J.T. Read online

  They both sat back, ready to proceed.

  “Are you ready now, sir?” asked the chairman.

  Gentleman Johnny did not reply.

  “Very well. Mr. Entrerri, are you the consigliere”—he made a hillbilly singsong out of the attempted Italian pronunciation—“of the Bedardo crime family?”

  “Most respectfully, Mr. Chairman, on the advice of my counsel, I decline to answer on the grounds that my answer might tend to degrade or incriminate me.”

  “Mr. Chairman?” asked Senator Carleton.

  “The chair recognizes the distinguished senator from Louisiana.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Mr. Entrerri”—Senator Carleton, although he tried, did hardly better with the Italian pronunciation—“are these crime families tied together in a national alliance, presided over by a central commission?”

  “Most respectfully, Senator, on the advice of counsel, I decline to answer on the grounds that my answer may tend to degrade or incriminate me.”

  “Does this commission oversee all crime families in the United States, including the crime family of Francesco Venitello in my home state of Louisiana?”

  “Same answer, Senator.”

  “Same answer as what?” countered J.T.

  “I respectfully decline to answer that question on the advice of counsel, on the grounds that my answer might tend to degrade or incriminate me.”

  Wright folded his arms, a sour look on his face. He noticed that the little red on-the-air light was lit on a television camera pointed toward him. He leaned back in his chair with a look of disgust.

  “Do you know Francesco Venitello personally, Mr. Entrerri?” Senator Carleton continued.

  “Same answer, most respectfully, Senator.”

  “Perhaps you’ll answer this question, Mr. Entrerri.” He pronounced the name to rhyme with dreary.

  “That’s Entrerri, Senator,” Gentleman Johnny corrected.

  The Senator looked up from his notes. “My apologies, sir. Now. Mr. Witness …”

  The crowd laughed. Even Gentleman Johnny was amused.

  “… does this organized crime family of Francesco Venitello—I hope I’m pronouncing that right …” He looked at Gentleman Johnny again.

  Johnny said nothing.

  “… does this crime family control usury and gambling operations in New Orleans?”

  “Same answer, Senator.”

  “Same answer as what?” J.T. said with feigned annoyance. “This committee is entitled to a complete answer to each question.”

  Gentleman Johnny said nothing.

  “Senator Carleton,” said the chairman, “may I interrupt you for a moment?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Chairman.”

  “The chair recognizes Representative Wellman of Missouri.”

  “Mr. Witness”—the Missourian wasn’t even going to bother to unscramble the name—“is it true that there are twenty-seven major crime families in the United States?”

  “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that my answer might tend to degrade or incriminate me.”

  “And that these groups are connected to crime families in Italy?”

  Gentleman Johnny leaned over to his counsel.

  “What’s the matter?” Russo whispered.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to take a breather. These questions are a lot of crap. They know I won’t answer anything.”

  “That’s why you’re such a good witness. They can say anything they want, and you won’t disprove them or disagree with them.”

  Gentleman Johnny shrugged.

  “Same answer, most respectfully,” he said into the microphone.

  On the desk before Representative Wellman, and on those of all the other members of the committee, were pages of questions, general and specific questions about cities, families, names, and dates. They were all composed by Wright and the committee counsel staff, for the committee members to ask Entrerri. The Chairman called on each member in turn, and each asked his own questions, focusing particularly on an alleged crime or crime family in the member’s home state. The session went on all morning, with the television cameras showing every questioner, and then cutting back to Gentleman Johnny’s hands. About noon, the chairman announced a luncheon recess.

  “Mr. Wright, may I see you for a moment?” asked the chairman as the committee made its way back to its side chamber. He guided Wright to a spot where they could speak privately. “Well, how do you think it went?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “But that ‘eye-tie’ som-bitch didn’t answer a single question!”

  “That’s exactly what we want, Senator. It shows how insidious this crime situation is, how it has a stranglehold on the entire nation, and there aren’t adequate laws to cope with such a vast criminal conspiracy.” Wright was priming Anders for the reporters, and the chairman listened intently. “That’s why these hearings are essential, to let the nation know how badly we need the new legislation that the committee is going to propose at the end of the hearings.”

  The chairman nodded, looking up as he saw reporters starting to stream into the committee room.

  “What’s on this afternoon?” the chairman asked quickly. “Do we still have that Giono, Giordano … whatever his name is?”

  “It might be better if we put Guardaci on tomorrow morning,” said Wright. “More impact. You can build him up this afternoon as a surprise witness—be sure not to mention his name—who’s going to break the code of silence. The media will play it up big. We’ll have a bigger audience tomorrow.”

  “Are we on safe grounds to say all these things?”

  “Of course, Senator,” Wright lied, knowing there was no place anyone could go to verify the drama Wright was making up.

  “This Guardaci is the surprise witness we have that entire script for, who testified before the committee in private session?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Chairman,” Wright replied. “In fact, I even had some extra copies of the transcript of his testimony made up. I’m going to slip them to our more important friends in the media. This way they can file an early and complete story of the upcoming proceedings.”

  The chairman looked at Wright and smiled. He had to admire this young snake from New York. He really knew his way around.

  “Mr. Chairman,” asked the first reporter to reach Wright and Anders, “doesn’t this Entrerri’s constant refusal to answer questions make this hearing rather pointless?”

  “Quite the contrary, sir,” said the chairman benignly. “It only points up more dramatically the need for the legislative reform that I and my committee are drafting. Such insidious criminal activity, if it exists in the proportions that we think it does, must be fought with new laws, out in the open, to protect the public from its strangling effects on our everyday life.”

  Wright grinned as he walked toward Boxer.

  May 31, 1952

  Big Jim Wright was six feet three inches tall, wide-shouldered, barrel-chested, lion-maned. His hands were large, roughened from hard work as a youth, when his father, a caretaker on local estates in Millville, New York, required Jim to work summers as a grounds keeper.

  Big Jim stood now on one of the balconies of his large white house with black shutters on the top of a hill at the edge of Millville. Though it was early morning, the sun was already hot. In the south field, behind a white plank fence, his bay thoroughbred stallion, Mayday, grazed quietly. To the east of the house, behind the formal gardens and the swimming pool, was another paddock holding two bay mares. Big Jim felt pride and pleasure as he viewed his domain, the hills of Millville, and, beyond, the Catskill and Adirondack mountains. He didn’t own all the hills or the mountains, but he owned the view. And more than that, he controlled the destiny of most of the people who lived on or owned those hills and mountains. For Big Jim was president of the local bank, the insurance company, the largest local construction company; he was the Republican county leader, and a representative to the Congress of the United States. />
  Big Jim turned as he heard the gravel in the driveway compressed beneath the wheels of a car. A dark Cadillac eased along the curved driveway and disappeared on the far side of the house. Big Jim went inside. The house was stately, with wood-paneled halls, five bedrooms, several guest rooms, a bar, even a small chapel.

  “Good morning, darling,” Big Jim said to his dark-haired wife waiting for him in the bright, flowery breakfast room.

  “Good morning, James,” said Angela. Angela was of Italian ancestry. Like Jim, she had been born in Millville. They had gone to Millville High together, had been childhood sweethearts, had married, and were raising four children: Andrea, Maria, Dana, and the youngest, their only son, John Thomas—usually called J.T.—named after Big Jim’s now deceased father.

  Big Jim sat at the breakfast table, even though he could see through the picture window of the breakfast room that someone from the car that had just stopped in the driveway was walking down through the banks of summer flowers toward the pool house. That was where he held court for political cronies or favor-seekers. He never permitted business in his home.

  “I don’t feel old, and you certainly don’t look old, Angela,” Big Jim said abruptly. “But with J.T. graduating high school today, it makes me feel older.”

  “You’re not old, James,” Angela soothed, her hand reaching out and touching his. “We started young.”

  “That’s my girl. Always knows how to make me feel good.” Big Jim smiled. In his mind, Angela was still the pretty young girl from Millville who had been his first date, his first and only love.

  “You know, Angela, I can still picture you in the house over on Franklin Avenue, and how your father and mother gave you a hard time for going out with an American,” Big Jim mused.

  “And I remember you winning all those team letters, being the top athlete in school.” Angela smiled at some silent recollection. “Your folks weren’t too crazy about you going out with me, either,” she added.

  “Good thing your father and mine were both caretakers. That, at least, gave the families something in common.”

  Angela’s father had worked on a local estate. He, as well as many of his relatives—Millville was stocked with Italians from Castellamare di Stabia, near Naples—had turned to gardening and caretaking after the stonework that had brought them to America ran out. The stonework had been on a two-thousand-acre estate then under construction. The overseer of the construction of a main house, two large barns, a huge greenhouse, and other buildings, all of stone, had gone to the docks in New York City to hire Italian stoneworkers. When additional workers were needed, the foreman never had to go to the docks again. Those Castellamarese sent home for their brothers, uncles, and cousins, all of whom were stonemasons. There were, ultimately, over two hundred and fifty Castellamarese in and around Millville. When the construction ended, a majority of the emigrés settled in Millville, raised their families, worked on the estates as groundkeepers, opened businesses, and formed the nucleus of the staffs and shop owners who serviced the many estates and wealthy families, the fox hunts, the horses that set the grand life style of Millville. The working people, in turn, were well served by the estate dwellers—the “hilltoppers,” so called because they settled as high as they could on the hilltops to catch whatever breezes were available in the dog days of August. Whenever anything was needed in the village, it was donated by one of the wealthy families. Millville became the first village for miles around to boast a modern library, a modern water and sewer system, a first-class post office, and shops featuring amenities not usually found in small villages.

  Millville had also been the headquarters of John Morgan, the Republican county leader of Ulster County. Morgan, a baseball player in his earlier days, was a great sports enthusiast. No one ever played ball in Millville who impressed him as much as Big Jim Wright. Morgan saw a major-league career in Big Jim’s future, and he decided to nurture that career. He introduced Big Jim to coaches and scouts, and arranged tryouts for him in Florida. Unfortunately, Big Jim’s career was cut short by cartilage damage in the knees, late in his senior year of college. That injury ended the sports relationship but not the association between Big Jim Wright and John Morgan. It was thus that Big Jim, Morgan’s right-hand man, became a lawyer, Morgan’s law partner, and finally Ulster County Republican leader to succeed John Morgan.

  “You have a visitor, James,” Angela said, looking across the lawn to the man walking toward the pool house.

  “Now that Eisenhower has decided to run, and our chances of taking over the presidency are so strong, everyone wants to be friendly. Contracts are popping up like dandelions.”

  Angela sipped her tea.

  “After thirteen years with Roosevelt and seven with Truman, it’s been a long starvation,” Big Jim said with hungry enthusiasm. “Our time has come, though.”

  “Don’t take too long with your visitor, dear,” said Angela. “We have to be at J.T.’s graduation early.”

  “J.T. will be off to college in the fall,” Big Jim mused. “We have no more babies, Angela.”

  “I know.” She was quietly sad about that. “But at least J.T. won’t be too far away. He’ll only be at Browning.”

  “Now don’t start. It’ll be good for him to be away from home for a while. Make a man out of him.” A certain disappointment always lurked at the back of Big Jim’s mind when he thought of J.T.’s slight stature—he was five foot six, 135 pounds, too short and light even for a quarterback. J.T. had always resisted Big Jim’s sport enthusiasm and encouragement. In his senior year, as a sop to his father, J.T. had become the manager of the varsity football team. Although Big Jim never told J.T., as far as he was concerned, becoming a team manager was salting the wound.

  “J.T. is a man,” Angela said firmly, knowing how Big Jim thought. “Just because he didn’t win any letters doesn’t mean he isn’t a man.”

  “I know.” Big Jim became quiet. It was still a vast disappointment.

  “I’m proud that J.T. is going to go to Browning,” Angela added. “Can you imagine? When we were going to college, someone from either of our families going to Browning was as unlikely as going to the moon.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs.

  “Morning, Dad,” J.T. said, walking past his father to the breakfast table. “Morning, Mother,” he said, kissing Angela’s cheek.

  “Good morning, graduate.”

  J.T. sat down and began to butter some toast. “You know, Dad, I’m thinking I might go to law school when I get out of Browning. What do you think?”

  Big Jim looked at Angela. She smiled.

  “That’d be fine, son, just fine. You’ll make a good lawyer,” said Big Jim. And he meant it. Already he could seldom win an argument with J.T.

  “That’ll be just wonderful,” said Angela, seeing that Big Jim was truly pleased with the idea. She had never given up hope that her husband and their only son would someday become close. But it had never happened. Big Jim was too sorely disappointed with J.T.’s aversion to sports, his dislike of competition, his retreat from anything physical. J.T., for his part, was excruciatingly aware of his father’s disappointment. He was equally aware of his own physical limitations. He was small; he just couldn’t run or throw or fight. Perhaps, though, he could compete with the big boys, the muscleheads, the strong backs, beat them where and when it really counted, in the real world. All he had to do was fight with the one weapon he had, his mind. He could compete there. He could outthink, outsmart, outmaneuver, out-connive the best of them, even his father. He just had to keep the game mental, not physical. And what better way of keeping the game mental than by becoming a lawyer, where the fierce competition was all cerebral. God, he was going to show the big people something; he’d tear them down to size, eat them alive, make them dance to his tune.

  A lawyer would be perfect, thought Angela. Weren’t all the people running the government lawyers? J.T. and his father would finally have something in common.

 
“That might work out really well,” said Big Jim, giving the idea further thought.

  “How’s that, Dad?”

  “Well, after you practice law awhile—in my office if you’d like—and with a little political know-how, perhaps you could run for the state legislature. With our name and the Republicans behind you, you’d be a shoo-in. After that, who knows? Maybe you can take my seat in Congress.”

  “Take it easy, Dad. You’ve already got me in Congress, and I’m not even out of high school yet.”

  “Think ahead, son. Think ahead.”

  August 7, 1954

  Marty Boxer lived with his mother and two sisters in an apartment that was part of a row of small buildings on Second Avenue in New York City, named, for whatever reason, the Florida Flats. He’d been the sole male in the family since his father was reported missing in action after his navy fighter plane trailed smoke down into the Pacific during the battle for Luzon. Marty had been seven years old then, and his sisters had been only two and three.

  The prospect of Marty leaving for Browning College was bittersweet for Ann Boxer. A schoolteacher, Ann had always leaned toward intellectual pursuits, and she had always wanted Marty to go to college, to be a professional man. She had cherished the same hope for her husband, Steve, but the war had changed a lot of hopes and plans.

  Stephen Boxer had come from a tough section of the Gas House district (in those days, New York City was a patchwork of neighborhoods, each with its own name). Avenue B and Seventeenth Street was made up of rows of dilapidated walkup tenements, cold-water flats, with communal toilets located in the public halls. Winters were cruel, people poor, life hard, and kids foraged in the street for bits of unburned coal from ash barrels to bring home to keep their families warm.

  Ann Gannon was a young girl from a nice family who lived in the Florida Flats, and attended Epiphany Parochial School. Her father was a court clerk. Although their homes were separated by only a few city blocks, all part of the Gas House District, Ann lived on the right side of the district, and Steve Boxer on the wrong side. Not that Ann’s family ever said much about that, nor openly proclaimed that their position in life was superior to that of the Boxers’; it was just a reality. The Boxers were poor, very poor. Steve’s father was a street vendor, a trade he’d picked up in the Depression. When Steve was young, his father had a wagon with frankfurters and soda, which he pushed to busy streetcorners during the day.