February 10, 1965

J.T.’s intercom sounded. He was behind his desk, scouring newspapers for the latest stories about his office. Fred Balzano sat opposite J.T., idly blowing the smoke from his cigar into rings.

“Yes?” J.T. asked, pushing the button on the intercom as he continued to read.

“Mr. Stern is here. He wants to see you if you have a minute,” J.T.’s secretary responded.

“Send him in,” J.T. said, idly releasing the intercom button. “This is pretty good,” he said now to Balzano, indicating the newspaper.

“Thanks, J.T. I thought you’d like it. A few months getting this show staffed and together made a hell of a difference. Now it’s a lot easier to place articles. The reporters are really receptive.”

“Have you given them the latest on the sergeants’ club?”

“Not yet. I’ve been waiting for us to finish the investigation before releasing the balance of the story.”

“It’s already finished,” J.T. said impatiently.

Stern entered the room. He was wearing a sports jacket over dark pants.

“Carl, aren’t we finished with that sergeants’ club investigation?” asked J.T.

“Just about.”

“What does ‘just about’ mean?”

“We still have some odds and ends to clear up. I checked with Marty, and we’re convinced that this Sergeant Lewis can give us a lot more. He seems to be involved in something we can’t quite put a finger on. But we’re almost there.”

“Jesus,” J.T. exploded. “Fred has terrific stories the media is dying for, and we’re held up by one man?” J.T. pressed the button on the intercom anxiously. “Will you ask Marty Boxer to step in here?”

“That’s what I came in to tell you, chief. I think this Lewis is on the ropes now. I have him in the other office. It wouldn’t hurt if he saw you. The pressure would fold him.”

Marty Boxer came into the room.

“Marty,” said J.T., “why aren’t we finished with the sergeants’ club investigation?”

“We are, basically. I—”

“Good, then break it, Fred, break it. Why do I have to ask fifteen people around here, to get one straight answer? Christ, I have to kick ass all day just to keep people from falling asleep.”

“What’s this all about?” asked Marty.

“It’s about a story I was holding back on the sergeants’ club investigation.”

“I told Fred to hold it until we complete the rest of the investigation,” Marty explained, turning to J.T.

Balzano’s face changed from fear to relief.

“What for?” J.T. blasted. “It’s been on the fire six or so months. Let this part of the story go now. Jesus H. Christ, we need a new story every week! Every week!” J.T. looked at each of them. “Is it too late for today’s deadlines?” he asked Balzano.

Balzano checked his watch. “Yeah. It’s too late for the early people. We’d lose out on a lot of good coverage. Best thing is to hold it until tomorrow morning.”

“God damn it!” J.T. shouted, picking up a book from his desk and hurling it against the wall. His jaw muscles tensed until they hurt. He stared out of his twentieth-floor window, trying to calm himself.

The others in the room stood silently.

J.T. blew out his breath and smiled a tight smile. “Let’s try to salvage it tomorrow morning, first thing.”

“Right.”

“Maybe that’ll work out better, anyway. Carl, you say this Sergeant Lewis is ready to fold? If he does before tomorrow morning, he might just save himself and help us out. Think you can make him understand the time element here?”

“Let me try again, boss. Maybe this’ll be just the thing to open him up.”

“Once these indictments are filed tomorrow morning, that’s the end of him,” said Marty. “Make him understand that.”

“I’ve told him that. I told him we could help him save his pension, his job, we’d let him retire instead of being bounced, if he gave us some information.”

“Bring him in here,” J.T. said flatly.

Stern left the room.

“You sit over on the couch, Marty,” said J.T. “Give him the feeling he’s surrounded.”

J.T. had arranged his office in the way he’d heard Mussolini had arranged his: his back was to the curtainless windows, causing bright afternoon sunlight to glare uncomfortably in the eyes of anyone approaching the desk. All of J.T.’s office appointments were set in the afternoon.

Stern came back into the office, followed by an ashen-faced man with thinning blond hair.

“This is Sergeant Lewis,” said Stern.

Lewis nodded, looking around the room. No one acknowledged him. This was part of the routine: make sure the suspect feels invisible, ineffectual.

“Sit down, Mister Lewis,” J.T. said.

Lewis sat in an isolated chair in front of J.T.’s desk.

“Investigator Stern tells me that you’re not a bad fellow,” J.T. started. “You’re in serious trouble, and we’d like to help you. But you have to help us help you.”

“There’s nothing I can help you with.”

“Marty, hand me that file, please. This is your file, Mr. Lewis. Inside is an indictment. Here, look at it.” J.T. handed an indictment to Lewis. “You see your name there, along with the others?”

Lewis read the document. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

“That document was supposed to have been filed two hours ago. But Investigator Stern asked that we hold it up until tomorrow morning. He thought that maybe you had enough sense to save yourself.”

“I don’t know anything about the sergeants’ club.”

“Stop bullshitting,” Stern said harshly.

“You don’t have to tell us anything about the sergeants’ club,” said J.T. “We know all about it already. How do you think we got this indictment?”

Lewis said nothing.

“We don’t want you to do anything for us. Do something for yourself, for your wife, Marge,” J.T. said, reading Lewis’s pedigree from the file. “Your kids.”

“You sons of bitches have this routine down pat.”

“Take it easy, Sergeant Lewis. You’re not going to do yourself any good that way,” said Marty, who was to Lewis’s left.

“Look, you do something for us, whatever you can,” J.T. said smoothly, “and maybe we can have a secretary stay late, retype this indictment without your name on it. We have the authority to talk to the commissioner and let you retire from the job with vested rights to your pension. How many years do you have in already?”

“Seventeen,” Lewis admitted resignedly.

“How can you waste seventeen years of your life, Lewis?” J.T. wondered. “Don’t you owe a little something to your wife, your kids?”

“Leave them out of it.”

“You’re the one leaving them out of it,” said Stern. “You’re leaving them out in the cold when you get indicted. We have you by the balls.” Stern cupped his hand.

“Make some cases for us,” urged J.T. “Jesus, what do we have to do to help you help yourself?”

“What’ll you do for me?” Lewis mumbled.

There’s the first crack, J.T. thought.

“Hold it, Lewis, hold it right there. You’ve got this all wrong,” J.T. said harshly. “It’s not what we’re going to do for you. It’s what you’re going to do for us. We don’t need you. You need us to keep your job, your badge, your gun, your pension.”

“I don’t know anything that can help you,” Lewis retreated again.

“Carl, you were wrong,” J.T. said disgustedly. “You said this man had brains and was interested in helping himself. Marty, file those indictments first thing in the morning. And, Mr. Lewis, leave your badge and revolver on my desk.”

“Leave them now?”

“When the hell did you think?” said Stern coldly.

J.T. watched Lewis. He knew he’d hit a nerve with that; a cop can’t handle being asked for his badge and gun. It’s like taking his balls off. He’s afraid to become an ordinary mortal again, after tasting life with the gods of authority.

“Look, maybe I can think it over?”

“We’ve been at this for weeks now,” Stern said angrily. “You’ve had plenty of time to think it over.”

“What the hell can I give you?” asked Lewis.

“You’ve been on the force seventeen years. You’ve been in court. Somebody must have offered you dough, some court clerk must have done things for you, some judge, some DA. Come on, man, think,” J.T. prodded. “We’ve got to do this now!”

“I really don’t know anything. I’ve been inside for the last eight years.”

“If you can’t help yourself, you can’t help yourself,” J.T. shrugged. “Leave the badge and gun on my desk.”

“You’ll let me retire?” Lewis said slowly.

“If your information is good enough,” said Stern. “Just because you give somebody up doesn’t mean that information is going to get us a conviction.”

“You’ll have to testify, too,” said Marty.

“No, not testimony.”

“Say, Carl, will you be kind enough to get Mr. Lewis out of my office so I can go back to work? You’re wasting my time.”

“Maybe I know something about a judge, but …”

“What judge?” J.T. asked eagerly.

Now Lewis had touched a nerve.

“I’m not saying I can give you a judge. I’m just thinking out loud.” Lewis shook his head slowly. “I can’t give people up. It’s against my nature.”

“Is it your nature to leave your wife and kids out in the cold while you go to the can?” asked J.T.

Lewis looked down at his shoes.

Stern looked at J.T. and winked.

“I didn’t have nothing to do with the judge personally, you know. But I remember, a couple of years ago … ahh, shit,” said Lewis, stopping abruptly.

“Don’t stop now,” urged J.T.

“One of my cops collared a guy on a gun possession. I wasn’t in court, but the cop told me that the lawyer told his punk client that he could work something out with the judge, but that it would cost a couple of large …”

“That’s a couple thousand,” translated Stern.

“What happened? asked Marty.

“I don’t know what the lawyer did with the judge. I know the guy got a walk, though.”

“Who was the judge?” J.T. asked.

“Tauber.”

“Harry Tauber? In the Supreme Court?” J.T. asked gleefully.

“Yeah, only he was in the criminal court at the time.”

Marty was making notes.

“Who was the lawyer whose client got the walk from Tauber?” asked J.T.

“Seymour Fine.”

“Anybody know him?” asked J.T., looking around.

“Sure, he’s one of those nickel-and-dime guys that hang around in the courthouse picking up cases,” said Stern.

“Probably gives that ‘talk to the judge’ crap to all his clients, just so he can beat them for a few extra bucks.”

“We don’t know that for sure, do we?” said J.T.

“No …”

“But we’re sure going to find out. We should talk to this Seymour Fine. He doesn’t want to lose his sheepskin any more than Mr. Lewis here wants to lose his badge and gun.”

“What’s going to happen now?” asked Lewis.

“Take Sergeant Lewis’s name off the indictment before you file it tomorrow,” J.T. said to Marty. “We can always indict you again, Sergeant, if this information isn’t on the level. Meanwhile, you can keep your badge and pistol.”

Lewis sighed with relief.

“It’s only temporary,” cautioned Stern.

“Go ahead back to the job,” said J.T. “Don’t say anything to anybody, you understand?”

“I’m going to keep my job?”

“Do you think this is your birthday?”

“What do you mean?”

“We told you you could retire, if the commissioner approves, which he probably will. You don’t think you can stay on the job after being a member of the sergeants’ club? The police department isn’t an old-age home for thieves.”

“You are one son of a bitch, Mr. Wright.”

“That’s what I’m paid for.”

“You mean to say I’m off the job even though I’m giving people up?”

“I mean to say it’s better than going to jail. Show Sergeant Lewis out, will you, Carl?”

“You want me to debrief him first?”

“Yes, I guess that would be a good idea.”