J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “That’s probably true,” said the judge. “But I think we ought to respect Boxer’s wishes. He certainly wasn’t looking to hurt us.”

  “Does that mean we shouldn’t use these tapes to get your indictment thrown out?”

  “Of course we should. We just don’t have to go out of our way to get publicity. We’ll just make whatever motions are appropriate, as you said, and the rest will take care of itself.”

  “When we make the motion, and the indictment is thrown out,” said Brill, “the newspapers will pick it up all by themselves. We won’t have to go out of our way.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said the judge. “It will all work out by itself. Mr. Wright will get what he deserves without us having to lift a finger.”

  “Let’s get going,” Sabbatino said anxiously.

  May 31, 1969

  “This city needs some law and order—now!” J.T.’s amplified voice echoed across the hot, sunlit picnic grounds. To the left of the small, flag-draped platform on which J.T. stood, frankfurters, hamburgers, and corn were being cooked on a large charcoal fire. There were tubs of cold soda and kegs of beer. Before him was a large array of eager faces, men and women, bandannaed, sunglassed, cigar-chomping, smiling, hanging on his every word. A cheer lifted to the skies.

  “Tell ‘em good, J.T.,” urged a potbellied man from the crowd.

  “Yeah,” agreed another.

  In the background, beyond the crowd, J.T. could see men playing softball and kids running and chasing each other.

  “The present administration, and all of the other candidates, are only going to give you more of the same giveaway programs, freeloaders living off your backs …”

  Jeers, whistles.

  “… giving away your safety to pampered criminals who go through our justice system like it’s a turnstile in a subway.”

  The crowd roared lustily.

  “Sock it to ’em, J.T.”

  “Giving away your taxes to people upstate. You pay the taxes, and the farmers live off them.”

  “He’s right … That’s it, J.T.”

  “Atta boy!”

  “I intend to do something that other candidates wouldn’t dream of doing because they haven’t got the backbone to stand up to the bloodsuckers and parasites and tell them the way it’s got to be. Hardworking people refuse to work half their work week just to support giveaway programs and social-service departments for lazy loafers. The parade is over. The free ride has stopped!”

  Joy … ecstasy … just what the crowd wanted to hear.

  J.T. watched over the crowd as someone in red shorts rounded the bases on the softball diamond.

  A young boy off to the right of the platform was crying loudly. His kite had plummeted to the ground and broken. His mother bent over him, a can of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

  This was the Memorial Day outing for the combined Ridgewood/Jamaica Estates/Whitestone, Queens PTAs, in Alley Pond Park. Just behind the platform, DeValen and Marty listened, gauging the crowd’s reactions. Marty sipped beer.

  “So remember, when primary day rolls around, if you want to get the loafers off your back …”

  “And into jail, where the creeps belong,” added an overenthusiastic listener.

  Cheers.

  “… to get those loafers off your back,” J.T. continued, “vote for J.T. Wright. Wright can’t be wrong.” He raised both hands over his head in a victory salute.

  The cheers grew louder. Admirers pounded J.T.’s back as he stepped off the platform. Slowly he moved through the crowd toward the car where Marty and DeValen waited.

  “What did you think of the speech?” J.T. asked as they headed back to Manhattan in Marty’s car. J.T. had told DeValen not to bring the limousine. It would have given the wrong impression to the people who formed J.T.’s constituency.

  “You worked the crowd like a hypnotist,” DeValen praised.

  Marty nodded silently.

  “Didn’t you like it, Marty?” J.T. urged. “Didn’t we say it? Didn’t we say what the people wanted to hear?”

  “No question. You said what the people wanted to hear.”

  “No question about that,” said DeValen.

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked J.T., seeing Marty’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “When the media reports what you said to these people, it’s going to turn off a lot of other people. I don’t think you can win an election with just the support of middle-class conservatives from Staten Island, Queens, and Brooklyn.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying? Do you really think we can’t win a citywide election with the support of three of the five boroughs of the city, two of which are the most populated boroughs in the city? You can’t convince me that we can lose with that kind of support as our backbone. That backbone is the backbone of the city.”

  “What about the Jewish communities, the blacks, the Hispanics, who live in Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island? They’re not going to buy your kind of programs. And remember, a lot of the people in those boroughs are Democrats. When you eliminate the hard-and-fast Democrats, and the liberals who will not buy your cutting off social services, and then eliminate the economically depressed, you’re eliminating a lot of people.”

  “I don’t see it that way, Marty. Everywhere we go, people are jumping and cheering at every word I say.”

  “That’s true. But you’re only going to select places, where you know the audiences favor your position.”

  “There’ll be a groundswell effect, starting from word of mouth,” DeValen argued.

  “But is there enough time and enough word of mouth to carry us?”

  “It’s coming together,” said J.T. “I know it is. Besides, when we get past the Republican primary, we’ll tone down some of the John Birch stuff so we can pull in more of the Democrats.”

  “I don’t think it’s wise to play both sides like that.”

  “It’s always worked before,” J.T. said coolly.

  June 6, 1969

  “Meet J.T. Wright, your next mayor,” an enthusiastic campaign worker called out into the early-morning sunlight as people streamed toward the subway entrance on Queens Boulevard. He pointed to the candidate, who stood by the steps wearing a big button on his lapel that proclaimed, “I’m J.T. Wright.”

  “Good morning, I’m J.T. Wright,” J.T. said, reaching out his hand to a man in a business suit. “I need your vote in the primary.” He shook the limp hand of a woman in slacks. “Good morning, I’m J.T. Wright. I need your vote, too.” Two young girls giggled nervously behind their palms. “Hello, I’m J.T. Wright. I need your vote for mayor.”

  The crowd was a constant flow down the stairway. Some were greeted by J.T. personally, others received campaign literature from two young girls in plastic hats that were supposed to look like straw boaters with red, white, and blue hatbands.

  “You sure LaGuardia started this way?” J.T. whispered to the man who stood beside him, Harold Rottenberg, the public-relations advisor DeValen had hired. He smiled and shook an elderly woman’s hand.

  “I certainly hope that once you’re mayor, you’ll do something about those awful young men who hang around on the corner at 183rd Road,” the elderly woman said to J.T. “It’s simply a disgrace. I think they’re dope fiends. It’s just awful when decent folks can’t get any sleep.”

  “One of my first priorities is to get riffraff off the streets,” J.T. assured her.

  “God bless you,” the old woman exclaimed, shaking J.T.’s hand again.

  “I know it’s tough, J.T.,” said Rottenberg, “but this is the way it has to be done. You’ve got to get out and meet the people.”

  “Good morning, I’m J.T. Wright.” He shook hands with a black man in shirtsleeves. He turned back to Rottenberg. “But this way I’m meeting fifty, maybe seventy people. There are millions of people in New York City. I can’t shake millions of hands.”

  “You can try,” Rottenberg laughed.

 
“I can’t help but think this is old-fashioned, a throwback to the days when they didn’t have anything but a tomtom to send out messages. Good morning, I’m J.T. Wright.” He shook hands with another man, then a woman.

  “Good luck, J.T.,” said a man who shook his hand. “You get my vote.”

  “Listen, J.T., in 1954, 1953, something like that, Harriman ran for governor. There were eleven thousand districts in the state at that time, and he won the election by a plurality of only eleven thousand votes. One vote per election district. You don’t know if this next person you talk to is the one that’s going to put you over the top. A little personal touch is important.”

  “Good morning, I’m J.T. Wright. I really need your vote on primary day.”

  “That’s not so difficult, is it?” Rottenberg whispered.

  “How long are we going to stay here?” J.T. whispered back.

  “About another five minutes. We have a breakfast meeting with the Fifth Avenue Association. On the way, we’ll stop at the Roosevelt Avenue subway entrance. That’s a big station, like this one. We’ll spend ten minutes there.”

  “Oh brother.”

  “Listen, J.T., this may seem slow, but if you do this every morning for fifteen or twenty minutes, you’ll have shaken hands with sixty or seventy thousand people.”

  After a few more minutes, when there was a lull in the flow of people, Rottenberg looked at his watch.

  “Let’s go, Marty,” he called. Marty had been overseeing the distribution of campaign literature at the subway entrance across the street. “Let’s get our people together, we’re going to head back toward the city.”

  “Okay,” said Marty, handing a pamphlet to a young man and his girlfriend. He handed another woman a campaign button. Despite his resolve, Marty hadn’t totally abandoned J.T.’s efforts.

  The car Marty drove toward Manhattan was covered with placards reading WRIGHT CAN’T BE WRONG. J.T. and Rottenberg were in the back seat. Another car, equally placard-covered, crammed with their workers, followed close behind. They were using rented cars now, because Rottenberg had decided that DeValen’s big limousine did not project the right image. DeValen had personally hired Rottenberg because he had brought about some very impressive results in recent New York elections, and was now considered an image-maker extraordinaire.

  “Tell me what I’m supposed to do with the Fifth Avenue Association,” J.T. said as they rode.

  “Naturally, they’re business-oriented. They own shops and businesses in the Fifth Avenue area and they like anything that’s going to make it easier to bring customers in or lighten their tax burden. They’re interested in macha leben, making a living.”

  “So what are we suggesting to them? Better traffic control, more parking, a shopping mall? We’ll shut Fifth Avenue to vehicular traffic …”

  “They’d love to hear that, J.T., but you have to give them something they know is feasible.”

  “Is a feasibility study for such a mall reasonable? Maybe Fifth Avenue can be closed weekends. Who knows? We’ll say we’ll look into it.”

  “I think they’d like to hear that you’ll impose an austerity program in the city’s fiscal affairs that will result in lowered taxes.”

  J.T. nodded as he made a mental note. “Are these people voters, though? Are there enough of them to make a difference in the campaign?”

  “It’s not them, J.T., it’s their endorsement. If we can announce a new endorsement in the media every day, one day business people, the next day labor, the public will start to move with you, get on your bandwagon. This is how we build a groundswell of support for you.”

  “How are we doing with endorsements?”

  Rottenberg looked forward, shrugged. “We’re just starting to make inroads. It takes time for people to accept an independent as a serious candidate. Especially in the primary. Usually only local party workers vote on primary day.”

  “How can we win then?”

  “We have to create a desire on the part of the people to get the old politicians out and get some new, young blood—you—in. We have to make the election interesting, stir things up, get people who aren’t the political hacks to the election booths.”

  “Is this the corner you want, Harold?” Marty asked.

  “Stop at the far corner,” Rottenberg said.

  Marty found a parking space not far from the subway stairs. J.T. waited in the car while Marty and Rottenberg got out and strategically placed the workers.

  “Meet J.T. Wright, your next mayor,” the hawker started shouting at the crowd. “Meet J.T. Wright.”

  “Okay, J.T.,” said Rottenberg.

  J.T. adjusted his big identity button and moved out of the car. A few people cheered.

  “Hello, I’m J.T. Wright. I need your vote on primary day.” He shook hands with a young black girl who looked like a secretary.

  “Meet J.T. Wright, your next mayor.”

  “Hello, I’m J.T. Wright. I need your vote on primary day, Hello, I’m J.T. Wright. I need your vote, too, on primary day. Hello. I’m J.T. Wright. I need your vote on primary day …”

  Marty watched J.T. energetically work the crowd. He was impressed with J.T.’s capacity to exude charm and warmth at will. Marty wondered if all the world of renown and success was as much a charade as this.

  June 18, 1969

  “I’ll try and pitch you some good questions,” Sam Reiber, the New York Post reporter, said as an aside to J.T. “It’ll give you a chance to make some points. The others are going to try to really stick it to you.”

  Reiber was a regular member of J.T.’s Mountaineers’ Club. Since the mayoral campaign began, the club had seen a resurgence, particularly since DeValen was kind enough not only to fund J.T.’s operation, but to throw in the services of his party girls. J.T. had asked Reiber to sit in on the press conference, which he had called in response to mounting pressure from the media about the Tauber case. He wanted to neutralize the open criticism that had surfaced.

  The small conference room at the Americana was crowded with media people. The TV crews were frantically setting up their cameras and lights. Marty and Rottenberg were standing by a lectern near the front of the room.

  “They’re ready now,” Rottenberg said, walking to J.T.

  “Should Marty stand with me, or should I—”

  “You take it by yourself, J.T.,” said Rottenberg “After all, you’re the candidate.”

  As J.T. walked toward the lectern, a murmur arose. Camera lights flashed on and reporters moved in closer. They all seemed to have hand microphones, and all shoved them forward together.

  “Let’s go, gentlemen—and ladies,” said J.T., a fleeting smile creasing his lips as he spied two newswomen in the audience. He pointed at a random reporter.

  “Mr. Wright, what’s your reaction now that the Tauber indictment has been thrown out?”

  “My reaction is the same as it would be in any case. The rule of law must prevail. When a court indicates that an indictment should be dismissed, it should be dismissed. That’s the judicial process.”

  “What do you have to say about the court’s assertion that certain tapes had been withheld from the grand jury, tapes which supported the defendants’ testimony?” shot another reporter over the babble of questions from everywhere.

  “I was personally unaware of that. However, were I still the special prosecutor, I would investigate such a charge and prosecute the person responsible to the fullest extent of the law. I urge whomever the Governor appoints as the new special prosecutor to do so.”

  “Are you saying, then, that you had no idea that the Taubers were indicted on contrived evidence?” shot a voice from somewhere. A dozen handheld microphones were aimed at J.T.’s heart.

  “I did not present the evidence to the grand jury, and yes, I state emphatically that I was unaware that any tapes, or any exculpatory evidence, were withheld.”

  “How can you absolve yourself from a situation many people in the legal profession have ca
lled a disgrace, when you were the special prosecutor in whose name the indictment was brought?”

  “I don’t know to whom you refer in the legal profession, and the case against Judge Tauber was brought in the name of the people of the State of New York. True, I was special prosecutor at the time, and certainly I cannot, nor would I, shirk my responsibility. However, I should note that the special prosecutor’s office is entrusted only with the responsibility of securing evidence and prosecuting. Everything in this case was done according to the books, and if Judge Tauber has passed the test of law, then the indictment deserves to be thrown out.”

  “Do you feel in any way responsible to Judge Tauber or his son for causing such disruption in their lives for the many, many months that the case dragged on?”

  “I’m sure Judge Tauber would agree with me that the processes of justice must be equally applied to all—judges, lawyers …”

  “Even special prosecutors?” one voice shouted in the back of the crowd.

  J.T. looked askance momentarily in the direction of the voice.

  “That’s a question for you,” Peter Sabbatino said to the television set. He was watching an evening rebroadcast of J.T.’s press conference. “I wonder if Joe Brill is watching this?” He dialed the phone next to his chair as he continued to watch.

  “Hello, Joe. Peter. You watching television? Good. I’ll call you back as soon as it’s over.”

  “Do you have any comments on the fact that polls show you slipping further and further behind the regular Republican candidate?” asked a reporter on the television set in Archie Reynolds’ library.

  Archie had his feet up on a comfortable hassock, watching the evening news, when the segment about J.T. Wright’s press conference came on the air. His feet instantly hit the ground and he leaned forward to catch every word.

  Chauncey Delafield was in his own apartment, watching the reflection of the television in the mirror above the library bar as he poured vodka over ice. He listened to J.T. intently as he explained:

  “Polls seem to reflect the political affiliation of the pollster. We have taken our own survey recently, and it shows that rather than losing strength, we’re gaining sharply.”