“My brother’s insane laughter rocked the room.”
—Brenda Tower
Brenda had spent her whole life hoarding horrific stories of her brother, and now, late into the night, she was telling them to Jules. The tales seemed to rush out of her, as if they were river water thundering out of a detonated dam. The world would finally know the truth, and the truth did indeed appear to be setting Brenda free. Talking to Jules catharsized her.
The episodes were all shocking, but the one that really shook Jules and had haunted Brenda her entire life was how J. T. had driven their younger brother, Ronnie, to suicide.
“I suppose the worst period was when our father died,” Brenda told her, “and Jim wanted the company all to himself. I wasn’t a problem. I told him he could have my shares. I had more money than I could ever spend, and I didn’t want to work that hard—hell, I never wanted to work at all. J. T. also knew I’d never stand up to him. Our little brother, Ronnie, though, had a lot of stock, and he also had a conscience. He staunchly opposed our petrochemical pollution operations, and he despised bilking people through crooked casino operations, through Wall Street scams and through predatory real estate projects and practices. He and J. T. were on a collision course, and after I saw what J. T. did to him on the last night of Ronnie’s life, I knew I could never stand up to J. T. He was too scary.”
“J. T. still tells everyone who’ll listen that Ronnie was gay,” Jules said.
“Ronnie was so reticent that none of us ever knew, and I never cared,” Brenda said. “Daddy worried though, and J. T. constantly denounced Ronnie as ‘queer’ in front of anyone and everyone, especially the old man. I know it hurt Ronnie deeply.”
“I heard rumors before that he’d made the kid’s life a living hell in every respect,” Jules said.
“You don’t know the half of it. We had a horse farm in New Jersey near Saddle River, and Dad had invested in some very high priced Thoroughbreds, the most famous of which was the Derby winner Thundercrack. When Ronnie started hanging around the stables, he turned out to have a way with horses. He began getting press coverage for his work with them, which drove J. T. almost insane. He longed to be darling of the press, but Ronnie was getting all of the attention. The press had referred to Ronnie as Thundercrack’s ‘co-trainer,’ which drove J. T. nuts.”
“Your father had some other Derby winners,” Jules said.
“Several,” Brenda said, “but his most impressive Derby winner was Thundercrack, and Ronnie loved that horse. The kid was shy around people, but not those Thoroughbreds, particularly that one. The trainers were impressed with the way Ronnie handled him, and they encouraged him to exercise him.”
“The trainers call it ‘breezing’ the horse,” Jules said.
“Right,” Brenda said. “Ronnie breezed Thundercrack all the time, but the horse wouldn’t let J. T. near him. He’d buck and kick if J. T. tried to touch him and would even try biting him.”
“Ronnie committed suicide in Thundercrack’s stall if memory serves,” Jules said.
“In an empty stall next to Thundercrack’s,” Brenda said. “A few days after the horse won the Derby, Ronnie was in Jersey, working with him. Late one night he was in his stall, rubbing him down and feeding him apples. Ronnie was the only person in the stable, and J. T. showed up in a total rage. He was bigger and stronger than Ronnie, and so he dragged him out of the stall by the hair. He called him a ‘horsefucker’ and a ‘little queer.’ He beat the living hell out of the kid, punching him, tearing out handfuls of hair—the same shit he’d do later to wives and girlfriends—repeatedly kicking him in the groin, shouting in his ear at the top of his lungs: ‘I’m gonna beat the fucking queer out of you.’”
“The papers reported that Ronnie hanged himself in the stall that night from the overhead light fixture,” Jules said.
“Or J. T. hanged him,” Brenda said. “He wanted Ronnie’s stock really bad, and the corporate bylaws stated that if one of us died, the siblings inherited the deceased’s stock. Daddy had set it up and called it a ‘tontine.’ Since Daddy had just passed away and I’d already signed an irrevocable agreement, giving J. T. authorization to vote my stock, Ronnie’s death effectively gave J. T. total, irreversible control of our father’s company.”
“How did you learn what J. T. did to his brother that night?” Jules asked.
“A few weeks after Ronnie’s death, J. T. was sitting in his penthouse, late one night. He doesn’t usually drink, but that night he indulged himself in a couple of snifters of my brandy. He was feeling effusive, boastful, and he told me most of the story, implying he’d killed him. He laughed about it. He was proud of what he’d done.”
“He never showed any remorse?” Jules asked. “Ever?”
“No. In fact, a few weeks later I asked him, point-blank, if he was upset about Ronnie’s death.”
Brenda looked away.
“Did he answer you?” Jules finally asked after a long silence.
“‘Hell no!’ he shouted, his insane laughter rocking the room.”
Jules sat with her a long time. Brenda cried quietly, and Jules held her hand.
Shortly before dawn, Brenda pulled herself together and left Jules’s hotel room.
Jules went to the bathroom. Standing before the mirror, she made herself a promise:
“J. T.,” she said softly. “I swear on my soul, on my sisters’ souls and on my mother’s, I am taking you down.”