By 1984, Sonny presented his case to the attorney general. E. F. Hutton, he said, was unlawfully floating their own deposits daily, not just in the Middle District of Pennsylvania but across the country, earning tens of millions’ of dollars in “free interest” from banks coast to coast by overdrafting as much as $250 million each day. Even in New York, where Hutton had a relationship with Manufacturers Hanover Trust and Chemical Bank, as much as $20 million would be deposited into Manufacturers Hanover drawn on the Chemical Bank account. Chemical covered the overdraft while Hutton, in effect, “played the float,” earning interest on checks that had yet to clear. The U.S. attorney’s office in New York was alerted in 1983, but the prosecutor in charge, Rudolph Giuliani, had his eyes on bigger, high-profile white-collar investigations and organized crime, and declined to prosecute. No harm, no foul, said Giuliani, especially since it involved only one bank and Hutton covered the money the following day anyway. But the Federal Reserve prohibited withdrawing money from checks that had yet to clear, and if Giuliani had probed further, he would have seen that the scheme extended throughout the country.
As Sonny discovered, E. F. Hutton’s enterprise was remarkable if only for its complexity, and it reached the top echelons of Hutton’s corporate structure. In May 1985, a federal grand jury was preparing to charge E. F. Hutton when officials there agreed to plead guilty to two thousand counts of mail and wire fraud and pay a $2.7 million fine. There were no individual indictments, which caused outrage in Washington. Word had leaked that E. F. Hutton chairman Robert Fomon met with U.S. Attorney General William French Smith at a Washington restaurant and sought an end to the investigation. Smith instead immediately reported the contact to the FBI. Sonny was elated. Other financial institutions were doing the same thing as E. F. Hutton, and though there were no individual sacrificial lambs, the inner workings of an entire company, and thus the industry, were laid bare.
The politically sensitive prosecution brought Sonny before Congress later that year for hearings in Washington, DC. Senators Strom Thurmond of South Carolina and Joseph Biden of Delaware, among others, feted Sonny for his steadfast aggressiveness in exposing one of the worst cases of white-collar crime in U.S. history. But during his testimony, Sonny was quizzed about rumors that, because there were no individual indictments, his Hutton investigation had been compromised by the attorney general. Sonny scoffed, saying no one, not even the attorney general of the United States, could prevent him from following a true course.
“The only two people I answer to are God and the man back there,” said Sonny, who turned around and pointed toward his father.
The Judge, sitting with Mama in the back of the vast and packed congressional hearing room, beamed with pride. This was his son, sitting before Congress, testifying about an investigation he led. It was a great personal accomplishment, and if there was one thing the Judge respected, it was great individual accomplishments.
Sonny’s prosecution reverberated in headlines throughout the country and internationally, earned him a prestigious award from the Justice Department, and forced Congress to pass major changes in banking law. The sting and public humiliation of the guilty plea eventually forced E. F. Hutton to close its doors, and Sonny, who would testify several times before Congress, became known as the man who took down E. F. Hutton.
He was later asked to take a lead role in the federal investigation into the savings and loan industry, in which loose or nonexistent regulations led to the loss of billions. Sonny declined, and left the Justice Department.
Sonny thought about his Hutton experience, and it remained in the back of his mind when he turned to Calvin.
“Okay, Mr. D. Let me say hello.”
The two men walked up the road to Calvin’s driveway, where Altovise stood along with her three “advisors”—Al, Tiny, and Cheech.
“Altovise, this is Sonny Murray, the man I’ve been telling you about,” said Calvin.
Altovise smiled slightly, then extended her hand. Sonny shook it. He could smell the alcohol on her breath.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Would you mind if we talked a bit, privately?”
They walked onto a large grass field, but Altovise didn’t have much to say other than her life, as she knew it, was over, ripped away, she said, by people her husband had trusted. Lawyers and managers who mismanaged their financial affairs and left them broke. Now, even her own family didn’t want her, and none of her old Hollywood friends would come to her aid.
Sonny changed the direction of the conversation, telling Altovise about some of his new entertainment clients and his association with the People for the American Way, a left-wing advocacy group formed in the 1980s by Norman Lear.
“You know Norman?” said Altovise, who appeared surprised.
“Sure, we’re working together on a project,” said Sonny.
Sonny and Norman were producing a movie together for Universal, about inner city kids jumping rope, or Double Dutch. Altovise was impressed and she listened intently as Sonny told her about several film and music projects in various stages of development.
“You do this here, from Pennsylvania?” she said.
“I’m close enough to New York to make meetings, and if I’m needed in Los Angeles I’ll jump a plane. It’s not that difficult,” he said.
They exchanged more small talk before returning to the driveway. Sonny promised they would talk again, said good-bye, and he walked with Calvin back down the winding road. Along the way Sonny turned around to look at Altovise.
“You’re right,” Sonny whispered to Calvin. “It’s tragic. Can you tell me more?”
They walked slowly as Calvin described how Sammy’s daughter, Tracey, was trying hard to convince Altovise to sign away her rights to Sammy’s estate. Quincy Jones planned to produce a Broadway musical about Sammy’s life and Tracey needed Altovise’s cooperation. But Quincy couldn’t do business with Altovise, given that Sammy’s name and likeness was owned by the IRS. Because of the debt, specifically the money owed to the government, no one wanted to do business with the Sammy Davis Jr. estate, knowing the IRS was watching. Hence, since Sammy’s death, there were no movies, records, or videos, and very few business deals involving the name, likeness, or voice of Sammy Davis Jr.
It was as if Sammy never existed.
Sonny had never seen, before Altovise, a human being so hurt, angry, and near death, physically and emotionally. And he didn’t understand how someone as successful as Sammy Davis Jr. could lose his fortune, property, and possessions. Sammy, in death, should be like Elvis, Sonny thought, a brand name that simply printed dollars.
“Does she have any financial records, books, receipts?” said Sonny.
“Nothing that I know of,” said Calvin. “She just mumbles that she is a victim and hides in her room.”
Sonny was intrigued. “Okay, Mr. D.,” he said. “Let’s set up a meeting.”
The two men shook hands and Sonny walked back to the Hillside. Inside, the Judge and Mama stood behind the reservation desk, fumbling through some papers.
“You gonna help that poor lady?” said Mama, her eyes fixed on her work.
“How did you know?” said Sonny.
“What you think, I’m just some fly on the wall who doesn’t know anything? The Judge and I knew she was livin’ here. Wasn’t much to be said about it, the poor woman.”
The Judge looked up, holding his papers high in his hand.
“We’re going to have a full house this weekend,” he said.
“That’s good,” said Sonny, and turned to walk away.
But the Judge wasn’t finished.
“So?” his voice boomed.
Sonny smiled.
“Mrs. Davis? Well, we’ll see, Dad. We’ll see.”
The meeting on the elevated wooden deck in Calvin’s backyard began at dusk. Sonny wanted to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gore, who drove up from Queens, and gauge their interest in participating in their daughter’s recovery.
J
oe Gore made it clear where he stood.
“I’m embarrassed to be here,” said Joe, looking disapprovingly at his daughter, who sat on the opposite end of the table, the smell of alcohol wafting into the early evening air.
“She needs to stop drinking, then she’d be all right,” said Joe, his anger fueled by frustration over his, or anyone’s, inability to help his daughter.
Altovise didn’t respond, and she didn’t say much throughout the two-hour meeting, aside from the fact that she didn’t create her situation and it wasn’t her fault that the estate was insolvent. The blame, she said, lay with the people who ran Sammy’s business affairs. Sonny didn’t want to hear about blame and fault. Not yet. He’d get to those people later. For now, he had to start from scratch, and needed the cooperation of Mr. and Mrs. Gore. Their daughter was clearly damaged, physically and emotionally, and it was painfully clear that Altovise needed treatment.
Sonny believed her parents would have to play a key role in her recovery, particularly the emotional support. Joe Gore put his anger aside and agreed to help, as did his wife, who made a deep impression on Sonny. Like her daughter, Mrs. Altovise Gore was tall and thin. She had a sweet disposition, her voice halting and demure. Altovise was an only child, and Mrs. Gore said she doted on her daughter, buying her the best clothes and dressing her like a little lady, often in white socks and Mary Janes, which drew snickers from schoolmates. A loner at school, Altovise was nonetheless a good, respectful girl who took a liking to dance and dutifully attended dance classes as she grew into a beautiful young woman, statuesque, with a pleasant personality. Her impressive dancing skills led to her selection to perform with the prestigious Alvin Ailey dance troupe in the 1960s. She later appeared on Broadway, and then in London, playing the role of Sammy’s sister in Golden Boy. Altovise married Sammy in 1970 at City Hall in Philadelphia and they remained together for twenty years. Mrs. Gore wanted to say more, but didn’t. Opening old wounds was not on the agenda, even though the sum result was clearly visible for all to see.
“We’ll do whatever we have to do to help you, Mr. Murray,” said Mrs. Gore. “She’s been abandoned by everyone. She’s called Sinatra, Michael Jackson, Gregory Hines, all her old friends. But no one will help.”
“Please, call me Sonny,” he said.
With the parents on board, along with Calvin Douglas, Sonny turned to Altovise.
“Do you want me to help you?”
Altovise nodded.
“If you agree to get straight, I will solve this problem, but you must, you must get treatment. I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.”
Altovise nodded again.
“No, don’t shake your head. I need to hear you say you will go for treatment.”
“Okay,” said Altovise. “I will.”
Altovise was clearly troubled but Sonny sensed an innocence, like a lost little girl looking for her way home. Sonny felt emboldened, just like he did when he was an assistant U.S. attorney representing the United States of America. This was an injustice, he believed, and not just to Altovise but to the memory of Sammy Davis Jr. Sonny may not have liked him, but he agreed with the Judge, who argued that Sammy was a black man who made it to the top of his profession and he deserved to be honored.
But all Sonny had was a broken woman and pieces of a story. He knew none of the specifics of her downfall, and that of Sammy’s. The debt appeared to be large, and with little information at hand Sonny knew he’d be taking on a gargantuan task that would require an incredible amount of his time and effort. He’d first have to resolve the IRS debt and then attempt to restore Sammy’s name, image, and likeness to make it a profitable enterprise and, more important, bring it back to its rightful place in American entertainment history. And to understand how someone of such great wealth and celebrity could have lost everything, Sonny knew he’d have to dig into every facet of Sammy’s life, including every deal, every show, every dollar he earned. It would be, in a sense, the E. F. Hutton investigation all over again. Knowing the difficulty he had with that probe, Sonny had his doubts about reconstructing the financial affairs of a dead entertainer, and a famous one at that.
But Calvin Douglas and the Gores begged Sonny to help, and his empathy for Altovise, for her plight, and for Sammy melted whatever reservations he had. So Sonny agreed to represent Altovise and laid out a plan he hoped would eventually settle the IRS debt and restore the right to use Sammy’s name and likeness, which in turn would give Sammy Davis Jr. back to the world. He waived his usual $25,000 retainer and agreed to charge a discounted $200 hourly fee, payable when the debt was settled and the estate was once again producing income.
Mr. and Mrs. Gore were ecstatic, and everyone, Altovise included, shared a group hug.
“I can help you,” Sonny said.
CHAPTER 3
Tracey Davis was the only daughter of Sammy Davis Jr., born in 1961, during his marriage to Swedish actress May Britt. Two other children, Mark and Jeff, were later adopted before the marriage imploded and ended in divorce in 1968.
Tracey had a family of her own and lived in Los Angeles, working as a freelance producer of television commercials. She had watched in recent years, first with sadness and then a growing anger, as her father’s legacy crumbled and disappeared, and she desperately wanted to take control away from Altovise and revive it. Tracey had already moved forward on several projects, the most important of which was reaching agreement with famed music producer Quincy Jones to produce a musical about Sammy’s life, based on his 1965 book Yes I Can, which Sammy cowrote with Burt and Jane Boyar. The Boyars retained 50 percent of the rights to the book, while Sammy’s half went 25 percent to Altovise and the remaining 25 percent divided among Sammy’s four children. Another son, Manny, had been adopted by Sammy and Altovise in 1988. Quincy paid a $50,000 advance for an eighteen-month option, and agreed to pay another $50,000 payment to option a second eighteen-month term.
Quincy had been one of Sammy’s best friends and he wanted to celebrate Sammy’s extraordinary life. But it was impossible, given the condition of the estate and the ever-present shadow of the IRS looming over Altovise, which prevented Tracey from moving ahead. Tracey believed that Altovise could assign her rights to the estate to Tracey, who would then collect Altovise’s share of the income. Tracey planned to form a corporation protecting her from any potential lawsuits or litigation, and once Altovise improved her health and reached a settlement with the IRS, she would receive her money and have her rights reassigned back to her. Should the IRS protest the plan, Tracey figured she’d cut them in for a percentage.
But Altovise and Tracey had personal issues that dated back over twenty years, to that very first day when Sammy invited his young children to his home in 1969 to meet the new woman in his life. Still raw and hurt from their parents’ divorce, Tracey and her two brothers were in no mood to meet someone new. Their mother, May, who thought the dinner was an attempt by Sammy to spend some time with his children, insisted they attend. And so they went, three children, none older than nine, sitting in the dining room in a house they used to call home. It was weird and uncomfortable, especially when Sammy walked into the room with a younger, much taller woman by his side.
“Kids, I want you to meet Altovise,” he announced.
The children were polite, and all said hello. Altovise returned the greeting, and they sat down for dinner, with Sammy at the head of the table, Altovise on the other end, and the children in between. The dinner conversation was strained. The children were happy to see their father, which was a rare occasion, given his heavy touring schedule. But the presence of this new woman dampened their enthusiasm, especially when Sammy broke the news.
“Children, I wanted to have dinner with you tonight to tell you something. I’ve asked Altovise to marry me.”
Sammy beamed, as did Altovise. The children were stunned, and sat quietly picking at their food. Tracey finally broke the uncomfortable silence, looking over to her father and asking a question only
a child could ask.
“Why?”
Sammy didn’t have an answer.
When they returned home and told May, she was irate that Sammy told the children such important news without allowing her to prepare them. The immediate ill will placed Altovise in the position of an interloper, and it remained so during a tense relationship that often became adversarial, particularly following Sammy’s death. So, when Tracey received a call on April 9, 1994, from someone named Al Murray Jr., claiming to be Altovise’s new attorney, she was leery.
“Who are you? And are you really an attorney or just one of those Al Carter guys?” she said.
Sonny said he had been retained by Altovise Davis to represent her interests in her and her husband’s estate.
“She’s living in a home on the property of the Hillside Inn in Pennsylvania, which my parents own,” said Sonny.
“Is that near Philadelphia?” said Tracey.
Sonny explained it was north of Philadelphia and about seventy-five miles west of New York City.
“Oh, that’s the place with the heart-shaped bathtubs. You’re from there?” she said, clearly unimpressed with Altovise’s new attorney.
Geography aside, Tracey was hostile. Along with the Quincy Jones musical, Tracey said, she’d been trying to complete several other business deals since her father’s death. But the estate’s insolvency and Tracey’s lack of legal standing prevented her from moving forward.
“Altovise won’t cooperate,” Tracey said. “She’s not a good person. You don’t know her like I do. She’s a drunk. Quincy wants to do a musical and the only way we’re going to get this done is for me to be in control of the estate.”
Deconstructing Sammy Page 3