J.T. Read online
J.T. PLAYED PEOPLE
LIKE A VIOLIN …
HIS BEST FRIEND • He was disposable …
or so J.T. thought.
THE UNDERWORLD AND THE MOB • They
made dangerous enemies … and
profitable friends.
THE JUDGES AND THE LAWYERS •
J.T. dazzled them when he could, and
destroyed them when he couldn’t.
THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM • A tool
to be used, ignored, discarded …
J.T.
A Novel
John Nicholas Iannuzzi
A MADCAN Book
Contents
November 21, 1960
May 31, 1952
August 7, 1954
May 10, 1956
May 13, 1960
March 28, 1960
April 10, 1960
April 30, 1960
November 21, 1960
November 22, 1960
January 15, 1961
March 19, 1961
March 20, 1961
September 12, 1961
November 20, 1961
November 20, 1961
November 20, 1961
March 16, 1962
March 16, 1962
March 17, 1962
April 1, 1962
November 23, 1963
January 13, 1964
February 17, 1964
March 20, 1964
March 21, 1964
March 21, 1964
May 12, 1964
May 31, 1964
May 31, 1964
February 10, 1965
May 19, 1965
November 23, 1967
January 11, 1968
April 15, 1968
July 14, 1968
July 14, 1968
July 15, 1968
September 12, 1968
September 20, 1968
September 30, 1968
October 2, 1968
October 5, 1968
November 1, 1968
November 23, 1968
January 23, 1969
February 3, 1969
May 31, 1969
June 6, 1969
June 18, 1969
December 23, 1969
June 15, 1970
March 15, 1971
April 14, 1972
May 25, 1972
November 21, 1960
The august Senate hearing room was jammed to capacity. Every seat in the large, wood-paneled room filled the instant the Senate pages opened the sluice gates to permit a tide of newsmen, photographers, and curiosity seekers to flood in. The aisles were jammed by camera crews and their equipment; wires and cables were taped to the rugs, running down to microphones at the front of the room.
Photographers, cameras dangling from their necks, roamed the aisles between the television crews, focusing and flashing their cameras on the empty witness chairs and tables, the curved podium from which the interrogation would soon begin. The noise and banter from the spectators was growing louder, swelling with excitement as the moment neared when the Chairman would gavel into session the Select Joint Congressional Committee to Investigate Organized Crime.
“Just a few more minutes,” murmured J.T. Wright, the young associate counsel to the committee. He stood just outside the door of an antechamber, studying the restless crowd. Beside him stood Marty Boxer, a law-school intern attached to the committee counsel’s office. Boxer, looking out into the main chamber, nodded at Wright’s remark.
J.T. Wright was short and physically unimpressive. His dark eyes bulged slightly, his hair was slick and black, his complexion sallow. He was all of twenty-six years old.
Marty Boxer was twenty-four, and still awaiting word from the bar examiners. He was tall, athletically broad, with a strong jaw and dark, wavy hair. He and J.T. had attended the same college and law school.
Behind Wright and Boxer, the antechamber was crowded with committee members, both senators and representatives, and their aides and staff members. A few select reporters had been permitted exclusive access to the committee members for pre-game interviews. Senator Evard Anders, the chairman of the committee, stood near a sideboard on which coffee and pastry were set out; he was surrounded by assistants, other congressmen, and two reporters, making comments that could not be heard beyond the small circle of people around him. The antechamber buzzed with anticipation; the players were up, adrenaline pumping. This was the big game, the one heralded in all the papers, the one that would be on television screens all across the country in a few minutes, and, later tonight, flooding the newscasts in living rooms and bars for all the voters back home.
“Christ, J.T.,” Marty Boxer said, not turning his eye from the spectacle, “the hearing chamber is jammed. You can’t even walk down the aisle.”
“That’s just what we wanted,” J.T. smiled. He turned, with Marty following, and walked toward Senator Anders.
J.T. stopped suddenly. “Are the guards keeping an aisle open for the committee?” he asked Marty.
“I didn’t even notice.”
“Well, go back and notice,” Wright directed, his attention now focusing on the reporters and committee personnel in the room. “We don’t want the committee to have to fight their way to their chairs.”
Boxer nodded and turned back toward the hearing chamber.
“Did everybody get this morning’s updated schedule and transcript?” J.T. called to Boxer as an afterthought.
Boxer turned back. “Yes, I made sure they did.”
Wright nodded rapidly, nervously. He glanced in a wall mirror momentarily, cocking his head, patting his hair.
“You look terrific,” Boxer smiled.
“Stop the horseshit. Did you check the aisle yet?”
“I was just going.”
“Great, great, you were just going. Listen, Marty”—J.T.’s eyes wandered around the room—“I have a thousand things on my mind. When I tell you to do something, just go and do it, okay?”
Marty nodded and walked toward the door to the hearing room.
“Talk to you a minute, Mr. Wright?” asked James C. R. Duneden, a star columnist for the Washington Post. Duneden’s column always contained a lot of inside political information. He was a self-appointed watchdog, with contacts in every branch and agency of the government. He was respected, even feared, all the way up Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Sure, Jim.” A slit of a smile flickered across Wright’s lips.
“What are your views on this investigation, Mr. Wright?” asked Duneden.
“Jim, do you really want an interview, or did you just come over to bust my balls?” Wright said softly, familiarly. His eyes darted quickly from one side to the other, to see that no one could overhear them.
“My interview piece with you is already in type, J.T. It’ll run as a special supplement to my column tonight.”
“How long is it?”
“I don’t know how long it’ll be after the city editor gets at it. But you’re splashed all over it, featured picture and all.”
“One of the pictures we took in my office the other day?”
Duneden nodded.
“Good. How did your interview of the chairman go?”
“Just as you wanted it.”
“That’ll make his hillbilly heart swell.” J.T. smiled. “You’re not going to interview anybody else, are you? I mean,” he said, looking around, then whispering, “you can interview them all you want. But you don’t have to print anything on them for tomorrow, do you?”
Duneden smiled. “Probably not. We’ll have enough special material with your interview and the chairman’s.”
“If things get crowded,” Wright whispered even more softly, “cut out the chairman.”
Duneden chuckled.
“Whatever you do, don’t interview that creature,” J.T. said, looking directly across the room at a man of about fifty, with metal-frame glasses, a dark blue suit, brown shoes, and a striped tie. He was looking at Craig Rogers, chief counsel to the committee.
“You mean your boss?” Duneden asked.
“What a creep,” said J.T. “He’s still wearing the official prep uniform of an FBI agent, or one of those New York United States Attorneys. A hard-assed prig. Did you get an updated copy of today’s transcript?” he said, changing the subject.
“Yes, the transcript, the agenda, the whole thing. I see you’re leading off with John Entrerri.”
“Right. Gentleman Johnny. What do you think about him from a publicity point of view?”
“Might as well start out with some glamour. He’s dapper, always in the papers, nightclubs, sporting events. You think he’s going to testify about anything?”
“Of course not. He’ll take the Fifth, which is just perfect as far as I’m concerned.”
“How so?” Duneden asked.
“I can ask him anything I want—‘Did you kill your grandfather?’—and he’ll refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate him. I love it. I hope almost every one of them takes the Fifth.”
“That sounds like you have something up your sleeve. Didn’t I get a full transcript of today’s activities?”
“Today’s, yes. I can’t give away all my secrets, though,” Wright said slyly.
“Come on, ‘fess up, J.T. Let me in on it.”
“I will, I will. Let me keep a couple of things to myself until the right moment.”
“I won’t use it until you tell me. But give me a chance to work something up,” Duneden said.
“Talking about working something up,” Wright parried, “how did you like that blonde from the party?”
Duneden glanced around, then turned to J.T., a leer dripping from his face. “You son of a bitch, where the hell did you get those wild bozos? That one almost chewed my dong off.”
Wright emitted a quick chuckle. “Sorry about that. I’ll get you something more sedate in the future.”
“Hell, no. Send me two like that one.” Duneden had forgotten J.T.’s withheld information already.
“Two? That’s a little exotic for my taste, but do a good job with today’s coverage, and you’ll have three at your own private party.”
“J.T.,” the chairman interrupted, touching Wright’s arm. “Excuse us a moment, Mr. Duneden.”
“Of course, Mr. Chairman. I’ll talk to you later about those three items, Mr. Wright,” Duneden smiled.
“Yes, Mr. Chairman?” J.T. said courteously, turning to face the tall, rawboned man with glasses and a reddish complexion.
“Do you think we should get going now?” the chairman asked, walking with Wright to a place apart from the crowd.
“In a few minutes, Mr. Chairman. Perhaps you can let the others go in and take their seats, get their papers in order. Then you can walk in at the end. Make a dramatic entrance, you know?”
The chairman nodded, smiled appreciatively, then turned toward the crowd. “Gentlemen,” he called out.
The noise began to subside.
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?”
The room was down to a murmur now.
“Would you committee members start into the hearing room and assume your places? I’d like to get things started on time. We have national television for two hours this morning, and I don’t want to hold up the networks or our folks back home more than we have to.”
The murmurs increased again as the committee members began to gather their papers. As they started toward the chamber, a few of the members glanced in the mirror on the wall, giving themselves a last once-over.
The chairman and Wright conferred to one side, as the members filed out.
“Once at center stage,” J.T. told him, “you’ll begin the proceedings with your initial statement. Then we’ll call Entrerri as our first witness.”
“Lucy already gave you a final copy of my opening statement. What do you think?”
“It’s fine,” Wright assured him. “Just the right tone. I made one slight suggestion somewhere in the middle.”
“I saw it, and I thought it was a good one. I’ve already incorporated it into the statement.” He looked at his watch. “I think it’s about time we went in, don’t you?”
“Just a second, Mr. Chairman. Marty,” he called.
“Yes, J.T.?”
“What’s happening out there?”
“The committee is all in place. The cameramen and the photographers are all crowded around the podium, waiting for the chairman.”
“Sounds like the right moment for your entrance, Mr. Chairman.” J.T. smiled.
“Well, here goes nothing,” said the chairman, glancing in the mirror, touching his tie.
J.T., behind the chairman, glanced at Marty with a deprecating smirk as he watched Anders primp.
The hubbub that filled the chamber grew perceptibly as the chairman made his way slowly to the center of the high podium. J.T. followed directly behind him. Boxer slipped almost unobserved from the anteroom and quietly made his way to the committee counsel table in front of the podium. Craig Rogers was already seated at the center of that table.
The chairman and J.T. purposely stood at the center of the podium now, chatting casually as the cameras flashed. J.T. finally moved away from the chairman and made his way toward the committee counsel table.
“Are we all set to begin, Mr. Wright?” Rogers asked J.T. acidly. He reciprocated J.T.’s dislike of him, particularly since Wright, still wet behind the ears, had eclipsed him in committee affairs and was considered the chairman’s fair-haired boy.
It was no secret that the chairman thought Rogers stiff and mirthless, a man who didn’t like to belly up to the bar for some serious drinking. Second only to his love of politics and public acclaim, Anders enjoyed his drink. Not that J.T. ever caroused with the chairman, but he did have the redeeming quality of being clever, and more than that, he got along well with the media people. It was J.T., for instance, who had thought up the entire idea of the organized-crime hearings in the first place. It was J.T. who had calculated that those legendary hearings from the McCarthy days, the fabled witch-hunts for Communists, could be duplicated or even surpassed now that there was unlimited television coverage to bring the hearings into every home in America. He had only to find the right witches to hunt. And it had taken just a little time to find them: the Mafia, organized crime, the syndicate, the mob, the boys. This was an entity as well known in America as Rice Krispies. Anders loved it immediately and saw the coverage such hearings would command. He couldn’t stop praising—privately, of course—Wright’s idea. Publicly, it was the chairman’s brainchild, which Wright didn’t protest. After all, he realized, the chairman could hardly put together all the necessary plans by himself. Wright became the real thinking force behind the hearings. Which, of course, incensed Rogers. He couldn’t understand how someone with no family background or money, one so obviously not “in,” could have jockeyed one of the Wall Street Rogerses, the Park Avenue/Palm Beach Rogerses, into such a corner. Yet it was done, Rogers fumed as he sat alone at the counsel table, ignored by the chairman, by the members of the committee, even by the press. If you read the newspapers, Rogers thought, you wouldn’t know there was a chief counsel to the committee, or if you did know, you would have thought it was Wright.
“Everything is right on schedule,” Boxer responded when J.T. ignored Rogers’s question.
“Thank you,” Rogers replied, staring at Wright.
“You got your copy of this morning’s transcript, didn’t you?” Boxer added, to defuse the tension. Rogers was so obviously not in the chairman’s or the committee’s favor, Boxer went out of his way to be courteous to him. Sometimes Boxer would go over to Rogers, as he shuffled papers around his desk, to let him know what was going on, so he wouldn’t be totally out in
the cold.
“Yes, I did, Marty,” Rogers replied. True, Boxer wasn’t from his social stratum either, but he was a pleasant, intelligent young man. “I was sure you had left them for me.”
“Marty,” demanded Wright, turning in his seat two chairs to the right of Rogers. “Come here a minute, will you?”
“Excuse me a minute, Mr. Rogers.”
“Come over to this side,” Wright said, indicating that Boxer should come to his side away from Rogers. “Why are you talking to Rogers? I told you to stay away from him, didn’t I?”
“I just asked if he had a transcript—”
“I don’t give a damn what he has. He can’t read anyway. I told you to ignore him, and that’s what I want you to do.”
Boxer said nothing. He always tried to be a buffer between the two men. He disliked neither of them, but he certainly disliked the tension and antagonism between them—particularly since J.T. usually maneuvered him right into the middle.
John Entrerri was dressed in an elegant, dark gray flannel suit and a crisp white shirt with gold cufflinks at the wrists. His tie was gray silk with a tiny polka-dot pattern. His shoes, custom made for Gentleman Johnny in Italy, were black, highly polished, and a touch pointed. He put a long, thin cigarette to his lips, and lit it with a gold lighter. He was looking out a window in the small witness room. George Russo, his lawyer from New York, was at his side, also facing the window.
“I don’t give a good rap, George. I won’t be put on television,” Gentleman Johnny protested softly.
“I’ll tell the committee counsel, and see—”
“Tell that little prick Wright that I won’t be his patsy. He only subpoenaed me here to put on a show, to make a fool out of me. He knows I have nothing to do with anything he’s investigating. The FBI knows that too. Do they have the right to take television pictures at these hearings?”
“That’s tough to answer. They may have, they may not.”
“George, tell Wright that I won’t have my face on television, so people can recognize me, bother me in the streets. I’m not some Milton Berle. He’s going to have to start contempt proceedings, because I won’t testify if those television cameras are on me in there.”
Several other witnesses and their lawyers were in the witness room, waiting to be called. None of the witnesses spoke to each other, although occasionally their eyes would meet for a moment and then slide away without a sign of recognition. Not that most of them didn’t know one another. They didn’t know everyone in the room, however, and they were sure that the FBI had planted a phony witness and a phony lawyer just to see who spoke to whom, who paid deference to whom, and what, if anything, could be overheard while the witnesses spoke among themselves. The waiting witnesses were, according to Wright’s stories to the press, leaders and members of organized crime in America.