J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “I thought he was going to leap over the bench for sure that time,” Brill said softly to Sabbatino as they left the courtroom.

  “J.T., J.T.,” the reporter from the Times called as he stood in the aisle. “Can we talk with you?”

  “Sure,” said J.T., “let’s go out in the corridor.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when Sabbatino called the judge a horse’s ass right to his face,” the Times reporter said.

  “He didn’t say that, did he?” said J.T.

  “He sure as hell did.”

  They walked to the windows in the corridor.

  “What about the mayoral race?” another reporter asked directly. “Are you serious about it? Or is this just a trial balloon?”

  “I’m quite serious about the need for New York to have some responsible and strong leadership,” J.T. replied.

  “Are you prepared to leave the Special Prosecutor’s office to run?”

  “I am not, at this time, making any announcement that I’m leaving my current post or that I am officially running for the mayor’s office. I am considering the matter, I am seriously considering the matter. But I am not prepared right this moment to make a formal announcement.”

  “When do you think you might be in a position to make an announcement, one way or the other?”

  J.T. and Marty exchanged glances.

  “Very soon, I should think.”

  October 5, 1968

  “It’s true that I need Gatti for financial support,” J.T. said to DeValen in the back seat of DeValen’s limousine. “But I need the Teamsters’ endorsement even more.”

  DeValen nodded agreement.

  “Besides,” J.T. added, “once I get their endorsement, can their money be far behind?”

  “It certainly wouldn’t hurt to pump some fresh money into the campaign right at the beginning. It’s going to be awfully expensive.”

  “You won’t have to foot all the bills,” J.T. assured him. “I’m sure we’ll get grassroots support—and contributions—as soon as the campaign is official.”

  “I’m not complaining about the money, J.T. But there’s just so much the IRS will allow my corporations to pay your law office as legal fees.”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about excessive fees just now. I haven’t even opened my law offices yet.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to start looking?”

  “I will soon.”

  “When are you resigning as special prosecutor?”

  “As soon as possible. The sooner I get some office space located, the sooner I can resign, and the sooner we can get the political campaign off the ground.”

  “There are terrific public-relations benefits in financing your own campaign out of what the public thinks are your own funds. You can represent yourself as totally independent.”

  “That’s exactly what I have in mind,” said J.T. enthusiastically. “We run the campaign with no connections to political parties; as a man of the people, a man who owes nothing to anyone except those people. People are ready for that. They’re sick and tired of politicians who have nothing to offer except another freeloader on the public tit.”

  The limousine headed west on Canal Street, toward the river. Ponte’s was a plush restaurant, set in a totally isolated location on West Street, by the Hudson River.

  “How long do you think it will take them to replace you, so you can walk away from the prosecutor’s job?” DeValen asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got assistants. Someone in the office can take over temporarily until they find a new head man.”

  “How about Marty Boxer? He could stay on until they get someone to take over.”

  “Marty won’t stay on. He doesn’t want the headache,” J.T. said with assurance.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes.

  “Perhaps we could set up a new corporation for you,” said J.T.

  “Whatever do I need a new corporation for?”

  “So your tax man can justify the kind of start-up fees necessary to finance the mayoral campaign.”

  “That won’t be necessary. At the moment I have so many corporations that as general counsel you could submit almost any kind of bill you wanted, and no one would question it. Of course, we’re only talking about seed money. Once you win the nomination, big money will have to start rolling in. We couldn’t possibly run an all-out mayoral campaign on the kind of money I could generate.”

  “I understand.”

  “That’s why it wouldn’t hurt too much if you got some Teamster money from Gatti.”

  “I don’t think money is the important thing to push for today. His support would bring in all sorts of other benefits.”

  The car stopped at Ponte’s canopy, and the chauffeur opened the door for them.

  Ponte’s was red velvet and quiet. The dining room was filled with lunching businessmen.

  “May I help you?” asked the maitre d’.

  “Mr. Gatti,” said DeValen.

  “Certainly. This way, gentlemen.”

  They were escorted to a table in a far corner. Charles Gatti was tall and broad, young, with a confident air and a pleasant smile. The man with him was a bit older, with graying temples. They both stood as Wright and DeValen approached.

  “Mr. Wright, Mr. DeValen,” Gatti said, shaking their hands, “pleased to meet you. This is Louis Spagnola,” he said, indicating his companion.

  Gatti was a gentleman union leader, exactly what J.T. had been told to expect. Usually, union officials were just a cut or two above the workingmen they represented. But Gatti was different—educated, bright, personable.

  “Care for a drink, gentlemen?” the waiter asked when they were seated.

  “We already have wine,” Gatti said.

  “I’ll have a vodka on the rocks,” said DeValen.

  “I’ll just have a little wine with lunch,” said J.T.

  The waiter turned and left the table.

  “I noticed in the papers that your union is in the midst of rather serious—or should I say, sanguine—contract negotiations,” DeValen said casually.

  “Yes, but there won’t be a strike. This will be resolved. I’ve noticed your office is kept on its toes these days too,” Gatti said to J.T.

  “Not as hectic as before. I’ve been putting myself as well as the criminals out of business.”

  The waiter came with DeValen’s drink.

  “Bring another bottle of Nozzole Chianti,” Gatti said to the waiter.

  “Very well, Mr. Gatti.”

  They ordered lunch from the rolling blackboard menu, and then sat talking pleasantries, avoiding talk of politics or the upcoming mayoral campaign. Their orders arrived and were set before them.

  “Since the contract negotiations appear close to resolution, you must be able to concentrate on other things,” DeValen said to Gatti, wanting to get the conversation headed in the right direction.

  “The shoe is always pinching somewhere on this job,” he replied. “I’m off to Washington right after lunch. Management is trying to get their friends in Washington to curtail the power of the unions. But of course politicians respond to votes, and there are more labor votes than there are management votes.”

  “This Hoffa situation doesn’t help much, does it?” said DeValen.

  “Bobby Kennedy began a kind of impetus—which is always there under the surface, anyway—to clean labor’s house.”

  J.T. was fascinated by Gatti as he watched him and listened to him. It was no wonder that Gatti was a formidable labor leader. Not only was he intelligent and articulate, but a formidable person, well suited to be a spokesman for his less verbal peers.

  “This calamari is terrific,” said Spagnola. “Try yours before it gets too cold,” he said tactfully to Gatti.

  They fell silent as they ate.

  After a while, DeValen looked to Gatti. “What do you think of the situation here in the city?” he asked.

  “The city’s got problems,” he sai
d. He sipped some wine. “Substantial problems, mainly financial. And the domino effect is that other problems follow—housing, security, sanitation, and, of course, crime.”

  “Perhaps the resources of the police and the court system are being dissipated,” J.T. suggested.

  “Perhaps,” agreed Gatti. “But a stronger police department or faster court processing wouldn’t eliminate the other problems that breed crime in the low-income communities: substandard housing, high rents, poor services.”

  “But wouldn’t the average man and woman in the street be better able to cope with some of these other problems if they didn’t have the fear of being struck down on their way home, if they lived in a community where people could work together in safety, resolving their other problems?”

  “There’s something to that,” Gatti agreed.

  A few more passes at the food were made in silence.

  “Of course, that doesn’t minimize the other problems you’ve mentioned, Mr. Gatti,” said J.T.

  “Call me Charles.”

  “Charles,” J.T. smiled.

  “Do you feel sufficiently well versed in the city’s problems to be the mayor of this town?” Gatti asked J.T. right out.

  “No one is born to the mayor’s job,” J.T. replied, launching into an answer he and DeValen had rehearsed earlier. “No one has the innate capacity to know each and every aspect of the job entirely. But I have two arms, two eyes, and a brain that works at least as well as the next man’s. I’m sure I can handle or learn to handle the mayor’s responsibilities. Additionally, there are people who presently head up the city’s agencies and departments. I wouldn’t replace them merely because another mayor appointed them. This city’s government, driven by the right man, could effect changes which I think are not only necessary but reasonably within the reach of someone who has the insight and the forcefulness to push in the right direction.”

  “You think you can get the city’s ship back on an even keel, then?”

  “What I can conceive, I can achieve.”

  Gatti smiled. “You certainly haven’t lost the silver tongue you had when you were counsel to that committee in Washington.”

  “Naturally,” DeValen added, “we need support from people in all areas.”

  “Not just money,” said J.T. quickly. “We’re not talking money. What I’m more concerned about, if I might be frank …”

  “Please do.”

  “We need a united effort, people working together to keep this great city—and I mean this sincerely, this is the greatest city in the world—to keep it strong. It’s a shame that things are in such disorder now.” J.T. frowned. “There has to be a new approach. I have ideas that might work if only people were inspired to believe it could be done.”

  Gatti sat close mouthed, listening to J.T.

  After coffee, the waiter put the check in the middle of the table, like a hockey puck at a faceoff. Spagnola snared it just as DeValen reached for it.

  Gatti and Spagnola rode downtown in the back seat of a dark Buick sedan. Gatti’s driver was an older man, a retired teamster on pension, dressed in ordinary street clothes. Gatti had fancier cars, and could have a fancier chauffeur, but he kept his public profile toned down. A Cadillac or Lincoln and a liveried chauffeur, would not do for an American labor leader, not when his people were all working stiffs, breaking their backs to make ends meet.

  “What did you think of him?” Spagnola asked.

  “What did you think?”

  “I thought the guy really meant what he was saying. I was frankly surprised. He’s got a lot of guts. Maybe somebody from left field would be the right ticket. What did you think?”

  “He’s a treacherous opportunist without a true social conscience. He’d fluctuate into any shape or direction beneficial to himself. I don’t believe his motives are as egalitarian as he makes them sound. In addition, I think he’s a cocksucker.”

  Spagnola howled with laughter. So did the driver, still looking ahead. Spagnola, laughing hard, pounded on the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Hey, take it easy,” the driver said sharply.

  “Shut up, you old bastard,” Spagnola chided the driver familiarly. “I’ll have you shipped to an old-age home for broken-down fat people.”

  “Keep it up,” the driver replied in kind. “One of these days, on my lunch hour, I’m going to take you out behind the building, and then we’ll see who’s an old bastard.”

  The three of them laughed.

  “I guess that means that we don’t send him any money?”

  “Send him some money,” said Gatti. “Not much. But send him something.”

  “Why are you sending him money if you dislike him?”

  “Even a cocksucker could win.”

  November 1, 1968

  DeValen and J.T. sat at a small table near the back of Lutece. The waiter added some chilled white wine to DeValen’s crystal glass. J.T. had hardly touched his.

  “Of course, I understand that this is a big move on your part, J.T.,” DeValen said. “It was I who suggested it, wasn’t it? But I never said anything about a written guarantee of a retainer. It appears that you don’t trust me.”

  “Trust has nothing to do with it,” J.T. replied, now sipping his wine. “When people you think you can count on for support, people like Gatti, for instance, say they can’t come out with an endorsement, leaving me sitting alone on that limb, I start to get a little panicky. Don’t attribute my suggestion to a lack of trust in you; attribute it to fright, apprehension on my part. A written guarantee would just give me a little peace of mind, that’s all.”

  DeValen nodded and sipped his wine again. “You certainly can string words together, J.T.”

  J.T. smiled slightly. “If you have confidence in me, sufficient to be as generous as you intend to be for a year, what is it to make me feel a little more secure? Besides, I’ll need something to show the bank so I can make a loan to do all the things I have to do—rent furniture, that sort of thing.”

  “I could simply advise the bank that I guarantee the loans.”

  The waiter brought two orders of saucisson en croute. DeValen had ordered for both of them. J.T. looked at the plate unenthusiastically.

  “Come on, J.T., eat. Don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not upset. I’m just realizing that you don’t give a tinker’s damn about my feelings. You’re going to give me the money anyway, so what’s the difference if you give me a piece of paper that makes me feel more secure?”

  “If a written retainer will make you feel better about going ahead with the campaign, all right, you can have it,” DeValen said, rubbing J.T.’s shoulder.

  J.T. smiled. He saw flashes of his campaign, his career, a fabulous office. He was on his way. “I appreciate that, George. I really do.”

  “Now, how about a few days rest away from all this? Rest up before the onslaught.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “You wanted the guarantee, you got it. I respected your feelings, didn’t I? Now I feel like a few days away somewhere, and I’d like you to go with me.”

  “The agreement gets signed first,” J.T. countered with a smile.

  “Absolutely,” DeValen smiled back. “Where would you like to go?”

  November 23, 1968

  J.T. studied Ann Boxer, thinking far back to the first time he had met her, that weekend when he came down to New York from Millville to meet Marty, his college Little Brother. His eyes turned to Marty, who was beaming at six-year-old Muffy.

  “Come on, Uncle J.T., you play too,” said Muffy, coming over to J.T., taking his hand in her tiny fingers.

  “Okay, Muffy,” J.T. agreed, although he didn’t much like playing with children.

  Muffy walked J.T. to where Marty was standing. “Patty cake, patty cake,” Muffy began, touching Marty’s hand, then J.T.’s.

  J.T. looked at Marty. There was something aloof in Marty’s attitude lately. He had obtained DeValen’s written agreement to finance
their law office at a handsome annual retainer, he had announced his resignation from the Special Prosecutor’s office, everything that Marty had wanted had been done, and yet there was some sort of unfriendliness.

  “… baker’s man, bake me a cake …”

  Marty looked away from J.T. The Tauber affair was what had started his stomach churning. Having to look the fool, in front of the court, in front of his peers, in front of everyone, was crushing. And after that, it really didn’t matter what plans J.T. had, what agreements he made with DeValen.

  “… as fast as you can … pat it …”

  J.T. was watching the little girl tapping her little fist on top of her father’s, his, her own, over and over. Marty said he’d stay on during the mayoral campaign as long as it lasted, he’d run the law office, but he wouldn’t stay on after that. God, that was a swift kick in the ass.

  “… and bake it …”

  Marty didn’t know exactly where he was going to work, what he was going to do, now that he had advised J.T. that he wouldn’t be practicing law with him. But J.T.’s voracious appetite for publicity and public acclaim was carrying him to reckless heights, and Marty had had enough of it.

  “… mark it with an ‘O’ …”

  I’ll have to get somebody to replace Marty in the office, J.T. thought. That was going to be tough. Plenty of people would take a high salary, but dedication was a hard commodity to come by. Phil Levine had contacted him recently, wanting to work on the campaign. J.T. looked at Marty as he thought about Phil Levine. He might not be charming, but Levine was crafty and dedicated.

  “… and put it in the oven …”

  Marty truly felt badly that he wouldn’t be there to sit on J.T. when his wild imagination got going. What’s going to happen to Big Brother? Marty wondered sincerely.

  Flashes of years spun through both men’s minds as their eyes were directed, if not focused on, the little girl: years at Browning, congressional hearings, the law firm, Bedardo, the special prosecutor’s office. They each thought different thoughts about different times, but each reminisced as he saw their curtain coming down.

  “… for Daddy Otto, and Uncle Otto, and Muffy Otto three,” Muffy squealed happily.