Fred,” J.T. said soothingly, “I know there are lots of bleeding hearts in the editorial departments and on the bench, who start quaking in their boots when somebody comes along, like I have, and really starts making waves. They can’t stand the sight of blood. But I tell you, Fred”—he started pacing, launching into a speech—“there are far more people out there, grassroots people, who a
re tired of the criminals running things, of corrupt politicians, of the police spending more time counting their money than keeping the streets safe. You’ve seen the letters we get every day from the working people. They’re glad that somebody is finally doing something. You’ve seen the letters inviting me to speak at their dinners and meetings, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve had my staff cataloging and filing them just like you wanted,” Balzano replied.

  “Three speeches in Queens just this week,” J.T. said, reassuring himself. “The people love us, which is another reason the politicians and the people at the papers are getting nervous. Our grassroots movement is beginning to shake their applecarts.”

  Balzano listened quietly. He had heard this all before.

  “That’s why, Fred, we really have to have some positive stories in the papers, to counteract accusations that we’re coming down too hard with improper methods. We also need good press to fuse our people out there together, to give them something positive to talk about, to recruit new troops.”

  “Give me the stories, I’ll get them in the papers.”

  J.T. walked over to Balzano. “You’re right, Fred. We have to give you some positive news to print. It’s critical right now if we want to keep our momentum going.”

  J.T. pressed his intercom button.

  “Yes?” said his secretary.

  “Tell Philip Levine to come into my office.”

  “Will do.”

  In a moment, a runt of a man appeared at the door. “You wanted to see me?” he piped in a high voice.

  Philip Levine, who pronounced his name to rhyme with devine, wore round glasses that he constantly pushed higher onto the bridge of his nose. He waddled when he walked and had an unkempt shock of dark hair. He reminded J.T. of a mole. He was not at all the type of person J.T. would ordinarily tolerate. But Levine was unscrupulous, unfeeling, with an obsessive drive always to be right, to show everyone how clever he was. With such a personality, it was really little surprise that Levine had been personally signed on by J.T. to assist in his purge of the justice system.

  Marty Boxer thought Levine was obnoxious, and had told J.T. exactly that many times. But J.T. kept Levine on staff to do those things that he couldn’t ask Marty to do, or that he knew Marty would refuse to do.

  “Yes,” said J.T., “Fred and I were having a talk and we’ve agreed that our activity is not what it should be. He has no stories to send out.”

  “We’ve had several indictments lately.”

  “Which ones?” asked Balzano.

  “The tax official who was skimming the cream in Staten Island,” Levine replied.

  “Diddlyshit,” said J.T. impatiently. “I’m talking about some real indictments, something significant.”

  Levine thought. “There’s that Judge Tauber story you wanted me to work on.”

  “Yes, of course. What’s happening with that?”

  “Well, I went to Judge Moriarty just the way you asked, and laid out the entire plan. He saw nothing wrong with it.”

  “That’s what I told Marty,” J.T. interjected. “Go ahead.”

  “One of our undercover people went to the DA’s office in Brooklyn. I wanted the case to be processed in front of Moriarty, not Poster in New York.”

  “Poster’s too goddamn liberal,” said J.T.

  “Our man complained that he was robbed by another of our men. Only the DA doesn’t know that. The grand jury is going to vote on the indictment shortly.”

  “You lost me,” said Balzano. “Give me a rundown from the top.”

  J.T. took over. “One of our undercover men is a complainant who has testified to a Brooklyn grand jury that he was robbed by another of our undercover men, Wolkofsky. And Wolkofsky is going to be indicted for robbery.”

  “Wolkofsky’s going to be indicted under the name Rainone—just for a little color,” Levine added.

  Balzano looked at J.T. “What kind of shit is that? Does the defendant have to be Italian to be credible?”

  “I don’t know why an Italian name was picked,” said J.T.

  “I do,” replied Balzano, “and I think it sucks.”

  “We’ll have to get you a membership in the Italian-American Civil Rights League.”

  “Apparently you better.”

  “Come on, it’s done already. We can’t do anything about it now.”

  Levine continued, “We even pumped a phony old criminal record with two convictions for Rainone into the Albany computers. Similar crimes for authenticity.”

  “Did the Brooklyn DA know what was happening?” asked J.T.

  “Not at all,” Levine said with glee. “It’s totally our operation. No one else is in on it to spill the beans.”

  “You advised Moriarty about that?”

  “Sure.”

  J.T. nodded approval. “Go ahead.”

  “Anyway, Rainone went to Judge Tauber to ask for advice.”

  “Just like that, out of the blue, he went to Tauber?” Balzano said quizzically. “A judge can’t represent a defendant in a criminal case. Even I know that.”

  J.T. looked a little worried as he turned to Levine.

  Levine shook his head. “No, no. We got this woman, a Mrs. Mastrangelo—that’s why we picked the Rainone name—who had tried to bribe a cop who stopped her for driving drunk the wrong way on a one-way street. During the processing at the station house, she mentioned she knew Judge Tauber really well.”

  “Aha,” said J.T., rubbing his hands together, “the plot thickens.”

  “Right.” Levine smiled his thin, weasel smile. “We told her we wouldn’t prosecute her if she cooperated and introduced Rainone to Judge Tauber.”

  “Pretty move,” J.T. said happily. “Go ahead.”

  “The judge tells Rainone he needs somebody who knows his way around the criminal courts, and sends Rainone to see his son.”

  “All of this is tape-recorded, isn’t it?” J.T. pressed.

  “Naturally. Anyone who talked to Judge Tauber was wearing a body tape, even Mrs. Mastrangelo.”

  “Fantastic,” said J.T.

  “Rainone told Randolph Tauber—that’s the judge’s son—that he wants a guarantee the case will be tossed out of court, or at least a guarantee of no jail. Whatever it costs.”

  Balzano nodded. “Where does the case go now?”

  “After Rainone is indicted in Brooklyn, he and Mrs. Mastrangelo will testify in front of our Special Corruption Grand Jury about Judge Tauber and about Randolph concocting a phony defense for Rainone; one where he charges he didn’t assault and rob the complainant. He just hit him when the complainant made homosexual advances.”

  “Did young Tauber concoct a phony defense?” asked Balzano.

  “Wait, I’m not finished. Next we’re going to have the judge and his son testify in front of our grand jury. I’ll bag them on perjury when they deny the story.”

  “What if they don’t perjure themselves? How can I make a story out of that?” Balzano asked J.T. “You don’t even know which way it’s going to fall.”

  “It’ll fall the right way,” Levine said firmly.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve had preliminary informal discussions with the Taubers in my office,” said Levine, “and their stories differ significantly from the testimony of Rainone and Mrs. Mastrangelo.”

  “What do you think?” J.T. asked Balzano.

  “Sensational stuff, if we can deliver.”

  “I’ll deliver,” Levine said proudly, looking for J.T.’s approval.

  J.T. was all smiles. “Let’s get it. Let’s really get it,” he exhorted Levine. “We need a big one right now. Fred, start pounding your typewriter.”

  “Right, J.T.”

  J.T. was delighted as Balzano left the room. Levine started to follow. “Phil,” J.T. said slowly, seeing the door close behind Balzano, “are you sure this thing will happen the way you say?”

  “Absolutely. I told you I already have the tapes. And the judge a
nd Randolph have already told me their version. I know I’m going to have them indicted for perjury.”

  “Fantastic, simply fantastic.” J.T. pushed back his chair, lifting his feet up on the desk. Levine stood, grinning. “Well, why are you still here?” J.T. said with feigned anger. “Go get me those indictments.”

  “Right, chief.”

  “And, Phil, this is important to me right now. But don’t say anything to Marty Boxer. He said it couldn’t come off.”

  “That’s all the more reason for me to get it for you.”

  J.T. laughed as Levine rushed out of the office.

  July 14, 1968

  “Now those are headlines,” J.T. exulted, holding up a copy of The New York Times to Balzano and Marty. “The only thing that’d make me happier is a jury saying guilty. By God.” J.T. read the headline again: WRIGHT INDICTS JUDGE TAUBER AND SON FOR PERJURY.

  The Governor was in shirt sleeves, sitting comfortably in his private plane headed from Albany to New York City. Dan Mastretta sat on a nearby couch, skimming the morning newspapers for items that would interest the Governor.

  “Have you seen the story about Judge Tauber?” Mastretta asked.

  “I didn’t read it, but I know about it. I received a telephone call from Chief Judge Borden at eight o’clock this morning. The judge was rather disturbed.”

  “About one of his judges getting indicted?” Mastretta asked.

  “No, not at all. About the tactics of the special prosecutor. Judge Borden said that it was all well and good that corrupt officials are indicted and tried, but not in the newspapers. Borden also complained that Wright shows as much disrespect for the law as any person who’s been indicted.”

  “Isn’t perjury perjury?”

  “That’s what I said to Borden. I said, ‘A grand jury heard evidence and indicted, what’s wrong with that?’”

  The plane bounced on an air pocket. The Governor felt a queasiness in the pit of his stomach.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that he had been a DA for a substantial period of time, in Dewey’s office, and a DA could have a grand jury return an indictment against anyone he wanted it to.”

  “Did he say there’s something wrong with the Tauber case?”