J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Technically, nothing.”

  “The law is a technical thing, Marty. Everything we do is technical.”

  “What about the fact that you didn’t tell me anything that was going on, approval or not?” Marty asked.

  “Do you want to handle the entire case, just to make sure I’m not pulling anything sneaky here?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Sure it is. I insist on it. You’re assigned to handle the case personally, as of right now. Especially since it’s right out in front of everyone’s nose right now. Fred has to get on top of the press coverage, and you get on top of the case. The papers have been kicking us all over the place, and we sure don’t need any more of that. Particularly now.”

  Stern stopped the car in front of 270 Broadway. “Park the car and then come upstairs,” J.T. told him.

  Marty and J.T. got out and entered the building. As they rode an otherwise empty elevator up to the twentieth floor, J.T. turned to Marty and said enthusiastically, “Wait till you hear about the new project I have on the boards.”

  “We haven’t cleared up the old project,” Marty pointed out.

  “That’s small potatoes,” J.T. said. “This is something really exciting, and may get us out of the dreary prosecution business altogether.”

  “Okay, I’m curious. What is it?”

  “Last night when you called, George DeValen was at the house. We were having a private talk.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, DeValen has always been interested in my career. He and I get together once or twice a week to go over his legal matters and to talk. When we’re finished in the special prosecutor’s office, he’s going to give us a big fat retainer so we can start our own office.”

  “He said that years ago. Is that the big news?”

  “Not all of it. The big news is that DeValen thinks we might be able to do very well in the Republican mayoral primary.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am serious. The Republicans have no one to run against Livingston, now that he’s running on a Democratic line. And DeValen feels the city is getting a conservative bent. Law and order. The private citizens are tired of hiding in their homes while the criminals roam free in the streets. He wants to start a ‘Draft Wright for Mayor’ campaign. What do you think?”

  Marty stared at J.T. The elevator stopped at their floor. “I can’t believe it,” he said as they entered the office.

  “Good morning,” said the receptionist, peeking up from her magazine.

  “Good morning,” said Marty.

  “Why, what’s wrong with the idea?” J.T. asked anxiously.

  “You mean other than its being insane?”

  “Why insane?”

  “What happens with the special prosecutor’s office? You couldn’t keep the job and run for mayor, could you?”

  “We’d resign. You’re tired of it anyway, aren’t you?”

  “When did you decide that for me?”

  “Well, I am, I know that. There aren’t too many big cases now. With this one against Tauber, maybe we can finish in a blaze of glory, start our own practice with DeValen’s fat retainer, and then enter the primary races. What do you think?”

  “Open a practice with DeValen as our only client?”

  “It’ll be a really big initial retainer. This way it’s a tax-deductible legal fee for DeValen, rather than an outright political contribution to our mayoral campaign.”

  “That man doesn’t stop for a minute, does he?”

  “He’s clever, isn’t he?”

  “You two make a good match.”

  “However, clever as DeValen is, I’m one step ahead of him,” J.T. scoffed. “Even if the mayoral thing doesn’t work out, the publicity, together with the publicity we’ve gotten from this job, will help us draw clients in private practice. And DeValen’s retainer will pay the nut.”

  Marty shook his head. “I don’t like being too involved with DeValen. He’s too slick.”

  “As long as he wants to foot the bills to get us going, what’s the difference?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to get out on that private-practice limb and then have it cut out from under me because DeValen becomes disenchanted with the boy wonder. It’ll take time to get an office going, you know.”

  “I don’t like being at anyone’s mercy either. But it’s a springboard out of here. Besides, when I’m the mayor, we’ll be on top of the world. Mayor of the greatest city in the world, the Emerald City …”

  “And you’ll be the Wizard of Oz?”

  “No, the Wizard of Otto.”

  They both laughed.

  “You’re not mad anymore, are you?” J.T. asked Marty cautiously.

  “You’re something else, Otto, you really are.”

  “As long as I’m not wrong, I’m okay. Am I still right?”

  “You’re always Wright. But I don’t know if you’re right.”

  September 12, 1968

  “Archie, did you see this article in today’s Times?” Chauncey Delafield asked as they sat in the den of Reynolds’s Gracie Square apartment. Fall was particularly cold. Inside, the fireplace was crackling warmly, a fine cognac was in the snifters, and the Sunday Times had been dismantled into the family’s favorite sections.

  “Which article, Chauncey?”

  “An article about next year’s mayoralty. Seems someone has started a movement to draft J.T. Wright.”

  “Let me see that.”

  Dana, who had been absorbed in the Times magazine rose and stood behind her father’s large leather easy chair as he took the paper from Delafield. She read over his shoulder.

  “This is very interesting,” said Reynolds, absorbed by every word in the article. Dana read silently. “He’s going to run in the Republican primary, is he?” Reynolds said to no one in particular. His face was streaked with displeasure. “Oh ho, listen to this. He says he will resign his position as deputy attorney general in order to make the run.”

  “Must have someone backing him,” said Delafield. “He couldn’t be doing this on his own money.”

  “Nor would he,” Dana added acidly.

  “Is Joe Albanese still the Republican Chairman?” Reynolds asked.

  “Just in New York County. This mayoral primary is citywide.”

  “I know. But Joe is involved, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, of course, Archie.”

  “Fine,” Reynolds said, putting the paper down in his lap. “I want you to get in touch with Joe, find out who he’s backing.”

  “It’s not Wright, I’m sure of that. Wright’s running against the regular party choice.”

  “I read that,” said Reynolds. “Tell Joe Albanese that he can have as much money as he needs to help the man he’s backing.”

  “Okay.”

  Dana’s hand moved from her father’s shoulder to rub the back of his neck.

  “But tell Joe that I want his candidate to run one hell of a campaign against Wright. If Joe doesn’t have a dynamic candidate, tell him to get one. I want Wright humuliated. Humiliated!”

  “Any amount, Archie?”

  “Exactly. Any amount.”

  September 20, 1968

  Judge J. James Moriarty looked down at the lawyers at the defense table, his lips creased in their perpetual thin sneer; his black robes, buttoned up to the neck, contrasted with his white hair. Had he been a Jesuit, he would be a strict Prefect of Discipline, he was that straitlaced and unforgiving. He took pleasure in making people conform to his personal idea of righteousness. To add another ingredient to that volatile mix, Judge Moriarty was incompetent. He was not well versed in the law. And he masked this lack with a veneer of arrogance and hostility. Thus, any trial in front of Judge Moriarty was an adventure, leading, usually, into strange territory and ending with rulings distinguished by their tortuous illogic. When in doubt, which was often, he favored the prosecutor. In the criminal justice system, there are certainly good judges. But there are also m
any chosen because—and only because—they can be expected to align themselves with the old club, favor the prosecutor, lean toward conviction. Many of these prosecution-leaning judges are former DAs, and in their minds, the change from prosecutor to judge is merely a physical shift in the place they sit in the courtroom.

  “Which is the next case?” the judge asked the court clerk. He saw Judge Tauber sitting in the audience, and knew very well, from the calendar on his bench, that the Tauber case was next. But Judge Moriarty relished twisting the knife in Judge Tauber’s gut. He watched Tauber’s expression with morbid delight as the clerk replied.

  “People against Tauber, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Call it.”

  Marty, who had been sitting at the prosecutor’s table, rose to his feet. Joe Brill and Peter Sabbatino rose and walked with their clients to the defense counsel’s table.

  Judge Moriarty looked down at Judge Tauber with contempt.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” said Sabbatino, smiling. He felt nothing but loathing for the sanctimonious Moriarty. Everyone in the courtroom knew their mutual feelings, and all expected some acrimony before the proceeding was over.

  “May the record reflect that I am handing each counsel answering papers to their motions for a Bill of Particulars and Discovery,” said Marty.

  “I acknowledge their receipt,” said Brill. “I have not seen these documents before and, under the circumstances, am going to request an adjournment to determine if any reply is necessary.”

  “We move cases in this part. We cannot tolerate adjournments merely to read documents. Read them in the jury box, and make whatever reply you want to make orally, this morning. Then you won’t need an adjournment.” A gloating grin covered the judge’s face.

  “Even if I did that, Your Honor,” piped in Sabbatino, “and were subjected to having to read these fourteen pages in the jury box, I would prefer to have written reply papers to better protect the record. It would seem more appropriate, particularly since this is the first time the case is on Your Honor’s calendar, to have an adjournment.”

  “I would like to know what defense counsel’s applications are before I commit myself to waiving written papers, Your Honor,” said Marty. “I might want our law department to do some research.”

  “Mr. Sabbatino’s points won’t require much legal research, I’m sure. He just wants to scatter gun spurious arguments against the wall in the hope that some thing sticks. I’m fully aware of defense counsel tactics.”

  “Your Honor is very kind,” said Sabbatino pleasantly. Lawyers in the front row snickered at his sarcasm. “However, Your Honor cannot seriously be referring to me. Your Honor well knows that I do not present spurious or frivolous arguments. The last two cases I’ve tried before you—which, of course, ended in conviction—were unanimously reversed on appeal.”

  “Don’t start one of your garrulous speeches, counsel,” the judge said testily.

  “If counsel needs anything further by way of discovery in this case,” Marty interrupted tactfully, “I’ll discuss it with them. Perhaps we can agree on the discovery and save the necessity for formal motions.”

  Sabbatino and Moriarty eyed each other warily, like two brawlers parted by the crowd.

  “Does that solve your problem, counsel?” Moriarty needled.

  “Let me take care of this, Peter,” Brill whispered to Sabbatino. “What’s the sense of arguing when the prosecutor says he’ll give us what we want?

  “We’ll accept Your Honor’s kind suggestion and the prosecutor’s offer,” Brill added aloud. “However, a quick perusal of the prosecutor’s papers indicates that there are tape recordings in this case. I’d like to ask the prosecutor for the tapes, or at least transcripts of those tapes.”

  “You’re not entitled to any tapes at this juncture,” replied the judge. “I have no authority to order the prosecutor to turn over that material.”

  “The tapes will eventually have to be turned over prior to trial,” said Brill. “By having them now, defense counsel could save the court’s time.”

  “I’m sure that’s your reason,” the judge replied acidly.

  “Your Honor, I have no objection to counsel having the tapes at this time,” Marty injected as diplomatically as he could.

  The judge studied Marty now, with an almost imperceptible, impatient nodding of his head. He had his own idea of defendants, innocence, guilt, and trials, and any deviation therefrom was not received kindly, even when it was the act of the prosecutor.

  “Well, Mr. Boxer,” the judge allowed reluctantly, “I cannot stop you from turning over material to the defense. Since you have no obligation to turn such over, I certainly won’t force you to do so. Have you discussed this disclosure tactic with your office?”

  “I have, Your Honor.”

  “And Mr. Wright has agreed to this unprecedented, premature disclosure policy?”

  “He has left the entire matter to my discretion, Your Honor.”

  Moriarty studied Marty with narrowed, steely eyes.

  Sabbatino piped in. “I wish to note for the record that it is most refreshing to see such constitutionally correct procedures adopted by the special prosecutor.”

  “Counselor”—Judge Moriarty leaned forward on his bench, literally hissing—“this court is convened neither for your convenience nor your approval. Your remarks, which I know are meant irreverently, are totally unnecessary.”

  “My remarks are only intended sincerely, Your Honor.”

  “Are you trying to bait the court?” Moriarty leaned further forward toward the old veteran.

  “Certainly not, sir. Your Honor knows me better than that.”

  Judge Moriarty’s eyes were hard with anger, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “Your Honor, if we may,” said Brill, “we’ll retire to the corridor to go over these documents, and perhaps discuss the tapes with the prosecution.”

  “You do that,” said the judge, his eyes still on Sabbatino.

  The defense counsel and defendants turned and walked out of the courtroom and into the corridor.

  “That prosecutor seems like a decent fellow,” said Judge Tauber.

  “I hope he stays that way,” said Brill. “Peter, I thought Moriarty was going to come over the bench at you.”

  “He hasn’t the balls,” replied Sabbatino calmly.

  “Do you want to listen to the tapes today?” Brill asked.

  “Where? In this corridor?”

  “Let’s take Boxer up on his offer before Wright changes his mind for him.”

  “I agree we ought to try and hear them now,” said Judge Tauber.

  Marty came out of the courtroom and joined them.

  “I just looked through the file,” said Marty. “I don’t seem to have the tapes with me.”

  The defense group exchanged glances.

  “I’ll get them from the evidence vault and you can hear them at my office. If you want, supply some blank tapes and I’ll make duplicate copies of the tapes for you.”

  “That’s even better,” Brill said quickly.

  “Whatever other evidence there is, you can have. I want to have this case tried in the fairest possible way.”

  “I appreciate that very much, Mr. Boxer,” said Judge Tauber. “Forgive me if it’s out of line for me to speak like this, but I’m quite impressed by your fair attitude.”

  “It’s just as it should be, judge. Nothing more.”

  “Unfortunately it doesn’t always work that way,” said Sabbatino.

  “Maybe we’ll start a new trend,” said Marty.

  “May I ask you a question?” said Sabbatino.

  “Surely.”

  “Why are you being so cooperative? You’re making me nervous.”

  Marty laughed. “I don’t want to have to go back in front of Moriarty either,” he replied. “He’s not my idea of the way to spend a morning. Besides, isn’t this better than the old trial by ambush that Judge Moriarty loves so much?”
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  “That it is,” said Brill.

  “In this case, there should be a search for the real truth,” Marty added.

  “You sound like you know something about this case that we should,” said Sabbatino.

  “Not really. Facts are facts, aren’t they?”

  “Not necessarily,” Brill replied with a smirk.

  September 30, 1968

  The intercom on J.T.’s desk buzzed.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Marty, J.T. I have to see you.”

  “Just the man I wanted to see,” J.T. said exuberantly. “I was about to buzz you myself. Come on in.”

  Within a minute, a very serious Marty took the chair next to J.T.’s desk.

  “What’s the matter, Otto?” J.T. asked.

  “The Tauber case.”

  “That’s just what I was going to talk to you about. I got a call from Judge Moriarty.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  J.T. raised his eyebrows. “He said that he hadn’t planned to allow the Tauber defendants all the discovery they asked for, but you up and gave it away. He is concerned we’ll create an unnecessary precedent.”

  “That’s very fair and impartial of him,” said Marty.

  “What does fair or impartial have to do with Judge Moriarty?” J.T. chided. “I know you’re somewhat more emotionally involved than usual in this case,” J.T. continued, “but we really ought not position ourselves to be embarrassed in our other cases.”

  “You may be in line for a great deal of embarrassment with this case,” Marty said gravely.

  “How’s that?”

  “Since you’ve already read the grand jury minutes in the Tauber case, I assume you remember that our phony robbery defendant, Rainone, testified that after Judge Tauber sent him to his son, Randolph concocted a phony defense for him. Rainone said Randolph wanted him to testify that the complainant was really a fag, and that he made a pass at Rainone, and because Rainone rebuffed him, the complainant went and made the original complaint.”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “I assume you also remember that Randolph Tauber testified at our grand jury that he did not advise Rainone to make up a phony alibi? Young Tauber testified he told his client that he could not take the stand because he had such a bad record—the bogus one our office pumped into the computer for him. You remember that too?”