J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “What do you think?” Bedardo finally said.

  “About what?” asked J.T.

  “About bail? Can you get me out to the street? Listen,” he said, motioning J.T. closer to the cell door. Bedardo looked over his shoulder. There was another man in the cell, a young man sitting silently on a bench against the far back wall. He knew who Bedardo was, and didn’t want to appear too curious about what was going on.

  “Look, counselor,” Bedardo whispered through the bars, “I know you don’t handle too many criminal cases, but I know what you can do. And I know you still have connections with the feds, you know? You take care of this situation for me, fight like a son of a bitch, and don’t worry about money.”

  “Tell me about yourself. I need some information for the bail application.”

  “I got a misdemeanor, disorderly conduct, when I was a kid, maybe thirty-five years ago. Other than that, I ain’t got a sheet for nothing. I got a wife, three kids, and I own my own trucking business. This case here, it’s a frame. See, I know they have me right here,” he said, touching the tip of his nose, “and I know that when they have you there and they want to get you, they get you. So I know the case is going to be a ball-breaker. But you’re one guy who can neutralize the ball-breaking. Do the best you can for me, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “What’s your home address and telephone number?” J.T. said, signaling to Marty to take down the information. Marty already had a pad in hand.

  “First get me out, then we’ll have a nice dinner and you’ll get everything you want, you get me?”

  “Let me give you my card,” said J.T., looking in his wallet. He didn’t have any cards. Marty gave Bedardo one of J.T.’s cards. “I don’t conduct business anyplace but in my office,” J.T. added.

  Bedardo chomped a little tighter on his cigar. “Whatever you say, counselor. You’re the doctor, I’m the patient.” He smiled a little around the cigar. But his eyes didn’t warm up at all.

  J.T. and Marty went back upstairs and reentered the magistrate’s office. The magistrate was on the phone, his back to the door.

  “Yes, that’s right, the one from television,” he said just as he swiveled to see J.T. He flushed a bit. “I’ll call you later, dear,” the magistrate said quickly into the phone. “Yes, right after I finish.” He hung up. “Are you all set?” he asked J.T.

  Newsmen, spotting J.T., began to edge into the magistrate’s office.

  “No, no, not in here, please,” said the magistrate, raising his hands. “Sally, see where Mr. Keating is, so we can get this arraignment over with.”

  The secretary went into the courtroom.

  “Can’t we just talk to Mr. Wright a minute, Your Honor?” asked one of the newsmen, moving another tentative step into the office.

  “Not now, we have to finish this arraignment.”

  “Only a minute,” the newsman repeated, taking another step. “We have a deadline.” Other newsmen advanced in the first newsman’s wake.

  J.T. realized why Keating wanted to speed up Bedardo’s arraignment. If the story didn’t make today’s afternoon editions and broadcasts, the morning papers would beat the horse to death, and by tomorrow evening it would no longer be a hot news story. Evening press coverage would be lost, and the U.S. attorney in this district wasn’t allergic to all the coverage he could get.

  J.T. had conflicting emotions. He wanted to thwart the U.S. Attorney’s appetite for news—especially at his client’s expense. On the other hand, the stories would prominently display J.T.’s name as well.

  “I agree we ought to move this right along, Your Honor,” J.T. said loudly to the magistrate. The newsmen stayed where they were, writing on their pads. “After all, my client has been detained for a substantial period of time now on rather flimsy charges.” J.T. decided he was not only going to help the newsmen get their stories filed on time, he was going to give them something interesting to file.

  “Have you spoken to your client?” one of the newsmen asked from the doorway.

  Keating entered the magistrate’s office. “You wanted me, Your Honor?” He looked with hostility at the newsmen hovering around J.T.

  “Yes, I was wondering … perhaps we should shut this door?” he said to his secretary, seeing the newsmen hanging on his every word.

  Several of the reporters groaned.

  “Sorry, sorry, we’ll be right out and you can report everything that we do on the record.” His secretary shut the door. “I was wondering, Mr. Keating,” the magistrate said, “if you and Mr. Wright could agree on a bail amount, so that we don’t have a long dispute on the record?”

  “Your Honor,” said Keating, “there are substantial reasons why Mr. Bedardo should have no bail. I’d prefer to do all of this once, on the record.”

  “Very well. I just thought there might be some agreement. After all, everyone’s entitled to reasonable bail. Go ahead out to the courtroom,” said the magistrate. “We’ll do everything on the record.”

  J.T. was the first to open the door. Immediately the newshounds descended—as he’d known they would.

  “What’s going to happen, J.T.?”

  “Is your client going to make bail?”

  “How does it feel to be a defense counsel representing people who were the subject of your investigations in Washington?”

  “Let me answer the last question first, if you don’t mind,” J.T. said. “I approach both situations the same way, as a professional, and I do whatever task I have with the same determination to do the best job I know how.”

  J.T. and Marty had already foreseen the likelihood that such a question would be asked by newsmen. And they had formulated the answer J.T. had just given. Sounded pretty good, J.T. thought.

  The magistrate came out of his office and sat behind the bench. “Come to order, gentlemen. Mr. Keating, you have an arraignment.”

  “Yes, sir. United States against Pasquale Bedardo.”

  The magistrate made some handwritten notes. He looked around. “Is the prisoner here?”

  “He’s on his way up,” said a marshal standing next to the bench.

  “Please, get him immediately.”

  “Are you going to be taking on more criminal cases?” a reporter whispered to J.T., moving closer to him.

  “I have to decide that on a case-by-case basis,” he replied.

  Other reporters moved in quickly. Keating’s mouth contracted perceptibly as he read from some papers on his lectern.

  “Is there any conflict of interest involved in the fact that you were at one time investigating organized crime figures and now you’re representing them?” another reporter asked softly.

  Two marshals entered with Bedardo, whose hands were manacled. Everyone in the room was silent as they viewed the crime boss, who looked every inch as he should have, defiant, the unlit stub of a cigar—Bedardo must keep a supply of half-smoked cigars, thought J.T.—still in his mouth.

  “Can you take those handcuffs off my client?” asked J.T.

  “I’m not going to jump out the window,” said Bedardo. “The truck with the ‘x’ marks the spot didn’t get outside yet.”

  One of the marshals silently unlocked Bedardo’s manacles. Bedardo rubbed his wrists.

  “Let’s proceed,” said the magistrate.

  The room began to quiet again.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Keating,” said the magistrate.

  “Your Honor, you have before you Pasquale Bedardo, on indictment 62 CR 579, charging the defendant and twelve others with the crime of conspiracy to import a narcotic substance with various substantive counts of possession with intent to distribute and sell same substance.”

  “What is the plea to be, Mr. Wright?” asked the magistrate.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  Bedardo, standing next to J.T., was totally silent.

  The reporters listened and wrote on their pads.

  “Very well, not guilty.” The magistrate made a note on the paper before him. “What
is the government’s position on bail?”

  “The government is recommending no bail in this case, Your Honor. The basis for this recommendation is the fact that Mr. Bedardo is a kingpin in organized crime. He is the head of a crime family in the New York area. His presence on the street denigrates law and lawful authority. In addition, the defendant is charged with the importation—I really should say control of the importation—of most of the narcotics sold and distributed in the New York area. It is a multimillion-dollar operation with international connections and importation routes. This is a vast scheme, which shall continue to flourish so long as this man is at liberty in the street. The government submits that Mr. Bedardo is a menace to the community, a clear and present danger, who should remain in jail pending his trial.”

  The magistrate nodded and turned to J.T., who said, “Your Honor, I hope that the constitutional system of justice that we’ve been enjoying in this country hasn’t changed without my hearing about it. Under that system, people accused of crimes are presumed to be innocent until proven guilty.

  “If presumption of innocence is still the law, however, then I can’t imagine how the government—charged with upholding and enforcing that very law—now takes the position that Mr. Bedardo should be punished either for this crime, of which he is presumed innocent, or of some other unknown and unnamed misdeed for which he hasn’t even been charged. Mr. Bedardo has had one misdemeanor conviction, approximately thirty-five years ago. Other than that, he has never been arrested, charged with a crime, or anything else relating to the penal law. If the government claims that something Mr. Bedardo has done is or was illegal, then he should have been charged with those other crimes and prosecuted for them.”

  J.T. glanced over at the newsmen. They were writing at full speed.

  “Surely, Your Honor,” J.T. continued, a bit more timbre in his voice, “such a nonprosecutable past cannot be sufficiently grave to be considered by you as a basis to deny my client bail. Moreover, my client has roots in this community going back almost sixty years, owns a business, and is a law-abiding member of the community.” J.T. looked over to the newsmen again. They were enjoying the whole show.

  “Mr. Prosecutor, I’ll hear you.”

  “Your Honor, the government is in possession of significant information that the government does not wish to publicly reveal at this time, in order not to jeopardize the source, that this defendant is a boss of an organized crime family and is at the head of the narcotics trafficking in this area. His very presence on the street ensures the continued flow of narcotics. We shall reveal such information to the court at the appropriate time.”

  The magistrate looked back to J.T.

  “Your Honor, I wish I had a flag and an apple pie right now. I’d lend them to my brother at the bar, Mr. Keating, so that he might wave the one and offer a piece of the other to all here present. What I told you about lack of evidence against my client has now been proven certainly true. The government doesn’t present a single fact for you to consider, even in light of my statements. The prosecutor merely waves the flag and asks you to punish Mr. Bedardo on the basis of nothing. Such application is an outrageous attempt to visit punishment on this defendant for the ills of mankind, the addiction of dope fiends, and the inability of the police to cope with the flow of narcotics. Surely, if you think it will accomplish anything, we can all agree to have a scapegoat. Let’s fool the public into believing that the absence from the street of this one man will cure a multitude of ills that have plagued civilization from time immemorial.”

  “I don’t intend to be fooled,” the magistrate said slowly. “I think that the government is sincere in its suggestion that it possesses certain information which must be kept confidential. However, I cannot detain this defendant without some proof of actual crimes, actual danger to the community, or a belief that he will flee the jurisdiction.”

  “The government is willing to reveal the same to Your Honor alone in camera,” said the prosecutor.

  “I protest such secret proceedings,” J.T. shot back.

  “Mr. Prosecutor, have you reason to believe that this defendant will not answer the charges against him? That he will flee the jurisdiction?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “May I know what the reasons are?”

  “This defendant still has family in Italy, and it would be easy indeed for him to go back there and avoid prosecution. Particularly, Your Honor, where the charges allege the defendant to be the head of an international narcotics conspiracy. It would be quite simple for the defendant to flee to Europe without any impairment in his life style or interruption of his narcotics trafficking.”

  “If it would make things simpler,” said J.T., “I offer to hold, as an officer of this court, the defendant’s passport, so that he would have no means to leave the country. As an alternative, Your Honor, if this court feels that my holding of the passport would not be satisfactory, I would be willing to have the same held by Your Honor, sealed from the prosecutor, of course, so that Your Honor would be assured that the defendant is not going to flee the jurisdiction.”

  “It’s quite easy to have a false passport made, especially for a man in a position of the defendant,” said Keating.

  “I am amazed that the government is now ascribing another baseless accusation against this defendant in order to have you keep him in custody.”

  “I think I’ve heard enough,” said the magistrate. “I’m going to set bail at one hundred thousand dollars cash or surety bond.”

  The murmur of the courtroom grew louder.

  “Will your client be able to post such bail?” the magistrate asked.

  J.T. turned to Bedardo.

  Bedardo leaned toward J.T. to whisper. “Good work, counselor. I got a bondsman already here,” he looked into the crowd for a moment. “He’s in the back there.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” J.T. answered the magistrate.

  “When do you think he might be able to do that?”

  “Here I am, Your Honor,” said a small man with tight, curly hair as he made his way through the crowd. “I have been authorized to post bond on behalf of Mr. Bedardo.”

  The magistrate arched an eyebrow. “Very well, come into my office.” The magistrate rose. “The judge to whom this case is assigned, Mr. Prosecutor, can reconsider your bail application if you have better information or believe that I am in error.”

  Keating, silent with anger, watched the reporters hovering around J.T. again.

  “Excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen,” said J.T., turning to his client. “I’m going to go back to my office,” he whispered to Bedardo. “Call me there when you get out of here.”

  Bedardo studied J.T. for a few minutes, then smiled. “Okay, counselor. You did good. I’ll see you in an hour or so. I never been to a Wall Street law firm anyways.”

  March 17, 1962

  “Did you see who just walked by?” Jeremy Thorne said with disbelief to Roger Munro, another associate whose office was close to J.T.’s. Thome had been walking toward the washroom when he recognized Patsy Bedardo.

  “Who?” replied Munro, looking out to an empty corridor.

  “Benardo, Benito, something … the crime boss that Wright’s representing on a criminal charge.”

  “No kidding. Where?”

  “Just walking down the corridor as big as you please.” He signaled Munro to come to the door.

  The two men stood in the doorway, peeking out at the short, stocky figure walking with another, taller man who carried an attache case. A receptionist coursed along ahead of them toward J.T.’s office.

  “Did you ever believe you’d see that in this office?” asked Thorne.

  Marty Boxer emerged from the elevator and walked toward J.T.’s office. Thome and Munro pulled their heads in quickly at Marty’s approach.

  “This is Mr. Wright’s secretary,” said the receptionist who was guiding Bedardo and his companion.

  “Thank you, miss,” said Bedardo.
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br />   J.T.’s secretary, who had been involved in reading a Philip Roth novel, stood and ushered the two men into J.T.’s office.

  J.T. was a study in concentration as he perused some papers on his desk. He had taken these documents out of a random file in his room when the receptionist announced Bedardo.

  “Ah, good morning,” said J.T., rising. “I expected you yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well, those rats over in the courthouse delayed me.” Bedardo shook J.T.’s hand with healthy vigor. “And then I had some things to do last night. I was tied up. Somebody was supposed to call and tell you that. Did they?”

  “Yes. No problem.”

  “Say hello to Joey,” Bedardo said, indicating a full shouldered man with no neck and dark, thick hair. His hand, which J.T. now shook was large and meaty.

  Marty entered J.T.’s office.

  “You know Marty Boxer.”

  “We met at the court.”

  “Sit down,” said J.T. “We received a call from the court a short while ago. The case has been assigned to Judge Laird Morgan.”

  “Morgan? I hear he’s a crazy Texan.”

  “He’s not going to be that crazy with us,” J.T. said without concern.

  “I like to hear you say that,” said Bedardo. “But I understood he was a real crazy som-n-a-bitch. A prosecution man through and through.”

  “Our information is that he’s not so bad.”

  “That’s good news, counselor.” Bedardo winked slowly at J.T.

  “Anyhow, the government has requested a bail review in front of Morgan tomorrow morning.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” J.T. said. “He might raise the bail somewhat—to placate the government. Keating was very upset that I was able, to get you any bail at all.”

  “I could see that,” Bedardo said with pleasure at the thought. “He’d like to see me in some dungeon. These bastards have no souls, you know what I mean? No feelings. They don’t even know they’re dealing with human beings. And you’re supposed to put your tail between your legs when they look down their noses at you. He’ll be in hell before I dog it for him or any other som-n-a-bitch.” He looked at Joey, who nodded. “What do we do now?”