“Sooner or later, J.T.,” Courtnay said, “like Dorian Gray, the canvas of your life is going to curdle as all your evil deeds catch up with you.”
“They’ll never catch me. I run too fast,” J.T. said, smiling.
DeValen came into the wheelhouse, followed by the captain.
“Excuse us a minute, will you, Captain?” J.T. said.
“Huh? Oh, sure,” he said, backing out the doorway.
“Hello, Marty, Courtnay,” DeValen said. “What’s the trouble, J.T.?”
“Trouble? Who said anything about trouble?”
DeValen smiled. “What’s the trouble, J.T.?”
“They won’t pump the gas because of some ridiculous bill. I don’t even know if the amount is correct. It’s probably too high. I told the dockmaster I’d have the office go over it on Monday.”
“And what did he say?”
“No cash, no gas. And I don’t have an office check with me, either.”
DeValen put his hand in his pocket. He counted out several hundred-dollar bills. “I only have twelve hundred in cash with me. I do have a check. How much is the total?”
“Two thousand.”
DeValen took out his wallet. Inside was a blank check. “Two thousand,” DeValen said idly as he made it out.
“Give me a thousand in cash, too,” said J.T.
“What for?”
“I’ll show you. Captain,” J.T. called out the bridge window. The captain was standing by the rail, watching the crowd. He turned and came into the cabin.
“Here,” said J.T., handing him the cash and DeValen’s check. “Go to the dockmaster. Tell him we scraped together a thousand in cash. That’s all we have right now. See if you can get him to open the pumps. Only if that doesn’t work, give him the check. Maybe he’ll take just the cash. Tell him I’ll send the balance by messenger on Monday.”
“Okay.” The captain started to leave the cabin.
“Either the cash or the check, not both,” J.T. admonished.
The captain nodded.
Those in the cabin looked at each other. J.T. smiled. “Living that close to the edge must be as dangerous as it is exciting,” Courtnay said.
“Not when you know how to do it,” J.T. replied. “Come on, let’s have a good time.”
“You owe me two thousand, J.T.,” said DeValen.
“Monday. Monday morning first thing.”
DeValen looked at the others, but said nothing.
March 15, 1971
“Just give me the important points,” J.T. said impatiently to Levine as they walked quickly up the steps of the Federal Courthouse.
“The statute doesn’t apply to Birden,” Levine explained quickly as he tried to keep up with J.T. “It was initially intended by Congress to apply to loan sharks and extortionists.”
J.T. swung through the revolving door, leaving Levine behind.
“Go ahead, go ahead,” J.T. said impatiently as Levine emerged from the next compartment.
J.T. was about to argue a criminal appeal to the U.S. Second Circuit Court of Appeals. His client, who had become wealthy in the wholesale lumber business, had a number of deadbeat customers who refused to pay for the lumber he had delivered. J.T.’s client had come up the hard way. In the present case, he’d angrily told one of the customers that he would break the customer’s head if he wasn’t paid. The customer complained to the FBI and was outfitted with a tape recorder so he could goad Birden even further and cause him to repeat the impassioned threats of personal violence. Such tactics made up a case for the FBI, and allowed the customer not to pay at all. A jury, on the strict interpretation of the law, convicted Birden of using extortionate means to collect his money. He was sentenced to jail for a year of weekends. The case was now on appeal.
Naturally, J.T., flooded with all sorts of other cases, interviews with prospective new clients, lunches at “21,” dinner parties, and the like, did not research the law or write Birden’s appeal brief. Levine did. And now Levine, in a role more and more prominent in their relationship, was briefing J.T. on the run.
“The statute was never intended for a situation like this, where a legitimate businessman—even if he did, in fact, threaten physical danger, which he never carried out—was attempting to obtain his own legitimate money back from some deadbeat.”
As they rode the elevator, J.T. removed some papers that were sticking out of his pocket. “This is the Lands-burg Separation Agreement. I was going over it this morning. It’s terrible. We didn’t draw this up, did we?”
“J.T., shouldn’t we go over the Birden case now? You’re going to be arguing in a few minutes.”
“I want you to draft a very strong counterproposal to this proposed separation agreement.”
The elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor.
“See what number we are on the calendar,” J.T. instructed Levine.
Other lawyers were milling in the lounge just outside the courtroom. They saw J.T., and many recognized him. He acted as if he didn’t even notice.
“We’re number two on the calendar,” said Levine. “You’ll go on in a few minutes.”
“Court’s about to be called into session,” a clerk announced as he walked through the lawyers’ lounge.
The lawyers began to gravitate toward the doorway leading to the large courtroom with its high bench, behind which three judges would listen to the appeal arguments.
Levine and J.T. sat on a leather couch on the side of the courtroom. The judges had not taken the bench yet.
“In the brief, I cited the statute and various cases that have been decided in the last two years. There aren’t many; it’s a fairly recent statute.”
J.T. looked at the brief that Levine handed him, and leafed through the pages.
“Are there any precedents for the kind of prosecution against a defendant like Birden?” J.T. asked.
“Not really. That’s a good point to argue. Birden’s not a loan shark, he’s a legitimate businessman. The statute wasn’t intended to prosecute him.”
“J.T.,” said a man with a big smile as he approached.
“Hiya, Sidney,” J.T. said enthusiastically. He stood and shook hands.
J.T. was still chatting when the three judges were announced and entered the courtroom from a door directly behind the bench.
J.T. and Sidney nodded at each other and took their seats.
The clerk announced the cases to be argued. Each lawyer answered the calendar and requested the time he desired to argue his case.
“That was Sidney Rose, chairman of the Liberal Party,” J.T. whispered to Levine. “He’s a good man to keep on our side.”
“Appellant ten minutes,” Levine said, rising at the call of their case.
As the lawyers argued the first appeal, Levine held a copy of their brief and, page by page, silently pointed to places for J.T. to read.
Bummy Carruba sat at the bar in Miami’s Fontainebleau Hotel, waiting for J.T. to come down from his room. Carruba was an infamous underworld character who had only been home from jail a few months when the current alleged head of the underworld died in a hail of bullets in a New York restaurant. Thereafter, the newspapers referred to Carruba as the new “Godfather.” This recognition wasn’t deserved, however. Not that Carruba didn’t relish the idea of being Boss of All Bosses. But there were other bosses, all of whom, like Carruba, were jockeying to become Mr. Big. If the other bosses had anything to say or do about it, Carruba was not going to succeed to the throne. He was violent, rash, hotheaded. And more than that, he was greedy, anxious to steal from other territories to expand his own. There were those who suggested, never to Carruba’s face, that it was he who had engineered the death of the last Boss of Bosses in order to put himself in a position of ascendancy.
Although his usual territory was New York, Carruba was in Miami, having been subpoenaed there to answer questions before a federal grand jury. Carruba had been an associate of Pasquale Bedardo—now deceased from natural causes�
��and Bedardo had always spoken so glowingly of J.T.’s ability to talk, connive, influence people, that those in Bedardo’s old crew who could afford to pay J.T.’s fees called him the instant there was trouble.
J.T. walked into the dimly lit cocktail lounge.
“Counselor,” Carruba called.
J.T. waved and walked over to where Carruba was seated.
“Have something, counselor.”
“Just a ginger ale,” J.T. said. He wasn’t embarrassed about drinking soda any longer. Now it was an eccentricity, respected by others.
“So what do we do tomorrow?” Carruba asked, after looking over his shoulder to see no one could overhear.
“Tomorrow I’m not going to be here,” said J.T.
“What?”
“I told you I have to go to Acapulco on a merger that’s going on down there. My clients are trying to take over the Acapulco Princess from the Ludwig people.”
“What do I care about Acapulco?”
“You knew before I even came down here that I had to go there, that I could only spend a couple of days here.”
“Yeah, you told me. But you said you would work out whatever had to be worked out.”
“And I have. Everything here is fine. The prosecutor can’t tell you that you can’t take the Fifth Amendment. We, you and me, have the right to decide whether there’s anything that might possibly incriminate you. There’s no problem in the world with that.”
“What happens tomorrow when I go in front of the judge?”
“My associate, Mr. Levine, is going to walk in with you.”
“That funny-looking little kid?”
“I’ve already personally done all the research and briefed him. I’ve also spoken to the U.S. attorney. Everything’s going to turn out fine.”
Actually, Levine had done the research and had spoken to the assistant U.S. attorney. Levine had advised J.T. that Washington refused to give Carruba immunity, which meant that Carruba would be able to refuse to testify without being in contempt. Besides, J.T. wasn’t going to miss Acapulco for anything. There was a huge party being thrown by an American actress who was now an Italian countess, and people from all over the world had been invited. J.T.’s true interests were always in tomorrow.
“Look,” J.T. said ominously to the divorce shark on the other side of the table, “my client isn’t going to accept a thing less than the house in East Hampton and the apartment in the city. Not to mention alimony for herself and child support, of course.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Max Hirsch, the other lawyer. He was short, with Mister Magoo’s face. He was known as a tough divorce lawyer. When the husband of J.T.’s client heard that his wife had retained J.T., he had immediately run to retain the toughest divorce lawyer he could find.
“Ridiculous?” J.T. said. “Fine, we’ll see in front of the judge just how ridiculous it is.”
“Don’t be such a tough guy, J.T. I’ve got your client in bed with half a dozen guys, documented up and down, back and forth. Let’s talk some more and we’ll make a mutually agreeable solution without going to court.”
“You’re not going to bluff me out of a two-million-dollar house in East Hampton or a triplex apartment in New York,” said J.T.
“If you go to court, your client is going to get nothing but child support. I’ll prove adultery as sure as you’re sitting there. You’re not doing her such a big favor, being a tough guy. My client’s a schmuck, to tell you the truth. Even with all this evidence against her, he doesn’t want to see his wife dragged through the mud, doesn’t want to seem a mudslinger in the newspapers. That’s why he’s making what I consider an overly generous offer.”
Levine, seated on the couch in J.T.’s office, was trying to catch J.T.’s attention. J.T. plunged on heedlessly.
“You’d better start getting ready for trial, then,” said J.T., “because we’re drawing up our papers right now for alimony pendente lite and child support.”
“You’re making a big mistake.”
“If I’m making a big mistake, I’ll worry about it. Don’t patronize me,” J.T. said annoyedly, standing up behind his desk. “I don’t think we have anything else to talk about, do we?”
“We’ll talk in court.” Hirsch shrugged and stood. He followed a secretary to the door.
“You know, J.T., he’s right,” Levine said when Hirsch was gone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means our client has been sleeping all around town.”
“So she’s a sport. That doesn’t mean she won’t come out of this with the lion’s share of the money.”
“Not if Hirsch proves adultery. And in this case, that’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Hirsch is a good trial man.”
“So are you.”
“Me?”
“Sure, I’m not going to try this case. It’s a loser, isn’t it?”
“Why not talk to Hirsch, then? He wants to settle out of court.”
“You want to talk to him, you talk to him.”
“Our client expects you to handle the case personally.”
“So what?”
“Some of the stockholders of the Rand Paper Company are getting a little restless,” DeValen said. They were dining quietly in the dim, elegant atmosphere of Orsini’s.
“What’s the problem?”
“They don’t appreciate the fact that some of the money from their treasury is going to finance other operations and other corporations in my stable.”
“Aren’t the profits from all your corporations added to the general coffers in which Rand participates?”
“Yes, but they say it is illegal for us to transfer the kind of money that we’re transferring.”
“Let them bring suit if they want,” said J.T. flatly.
“I don’t want that, J.T., particularly not at this time. I’m working something up for the largest takeover in my career. It would be disastrous if I had that kind of lawsuit crop up now.”
“Who’s the lawyer for the dissidents?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll find out. I’ll talk to him. What do you want me to do, keep them bottled up?”
“I don’t think you’re going to be able to do that. They’re already talking about a stockholders’ derivative action. They mean business.”
“When are we going to take a vacation? Portugal was all right, but it was too short.”
“J.T., this is not the time to be frolicking in the sun. This is serious. Believe me.”
“Don’t worry about Rand. I’ll take care of it.”
DeValen wasn’t convinced. J.T.’s assurance seemed too bold, too reckless, too hollow.
April 14, 1972
Attorney J.T. Wright stood before the bench of Judge Gerald Wynans in one of the imposing old courtrooms of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York. His gaze was directed disdainfully at his adversary, who was hurriedly sifting through a sheaf of papers on the counsel table. If his adversary found the paper he was searching for, J.T. was in for real difficulty. He had just sworn to the judge that it didn’t exist. Despite the intense pressure he felt, J.T. was his usual calm, confident self. He still maintained his confident bearing, so familiar to all in the courtroom: the buffs, retirees who wander from courtroom to courtroom, depending on where the action is, were familiar with J.T.’s mystique; so was the clerk; the judge knew it well from the days when he’d been a member of Senator Evard Anders’s Select Committee to Investigate Organized Crime. Most of all, J.T.’s adversary knew it, and trembled inwardly as he fumbled through his file, looking for the two documents that J.T. had just sworn did not exist.
Even when J.T.’s adversary actually found the two documents in his file, he felt J.T.’s intimidating stare; daring him to contradict him.
“Here are the documents, Your Honor,” J.T.’s adversary announced, diffidently holding the two pages aloft. He could hardly believe his own hands, his own eyes; J.T. Wright had committed flagran
t perjury.
The judge hesitated, staring at the papers in the lawyer’s hand. He didn’t look at J.T.
“Step into my chambers, gentlemen,” he said softly. “Bring those documents with you,” he added as he stood and stepped down from the bench.
The other attorney nodded uneasily, following the judge. Why am I nervous? he thought to himself. Wright is the one who should be nervous.
J.T.’s facile mind was too busy whirling, figuring his position, to be nervous. He knew he had the edge. Particularly since the judge was Gerald Wynans, old Fat Ass, as he had been referred to in committee offices years before. Hadn’t J.T. collaborated with Wynans many times during those halcyon days of the committee, letting the then-congressman get some time before the TV cameras for the benefit of the constituents back home? J.T. knew Wynans remembered those days. His eyes, his hesitation on the bench just now, said so.
It would be all right, as usual, J.T. said to himself as he followed his adversary and Wynans into chambers.
Judge Wynans slowly settled in the desk chair in the privacy of the robing room. He had not removed his robe. “Mr. Wright,” he said, “can you explain to me how these papers could not exist a few minutes ago?” The judge held up the two documents. “You swore on the record, under oath, that they didn’t, in lieu of an affidavit to support your application to dismiss the Rand stockholder action against Mr. DeValen. And here they are.
“Mr. Briggs,” the judge said to the other attorney, “you say your client obtained these papers when the defendant DeValen’s corporation acquired your corporation’s stock?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was still all right, J.T. thought to himself, the judge had to play it for real. He was calling J.T. “Mr. Wright”; that was old Fat Ass’s way of keeping it formal for appearance sake.
“Mr. Wright, these documents appear to be signed by your corporate client’s chief operating officer, George DeValen, guaranteeing the board of directors at Rand Paper that no funds from Rand would be used in any way to finance outside projects without the prior specific written consent of the Rand board of directors. Without these documents, I don’t believe I would see anything wrong in the actions of Mr. DeValen. With them, the scenario is completely different. And you swore they didn’t exist.
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