April 14, 1972

Attorney J.T. Wright stood before the bench of Judge Gerald Wynans in one of the imposing old courtrooms of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York. His gaze was directed disdainfully at his adversary, who was hurriedly sifting through a sheaf of papers on the counsel table. If his adversary found the paper he was searching for, J.T. was in for real difficulty. He had just sworn to the judge that it didn’t exist. Despite the intense pressure he felt, J.T. was his usual calm, confident self. He still maintained his confident bearing, so familiar to all in the courtroom: the buffs, retirees who wander from courtroom to courtroom, depending on where the action is, were familiar with J.T.’s mystique; so was the clerk; the judge knew it well from the days when he’d been a member of Senator Evard Anders’s Select Committee to Investigate Organized Crime. Most of all, J.T.’s adversary knew it, and trembled inwardly as he fumbled through his file, looking for the two documents that J.T. had just sworn did not exist.

Even when J.T.’s adversary actually found the two documents in his file, he felt J.T.’s intimidating stare; daring him to contradict him.

“Here are the documents, Your Honor,” J.T.’s adversary announced, diffidently holding the two pages aloft. He could hardly believe his own hands, his own eyes; J.T. Wright had committed flagrant perjury.

The judge hesitated, staring at the papers in the lawyer’s hand. He didn’t look at J.T.

“Step into my chambers, gentlemen,” he said softly. “Bring those documents with you,” he added as he stood and stepped down from the bench.

The other attorney nodded uneasily, following the judge. Why am I nervous? he thought to himself. Wright is the one who should be nervous.

J.T.’s facile mind was too busy whirling, figuring his position, to be nervous. He knew he had the edge. Particularly since the judge was Gerald Wynans, old Fat Ass, as he had been referred to in committee offices years before. Hadn’t J.T. collaborated with Wynans many times during those halcyon days of the committee, letting the then-congressman get some time before the TV cameras for the benefit of the constituents back home? J.T. knew Wynans remembered those days. His eyes, his hesitation on the bench just now, said so.

It would be all right, as usual, J.T. said to himself as he followed his adversary and Wynans into chambers.

Judge Wynans slowly settled in the desk chair in the privacy of the robing room. He had not removed his robe. “Mr. Wright,” he said, “can you explain to me how these papers could not exist a few minutes ago?” The judge held up the two documents. “You swore on the record, under oath, that they didn’t, in lieu of an affidavit to support your application to dismiss the Rand stockholder action against Mr. DeValen. And here they are.

“Mr. Briggs,” the judge said to the other attorney, “you say your client obtained these papers when the defendant DeValen’s corporation acquired your corporation’s stock?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was still all right, J.T. thought to himself, the judge had to play it for real. He was calling J.T. “Mr. Wright”; that was old Fat Ass’s way of keeping it formal for appearance sake.

“Mr. Wright, these documents appear to be signed by your corporate client’s chief operating officer, George DeValen, guaranteeing the board of directors at Rand Paper that no funds from Rand would be used in any way to finance outside projects without the prior specific written consent of the Rand board of directors. Without these documents, I don’t believe I would see anything wrong in the actions of Mr. DeValen. With them, the scenario is completely different. And you swore they didn’t exist.

“Mr. Wright,” the judge continued, leaning forward, “you swore falsely before the court. A most, I repeat, a most serious offense.”

He really means it, J.T. thought in disbelief.

“You and I may have known each other for a long time, Mr. Wright, but there is something far more sacred than past experiences.”

This son of a bitch really believes that horse crap, J.T. thought.

“The sanctity of the law is the foundation stone of our civilization. In days gone by, simple perjury, such as you’ve apparently just committed, was punishable by death.”

J.T. looked at his watch. He had an appointment at “21” for lunch.

“I hope I’m not detaining you, Mr. Wright,” the judge said caustically. His face grew darkly serious. J.T. could see a door closing in the judge’s eyes, a door closing off old days and past things.

“This is a most serious situation, Mr. Wright,” the judge repeated.

“Your Honor, I can explain—”

“You’re going to have to explain, Mr. Wright, because I am scheduling a contempt hearing for you, where you will have every opportunity to explain. And if the United States attorney participates, which I will ask him to do, you may very well also have the opportunity to explain to a jury during a trial for perjury.”

“Your Honor—” J.T. was stunned at the rapidity of the judge’s condemnation, the coldness of the treatment.

“Yes, Mr. Wright?”

“Your Honor, I think, most respectfully, that you have reacted a mite too harshly to an unintended oversight. You’ve known me a long time, judge. You know that I wouldn’t purposely—”

“Mr. Wright, before you go any further, please do not bring up the fact that I’ve known you a long time, as if that could in some way mitigate your actions. You are indeed, and I have always thought so, a calculating individual. With you, nothing is an accident. Everything you do is thought out carefully. And yes, I do believe you could do this purposefully and willfully.” The judge rose. “Now let’s go out on the record again, gentlemen.”

By this time the courtroom buffs had sent word to their friends in other courtrooms. They all convened in Judge Wynans’s court now, buzzing in conversation as the judge and two lawyers reentered the courtroom.

The judge gaveled the courtroom to silence. J.T. sat at his counsel table, Briggs at his.

“Let the record show that I have two documents signed by George DeValen, the chief operating officer of the defendant corporation, made out to the Rand Paper Company at the time of acquisition. The actual substance of these documents is of no moment. What is significant at this time is that Mr. Wright, representing the defendant corporation, swore under oath that these documents did not exist, that there was no such agreement in existence, never was. Obviously that is not correct, unless, of course, these documents are forged. Is that your claim, Mr. Wright?” The judge looked down at J.T. “No, don’t say anything at this time. Save your comments for the contempt proceeding that I am about to schedule. Where’s my diary?”

The courtroom buzzed wildly as everyone looked at J.T., then at one another.

The judge was handed his diary.

“May twenty-first seems like as good a day as any, Mr. Wright. Is there any conflict in your schedule for that day?”

“I do have a meeting out of the country on that day, Your Honor,” J.T. said, subdued.

“I could wait until the twenty-sixth. Is that preferable? One or the other.”

“I can make the twenty-sixth,” J.T. said.

“And Mr. Briggs, although you will not be a party to the proceedings, I will expect you to be in court as a witness on that day. Is that a convenient day for you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make it,” Briggs said.

“We’ll stand adjourned, then,” the judge said, turning back to his robing room. “Perhaps you’ll want to retain counsel for yourself, Mr. Wright,” the judge added acidly.

J.T. stood at his table, staring at the now unoccupied judge’s bench. He shoved his papers into his briefcase, keenly aware of the noise and chatter from behind him.

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Briggs, coming over to J.T. “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”

“Thanks. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do. It’ll be all right. He must have had a bug up his nose today.”

When J.T. turned, he saw the crowd. They seemed a different crowd from those he was used to, with a different look. They were looking at him with that curiosity he had often seen courtroom spectators display toward his infamous clients. They were gawking at him, not admiring him. He felt quite alone. Where was Levine, he wondered. Where was Marty? Where was DeValen?

The people in the crowd didn’t speak to him as he walked through the courtroom to the corridor. They hung back, wanting to see his reactions, his fear sticking out all over him like porcupine quills. Bullshit, he thought. He waited alone for the elevator. The goddamn thing took forever.