May 31, 1964

All the news media carried the story of J.T.’s first staff appointments. Martin Boxer was appointed chief of staff. The next highest paid member of the staff was Fred Balzano, a columnist from the New York Daily News who had taken a leave of absence to join the special prosecutor’s staff as communications officer.

J.T. sat at his desk on the twentieth floor of 270 Broadway, reading the New York Times account of the appointments.

Marty Boxer and Fred Balzano were on the couch, each reading a different paper.

“Did you read the Times profile on me?” J.T. asked.

“That’s not a bad picture of you,” Marty remarked.

J.T. looked up momentarily and smiled at Balzano, whose head was buried in the News.

J.T. had picked a man from the News as his communications officer because the News had the largest circulation of any paper in the country. He wanted Balzano’s former fellow workers at the city desk to be friendly when stories started to pour in from the special prosecutor’s office.

“The News didn’t run a bad spread either,” said Balzano, pleased with the first day’s outing.

“They’d better not.”

Balzano was tall, thin, with dark-rimmed glasses.

“Fred, I want you to keep the flow of stories in the media up until we get our first indictments. Marty, let’s really get going, show the Governor and the people of the State of New York that we really mean business.”

“Why don’t we first hire the detectives and other personnel to staff the office?” said Marty. “Who’s going to be doing the hiring, by the way, J.T.?”

“The chief of staff.”

“Me?”

“Of course. The personnel people at the police department said they’d help you out on that. There’s a pool from the state police and other law-enforcement organizations you can start with.”

“That’ll be a help,” said Marty. “Are we going to have administrative staff soon?”

“Today. That’s all set up,” said J.T. “But Marty, don’t waste too much time with that sort of thing. Get somebody else to handle that administrative crap. I want you to jump right on top of the investigations. I want us to do the most thorough, bloodcurdling job possible on the justice system. Let’s get some indictments. We can start with this thing you told me about—what did you call it, the sergeants’ club?—where the police sergeants were picking up payoffs from construction jobs, restaurants, small businesses, that sort of thing, and then sharing the take?”

“That’s right,” replied Marty. “It was very organized. The money was split up among all the sergeants in a precinct. And there were many precincts that had such an enterprise. We could indict perhaps twenty-five sergeants at one shot.”

“Fabulous,” said J.T. enthusiastically. “After you get that going, I’d like our boys to really dig for our own cases. Especially go after big names, the high and mighty. Judges, commissioners, the police commissioner himself. Show that we have no ties to politics or politicians.”

“How about the Governor?” Balzano joked.

“That would be fantastic, really fantastic,” said J.T.

“You have anybody particular in mind to start with, J.T.?” asked Marty.

“How about the Honorable S. Samuel DiFalco?”

“The surrogate?”

“Sure,” J.T. said eagerly. “He has more money passing through his court than probably any other court in the United States. Every probated will and estate in New York County goes through there.”

“There’ve been stories about him and his court in the papers for years,” said Balzano. “But nothing’s ever been proven.”

“Nobody came up with anything because they weren’t me. Look, he has to appoint guardians for minors and incompetents who inherit money. Hundreds of them every year, maybe thousands. Multiply thousands times thousands and what have you got?”

“Millions,” said Marty.

“Wrong! Patronage, influence, kickbacks, graft, all kinds of possible goodies,” J.T. gloated.

“Do you have anything specific, J.T.?” Marty asked.

“No. But we can have our investigators check into it. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, especially if we blow our hot breath on it. How about it, Fred? Would DiFalco be a story?”

“A great story, no question,” said Balzano.

“There may be nothing there except sour grapes from lawyers he doesn’t appoint. I think we ought to go easy,” Marty said hesitantly.

“Forget easy,” said J.T. “If there’s anything there, or anywhere else, I’m coming down on it like a ton of bricks. Put your first investigators on the Surrogate’s Court, Otto.”

Balzano looked quizzically from J.T. to Marty.

Marty nodded.

“One of the ways we can get some fast leads,” said J.T., “is to squeeze information from people who’ve been caught, people we already have in our nets.”

“Informers?” asked Balzano.

“Exactly,” said J.T.

“Who?” asked Marty.

“Let’s go back to the sergeants’ club,” J.T. said slyly. “About twenty-five sergeants in precincts all over the city, right? In addition to the construction jobs and the restaurants in their precincts, I’m sure they know a lot of things that happen in court, between their men and court officers, lawyers, judges. Now remember, these sergeants have been on the force, I would assume, for a substantial amount of time. They all have pensions coming up, and they all have a lot to lose if we prosecute them.”

The others were listening carefully.

“So, we bring them in, one at a time, let them know that we can do something for them, help them retain their pensions, retire rather than be fired. We’ll let them leave the police department with some dignity. All they have to do is make cases for us.”

“They’d certainly be in a position to know things,” said Balzano. “The sergeant is the hub of the precinct.”

“Isn’t that a better way to use those sergeants than prosecuting them?” said J.T. “Another approach could be to have our investigators pose as defendants who have to retain lawyers. They push their lawyers to bribe people in the court system. Then we grab the lawyers, offer them a deal to save their shingles, if they give us judges and DAs.”

Marty listened, alarmed at J.T.’s remarks. There was a need for their work, but there was no need to be bloodthirsty. This was the time to voice his opposition, to protest, Marty thought, but he said nothing. Maybe Courtnay’s right, I follow J.T. like a puppy dog—without a murmur. But what’s the use? He’s not going to change anything, no matter what I say.

“I have to get back to my office,” said Marty, rising. “I have to conduct an interview.”

“Who are you interviewing?” J.T. asked.

“An ex-detective named Carl Stern. He’s interested in an investigator’s job.”

“Let’s talk to him together,” suggested J.T.

“All right.” Marty walked to J.T.’s desk and picked up the phone. “Show Mr. Stern—he’s in the waiting room—into Mr. Wright’s office.”

A young girl with frizzy hair opened the door and showed a stocky man with slick black hair and ruddy complexion into J.T.’s office.

“I’m Marty Boxer,” said Marty, extending his hand. “This is Fred Balzano, and this is J.T. Wright.”

Stern shook each of their hands. He had a double-pump kind of handshake. The first was a real finger-crusher; then he lifted his hand up with yours in it, like a handle on a well pump, and gave it another pump. J.T. thought his finger bones were going to break.

“Sit down, sit down,” said J.T. He rubbed his hand unobtrusively behind the desk.

“What kind of work are you doing now?” asked Marty.

“Private detective. I follow people, investigate commercial crime, that sort of thing. It’s a little boring, frankly. Not enough action.”

“What kind of action are you looking for?” asked J.T.

“Something where I can get into the old harness, investigation, interrogation, making cases.”

“You have experience doing that?” asked J.T.

“Twenty years on the force. I retired a second-grade detective.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Marty.

“The job’s not the same anymore. It’s become a chicken-you-know-what kind of job now. All these punks running around in the street, tearing the city apart, and the commissioner tells you, don’t take out your gun, don’t raise a hand, be passive. So I tossed in my papers.”

“We aren’t promoting violence here,” said Marty.

“Yeah, but this is different. We wouldn’t be dealing with street crime, muggers, rapists, niggers, and punks like that.” Stern rolled his left fist in his right palm as he spoke.

“There could be some violence,” mused J.T. “People resisting arrest, trying to escape.”

“Nobody escapes,” said Stern. He pulled open the right side of his jacket to reveal a massive, long-barreled revolver. On his belt was a leather case containing handcuffs. “Just to show you, I was coming into this building before, and I’m down in the concourse. Some little punks, eighteen, nineteen years old, you know, try to panhandle me. I tell them get a job. And they make some remarks I ain’t too crazy about. I told them so. One guy in particular comes on a little stronger. You know how these loudmouth niggers are. The louder they talk, the more chicken they are. Bango,” Stern said, reaching under the left side of his jacket for a small flat leather-covered blackjack. “I let him have this on the side of his head so fast he didn’t know he was hit till he was on his knees. The others took off like deer. Punks like these are the ones botherin’ women and old folks that can’t take care of themselves.”

Marty was repulsed by Stern; he seemed to enjoy his weapons too much.

“By the way,” said Stern confidentially, “being on the job for so long, I know where there are a lot of bones buried.”

“Oh?” said J.T.

“And if I don’t know exactly where they are,” Stern said, nodding, “I can sniff them out right quick.”

“Mr. Stern, I don’t approve of violence,” said J.T. “But having someone on staff with your detective experience, your knowledge of the police department, could be helpful. You know, since we began this project, a kind of nagging thought has been in the back of my mind,” J.T. confided to all in the room. “Perhaps someone might resent the job we’re doing and come up here with a gun, or a knife. Someone staring at a blank wall, having nothing to lose, might come up here looking for a pound of flesh.”

“They come up here looking for a pound of flesh, and they’ll get it—their own,” said Stern fiercely. “You could put in a buzzer. You press the buzzer, it rings where I’m sitting, and I’ll be here with a machine gun. I have one, by the way.”

“One what?”

“A machine gun. You should see the thing. What a beautiful piece of ordnance. Snap a twenty-shot clip on that thing, forty-five caliber, and you take half this building down.”

“Marty, talk to Mr. Stern. I have a meeting uptown with the Governor’s people in a few minutes. See if you two can come to a conclusion on salary.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wright,” said Stern, walking over to J.T and extending his hand.

“Get out of here with that meat crusher,” said J.T.

Stern laughed heartily.