March 20, 1964

It was spring again in New York. The warm smell of the earth and budding trees filled the air with a promise of life. Bright sunlight glinted from the windows of midtown skyscrapers as J.T. and Aloysius R. Murphy, special counsel to the Governor, walked slowly west on Fifty-fifth Street. They had just lunched at “21” and were headed back toward the Governor’s New York City office.

Murphy had called J.T. to “talk.” About what, J.T. had had no idea. It had been mysterious and exhilarating—greatly exhilarating—to know that the Governor of New York State was even aware of him, and, better yet, that he wanted one of his special emissaries to “talk” with him.

“Frankly, we can’t sit still with all this bad press spilling over the top about corruption and scandal in the criminal justice system. Cops on the take, judges accepting bribes—I don’t buy the stuff about the judges, by the way, J.T. Oh, sure, there may be a few venal judges with whom you can still put in a contract, but my opinion is that the judiciary is pretty clean.”

Traffic was stalled all the way back to Fifth Avenue. Horns blared and cab drivers cursed out their windows. But J.T. was so caught up in the excitement of this meeting he hardly heard the cacophony around them.

“The media is on the Governor’s back about appointing a special prosecutor to investigate our criminal justice system,” Murphy continued. “So the Governor tells me, ‘Al, look around for somebody who can stand up to the pressure—somebody clean, without political affiliations, who can run the grafters down.’ That’s why I thought I’d talk to you, J.T. You have the right credentials.”

J.T. was flattered. “It sounds very interesting,” was all he allowed, although his mind was racing with thoughts of the power and prestige that would go with such a position. If the power wasn’t built into the job, he’d make sure it got there before long. He’d make sure he was the terror of the state judiciary and the justice system. The Mountaineers’ Club would have to rise higher than ever, he thought.

“I realize that the money couldn’t compare to those big fees you’re pulling down on Wall Street, J.T. I’ve seen the articles in the papers about you and the divorcees you’ve been representing lately. But then, you’ve worked in government before. You know what’s involved in budgets and that sort of thing. The Governor has earmarked a budget of only a million to run the whole office. I know it’s not much to get an entire staff, but it’s a start.”

“How many people do you anticipate on staff?” J.T. asked.

“That’d be up to you.”

“Do all the personnel have to be lawyers or ancillary personnel?”

“I don’t get you, J.T. What do you mean?”

“I think the problem of venality in official circles could be curbed significantly if there was enough press about all the indictments being handed down, the harshness of the penalties imposed for getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar. I’d say a press officer would be a significant part of the operations of such a special prosecutor’s office.”

“Sounds right on the money to me,” said Murphy with keen interest. “I don’t see any problem with that.”

They continued to walk.

What a hell of a vehicle to get away from Wall Street and the stuffed shirts and the preppies, thought J.T. And although Delafield was the greatest guy in the world, J.T. didn’t want him looking over his shoulder, keeping tabs on how often he saw Dana, and if not, why not. At the same time, the Special Prosecutor’s job would be a fantastic springboard to getting into private practice. Once he got enough publicity as a fearsome shark, clients, especially women who wanted to get their pound of flesh from wandering husbands, would pour in. And so would the money.

“I’d say I’d be available for further consideration,” J.T. said carefully. “That’s not final. I have to talk it over with some close advisors, of course, but I’m interested.”

“Excellent,” said Murphy, stopping in front of his office building. “The Governor will be pleased. I’ll get back to you.” They shook hands.

J.T. turned back toward Fifth Avenue. As he walked quickly, glancing occasionally into shop windows, dodging between people strolling in the warm sunlight, he was hardly conscious of his surroundings. His mind was already soaring with visions of the heights to which such a prestigious job could carry him—Special Prosecutor of the State of New York. A blast of a horn right next to him, as a cab screeched to a stop, brought J.T. back instantly.

“You jerk! Watch where you’re going!” yelled the cab driver.