Jenna regarded her day with the Fiore campaign as the most interesting and enjoyable. When she interviewed him the first time, early in the primary battle, she found him stiff and very defensive. It was what could be expected from someone making his first foray into politics, she thought back then. Now he was quite at ease with himself. His “speech” was fine-tuned, and he made an effort to insert a little humor into every appearance, regardless of the size of his audience. Fiore discovered early on, as he recognized at the Hanleys’ Valentine’s Day party, that those who came to listen to him loved hearing anti-lawyer jokes. They were especially appreciated when coming from a member of that profession, and he alternated the dozen or so he knew as he spoke to the different groups.
Richardson felt that Fiore’s handlers were also more knowledgeable and entertaining than any of the others. Russ Walsh had story upon story, some of them side splitters, to tell about politics in “the good old days.” There was never a long pause in the conversation when she rode in the same car with him.
Cyril Berman had joined Walsh and Karp that day to assess crowd reaction to Fiore’s speeches, and there were some things he didn’t want to talk about while Jenna was present. That definitely included ongoing campaign strategy. He said enough, however, to convince her that he knew how to juggle every piece of their program in his head. A real pro, she told herself, realizing it was a term the impressionable young media people threw around far too often.
“How did you get involved with the Fiore campaign?” she asked him.
Berman stared at her in silence for several seconds before shrugging his shoulders. “I never asked who it was that knew my reputation and suggested using me.”
“Who contacted you about taking on the job?”
“It was one of Fiore’s supporters, a guy I’d never met.”
Of course, as Jenna understood, the recent polling results had a lot to do with the good feeling in the Fiore camp. She didn’t know that Cyril Berman would have been satisfied to see his candidate even with Singer in the polls at this stage of the campaign, or even running two to three percentage points behind. But Fiore jumped out to a 52–48 lead in the first numbers published in the Herald after the primaries. And now, in the second week of October, the name recognition he received as a result of the Cardella tragedy pushed him ten points ahead of Singer, at 53–43, with four percent undecided. Berman knew they would never hold on to that kind of a margin. Still, the election was only twenty-four days away, and he began crossing each day off the calendar before going to bed, telling himself that they were one day closer to victory. He felt confident, but in a shaky sort of way, that if Fiore avoided a major blunder in the time remaining, he’d be the new governor of Rhode Island.
That night, as Jenna familiarized herself with Fiore’s background and career before outlining her story, she noticed that he graduated from Princeton University in 1968. She racked her brain for several minutes in an effort to recall where she saw or heard a reference to Princeton recently. Finally, the image of Sal Tarantino, bragging in his own way that his son was a Princeton alum, came to her. The two men were about the same age, she thought, and wondered if they knew each other during their college days. She made a note to call the registrar’s office at the University the next day and see if she could get any information.
* * *
“Thank you for holding, Ms. Richardson. I have the record for Mr. Tarantino here. That was Salvatore Michael, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And what is it you wish to know?”
“What year did he graduate?”
“Let’s see. Mr. Tarantino graduated in 1968. He entered the University in September of ’64 and matriculated the four years without any interruptions.”
Jenna felt a small surge of excitement. “How about roommates, Mrs. Thompson, do your records show who they were?”
“I’m afraid not, Ms. Richardson. That would be something the Housing Office may be able to help you with. If Mr. Tarantino lived on campus, I believe his card would show the name of anyone else who occupied the same room. If he was off campus, they’d probably have no record of him for that period of time.”
“Well, if he did live off campus, who would have the address? Wouldn’t your office need it to make sure he got his grades?”
“It all depends on where he asked to have them sent. In those days, most of the students’ grades were mailed out to their parents’ home addresses. In fact that was done automatically unless the student submitted a form with different instructions. Today, with the privacy laws, we don’t do that anymore. It goes straight into the student’s mailbox on campus.”
“Is there anything in that file you’re looking at that shows an off-campus address?” Jenna asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. This just contains some essential information. Everything else would be on microfilm. You’re talking twenty-five years ago.”
“How would I be able to get that information?” Jenna was trying to keep her mounting frustration under control.
“Unfortunately, you’d have to come here and look through it yourself. We’re not staffed to do that kind of thing.”
“Do I need an appointment?”
“No, Ms. Richardson, but I’d advise against coming on a Friday.”
“Fine. Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. You’ve been a great help. I’ll see you next week.”
73
SHE JUST BARELY CAUGHT the 6:05 p.m. commuter flight out of Trenton to LaGuardia. There, Jenna had to wait over an hour in the Delta terminal for the plane, late coming in from Syracuse, that would return her to Providence. She had a lot of time to think about the ordeal she went through that day.
The registrar’s office at Princeton was her first stop. Mrs. Thompson, a lovely energetic woman in her fifties, was as polite and helpful in person as she was on the phone. “The microfilm records are kept in the basement of the main library. Let me get you a map of the campus and show you how to find your way there.” It took only a minute before she returned with an 8½ x 11-inch map with an index and numbering system for the University buildings. “I suggest you begin your search at the Housing Office, Ms. Richardson. While you’re doing that, I’ll call the librarian and have her locate the records for Mr. Tarantino and Mr. Fiore. That should save you some time.”
Jenna’s gratitude for that bit of guidance grew by leaps and bounds later in the morning. While waiting for one of the librarians to bring her the material, she heard the frustration expressed by someone who was just told that the search for microfilm records would take approximately an hour.
“Follow me, and watch your step,” the gentleman in the Housing Office said. He took her to a large room filled with cardboard boxes piled about five feet high. The boxes were strategically spaced so that he had easy access to every pile, with room on the floor to stack cartons while he looked for the right one.
The room was laid out by matriculation years. Once he found the location of the 1964–1965 records, he pulled down two cartons. One contained the A-M files while the other held the N-Zs. He then did the same thing for the following three years. He opened one of the boxes and showed Jenna how to look for the information she wanted. “I’ll be in my office if you need any help,” he said.
The record in Fiore’s file noted the room he lived in on campus in his freshman year, along with the names of his roommates. One of them was there for the first semester only, but left and was replaced by another. The file also contained a couple of bills for minor damage done to some furniture and an overhead light.
Sandy Tarantino’s first-year record revealed that he also had a dormitory room which he shared with the same roommate both semesters. A parking permit authorized him to have a car on campus.
Jenna wrote down the names of each of their freshman roommates. Later, when she returned to the registrar’s office, she was given the currently listed addresses for two of them. She also learned that the first student who lived with Fiore that year
dropped out of touch with Princeton shortly after graduating. Jenna couldn’t help wondering whether he went off to fight in Vietnam and never returned. Half an hour after she began her search, she knew there were no campus housing records for either Fiore or Tarantino in their sophomore, junior or senior years.
At the library, she sat down in a cubicle containing a microfilm machine. Page by page, starting with Tarantino, she went through everything in the two files the clerk had handed her. The course grades they received were sent to their parents’ homes. There wasn’t a single entry that disclosed where they lived after their freshman year. All matriculation statements, including separate bills for their use of the campus bookstore, were mailed to Rhode Island and paid for from there. Copies of those checks were in the file. Richardson noted that Tarantino was issued a campus parking sticker every year, but that Fiore never had one. The permit was suspended for one month, starting on February 11, 1966, due to an accident in front of the administration building. There was a memo that the complete accident record could be found in the files at the Campus Security Office. She jotted down the ID number of Tarantino’s parking sticker for that year.
Before leaving the library, Richardson asked to see the 1968 Princeton Senior Yearbook. She was surprised to see it called the “Nassau Herald,” but didn’t ask where the name came from. She turned first to the graduation pictures of the two men and saw how handsome each of them was at that time. Aside from Tarantino’s baldness, his face has aged less than Fiore’s, she told herself, and wondered why Sandy wanted to hide his good looks behind a beard.
Jenna went through the yearbook meticulously, looking to see whether they played on any of the same sports teams or engaged in any of the same extracurricular activities. She studied all the informal photographs to see if Tarantino and Fiore appeared in any of the pictures together. Every approach came up empty. As far as the records of Princeton University were concerned, Douglas Fiore and Salvatore Tarantino spent the same four years there in classes but had nothing else to do with each other.
Frustrated, she made a list of the names of every twenty-fifth student in the graduating class of 1968 before returning the volume. She figured that if nothing else turned up, she could get current phone numbers from the registrar’s office and make cold calls back in Providence.
Jenna was hungry, but didn’t stop for lunch. She asked a passing student where she could get a cab and was directed to a taxi hot line phone in the lobby of the theatre arts building. Ten minutes later she was on her way to the downtown office of the Bell Atlantic Telephone Company.
That was where her luck began to change. She was first told that there were no phone records at all during the years in question for Fiore. Minutes later, however, the clerk emerged from behind another file cabinet with a folder on Tarantino in her hands. The contents revealed that he paid for phone service from September 1965 through May 1968. The connection for the entire period was at the same address in town, 2308 Wyoming Avenue.
Richardson found another cab and gave the driver the address on what turned out to be Princeton’s east side. When they got there, she told him to wait. A college age female came to the door after she rang the bell.
“Hi,” Jenna said. “I’m looking for the owner.”
“I don’t know who that is,” the girl answered. “Do you know the name?”
“No, I don’t. Is this a rooming house?”
“Yes. Some Princeton students live here.”
“Do you live here too?”
“No, I’m a freshman. I room in the dorm, though I sometimes sleep over here.”
“Is anyone who lives here home now?”
“Yes, I’ll get him for you.”
As she watched from the open door, the girl went to a narrow uncarpeted staircase a short distance away, looked up and shouted for someone named “Roger.” In seconds, Roger came running down the stairs. After listening to what Jenna had to say, he told her that he certainly did have the name and address of the owner. He disappeared into another room off to the left, returned shortly with the information on a Rolodex card, and waited as Jenna gratefully copied it down.
Murphy’s Law made things a little more difficult. Andrew Coolidge, the building’s landlord, lived only three blocks from the Bell Atlantic office, back on the other side of town. Although Jenna had no trouble hearing him holler, “I’m coming, I’m coming” after she rang, it took him several minutes to get to the front door. When he finally opened it, she saw that one hand was holding on to a walker.
“Mr. Coolidge?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
Richardson introduced herself and said that she wanted to ask him a few questions.
“Questions about what?”
“About the property I understand you own on Wyoming Avenue.”
“Do you have any ID,” he asked.
When she gave him her Herald card, Coolidge held it up in front of him so he could see the photograph and Jenna at the same time.
“I guess that’s you,” he said. “Come on inside.”
She followed him down a short hallway into the kitchen. Looking around, Jenna noted how tidy it was but felt that something hinted at the absence of a woman in the house. When they were settled at the kitchen table, Jenna asked Coolidge if he owned the house at 2308 Wyoming Avenue during the sixties.
“Well, it depends,” he replied. “My wife and I—she passed away just three years ago—we bought the place in the summer of 1965. It needed some fixing up, but not too much, fortunately, because I was never too good at that. We started renting it to kids from the college that September.”
Jenna felt that wonderful tingle again, almost like an electrical charge that so often told her a hunch was about to pay off. “Do you remember your first tenant?” she asked.
“Of course I do. He took the place for three years. Why he even paid for the summer months in order to hold onto it. Of course, we charged him a lot less when he wasn’t in school. The wife and I couldn’t believe our good luck with that first rental. After that we never had anyone else stay longer than one year. We got to hate the bother of drawing up leases every fall and then all the phone calls whenever something leaked or didn’t work right. We finally got smart and gave it over to an agent about ten years ago. One of the best things I ever did. Stopped being bothered with it. Now I just cash that check about the fifth of every month.”
Jenna listened patiently. She figured that Coolidge had few people he could talk to about anything. Letting him go on was like giving charity. To hell with the cab bill, she thought. “Do you remember anything about that tenant? I mean, can you picture his …”
Coolidge answered before she finished her question. “I sure do. First name was Sandy, like a girl’s name. Last name ended in an ‘o,’ an Italian name … like ‘Politano’ or something.”
“I believe it was Sandy Tarantino,” she said.
“That was it,” Coolidge affirmed, and then showed surprise that she knew it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Coolidge, I just wanted to be sure you knew who I was talking about before I asked you the next question.”
“Yes, that’s who it was. A good young man, dependable.”
“Do you remember whether he had someone else living there with him?”
“Sure he did. The same fellow all the time. I liked him too.”
“Do you remember his name, Mr. Coolidge?”
He stared at Jenna and then down at his feet. “No, I don’t,” he finally answered. “The fact is I’m not sure I ever knew it. Sandy sent the rent checks with his name on them so I got to see it all the time.”
“Does Sandy calling him Doug ring a bell? His name may have been Doug Fiore.”
He thought about it again. “No, the name doesn’t mean anything. All I remember about him is that he was good with tools. He used to fix up some of the things at the house that I couldn’t do. He was good with his hands.”
She tried to jog Coolidge’s memory by describing Fior
e’s looks to him. He thought most of it fit. “I couldn’t swear to it, though. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. You’re talking roughly twenty-five years ago. That house has seen plenty of students in that time.”
Jenna was angry at herself. She realized that she could have brought one of Fiore’s campaign brochures with her to Princeton and shown Coolidge his picture. A moment later it dawned on her that she could also have copied the page with Fiore’s photograph from the 1968 Yearbook she was looking at earlier. “I found out at the Bell Atlantic office that it was Sandy Tarantino who paid the phone bill all the time,” she said. “I wondered if perhaps his roommate was responsible for the gas or electric.”
Coolidge shook his head from side to side. “No, I always paid those myself and then added the amount to the next month’s rent. We didn’t want to end up with some frozen pipes because the tenant forgot to pay the bills on time.”
Jenna thanked him for talking to her and said she was ready to leave. He insisted on pushing his walker and accompanying her back to the door. As they shook hands, Coolidge said he was sorry he couldn’t remember the other boy’s name. “Like I told you, he was good with tools. That’s probably why the Sears store had him working in that department all the time,” he added.
His last words were music to her ears. Jenna told the cab driver, who by then she was calling by name, to take her to Sears, wherever it was. “From there, Monte, I’ll be going to the airport in Trenton. Figure out the fastest route and start praying that I find what I’m looking for.”
And she did. They still had the records filed away in the store. The manager confirmed that Doug Fiore lived at 2308 Wyoming Avenue while he was employed there on a part-time basis. “That’s where his checks and W-2 forms were sent,” he told her. He saw no reason why she couldn’t have copies of some of the documents from each of the three years. “I probably should have cleaned out these file cabinets twelve years ago when I took this job.”
My Honorable Brother Page 36
