May 25, 1972

Sunlight streamed through the large window onto J.T.’s bed. The door to his cell was open. Beyond the door he could see men in red, blue, or gold coveralls gathered in conversation. Others were pacing around the recreation room.

“I had sold my interests in the corporations and had been living in Cuba for five or six years. When Castro came in, I moved to Brazil. That was where I was when the New York DA had me indicted in absentia,” said Augustus Rector. J.T.’s eyes turned from the men outside his room. Flector was an old man with pale skin and puffy, alcoholic eyes. His hands shook when he raised them to make a point in conversation. Flector’s coveralls were gold-colored.

“You hadn’t controlled the corporations for several years and were still indicted?” J.T. asked skeptically.

“Not a single share of stock,” Flector emphasized with a shaking hand. “Not the bottling companies, not the automobile companies, nothing.”

“What the heck were you indicted for?” J.T.’s coveralls were red.

“You tell me. If I could get my hands on my books—fifty-two filing cabinets filled with all my papers and files were just seized out in Westbury by the FBI in 1966, and they’re still under lock and key in a room in the Southern District Courthouse—if I had those books, I could prove I didn’t take a red cent.”

J.T. and Flector were both in “West Street” (the federal detection facility), where federal prisoners are detained while awaiting trial or further proceedings in their cases. J.T. was serving a sixty-day sentence for contempt, imposed by the Honorable Gerald Wynans in connection with the Rand Paper proceedings. The judge could have sentenced him for perjury and given him years in the can, but he’d said on the record that a sixty-day sentence should be sufficient to bring the point home to J.T.—this time.

Flector presently stood indicted for falsely submitting an affidavit claiming that he was indigent, without funds to pay a lawyer to defend him on a previous indictment for mail fraud. The government was contending that Flector had been collecting a two-hundred-dollar weekly stipend from a printing concern in Westchester when he submitted the affidavit of indigence. The printing company did pay Flector the stipend because the president of that company still admired Flector from the days when he was known as the corporate wizard of the twentieth century.

“Heck,” said Flector, “I was disbarred in absentia, too, while I was in Brazil.”

“How did they do that?”

“You keep asking the very same question I’ve been asking myself for over ten years. But they did it.”

The coveralls were government issue for inmates. J.T. wore a pair of white sneakers and white socks—his own, but the mandatory footwear.

“What did you do in Brazil?” J.T. asked. There was nothing for him to do for the next fifty-five days except talk. He found Flector pleasant company. He was an intelligent man, with a wealth of stories about every industrialist, American or foreign, of whom J.T. had ever heard.

“After I escaped from Cuba—Castro had put a price on my head; I was a capitalist enemy of the state—I lived in Brazil until I came home voluntarily to face the charges, to clear my name and my family’s.”

If you didn’t know who Flector was, you’d think he was the biggest liar in the world. But he had done it all, had made it all, and when the American government had attempted to extradite the ex-lawyer, it discovered there was no extradition treaty with Brazil. The American press carried stories that Flector had paid the Brazilian government off with part of the hoard of millions he had allegedly embezzled before fleeing the United States.

“But if you had sold the stock in all those corporations years before, what money were you charged with embezzling?”

“Beats me. Some of those companies are still in business. Heck, I didn’t steal a dime. All I did was confuse them. You know, if you make too much dough just using your head, people who haven’t any brains figure you’re doing something illegal. Damn fools.”

The only other conversations that J.T. might have would be with other inmates indicted for all sorts of crimes, hardened street people who would have liked to hobnob with him, pick his brains for their legal writs, get legal opinions they could bounce off their own lawyers. J.T. didn’t want any of that; he just wanted to be left alone, get his time over, and get back in action.

“You mind if I ask why, when you came back here, you had to get court-appointed counsel?”

“There’s no secret to that, J.T. I sank all my dough, a hundred and fifty million, in Cuba. And when Castro came in, I was lucky I escaped with my skin.”

“How could you have put all your money in Cuba?” J.T. asked incredulously.

“You can ask that question now, J.T. But in those days, well, it would be like saying why did you put a hundred fifty million in Florida. Who the hell could ever have imagined that the United States would let Cuba, with billions of dollars in American assets sunk in there, ninety miles off the coast—who the hell would ever even have conceived that the United States would just let it go by default to the Communists?” Flector still was sadly befuddled by that. He shook his head hopelessly.

“I guess that’s right.”

“Hey, did you see the news on television?” Myron Weiss asked, coming into J.T.’s cell. Weiss was another inmate, whose coveralls were blue. On the outside, he was a theater producer, a financial investor who’d been extremely helpful to several mobsters with cash to launder.

“No, what’s on?” asked Flector. He was a sort of Papa Bear to all the other inmates. He had been successful; he had been indicted; he had beaten three of his own cases; he was willing to help them with their legal papers. So they all trusted him.

“Your client, J.T., that guy DeValen, is being indicted for stock manipulation,” said Weiss.

“What?” J.T. literally jumped off his bed to go into the recreation room, where the television was.

“It’s off now,” Weiss said, following J.T. Flector was third in line. “Probably it’ll be on another newscast later. He’s going to be arraigned on Friday.”

“Jesus, I’d better give him a call,” said J.T. He glanced over at the phones. They were all being used. He paced.

“Take it easy, J.T.,” said Flector. “Take it easy. Don’t work yourself up,” Weiss said. “He isn’t being arraigned until Friday.”

A phone became free. J.T. dashed to it. Flector and Weiss hovered nearby.

“Is Mr. DeValen in?” J.T. asked when DeValen’s office answered. “This is J.T. Wright.” Pause. “He’s coming here to see me?” J.T. asked. “Today? If he calls in, meanwhile, tell him I called. I’m waiting for him.” J.T. hung up the phone.

“That’s a twist,” said Weiss. “The client is coming to jail to see the lawyer.”

“That is kind of ridiculous, isn’t it?” said J.T. as he and Flector went back to his cell. Weiss hadn’t been admitted to J.T.’s inner circle yet.

There were several hours each day when the inmates were let out into the recreation area where they could skylark with each other.

“What are you going to do when you get out of here?” J.T. asked Flector absently.

“Get some import/export thing going with Brazil. That’s a country, J.T. Just bursting with money. And they need everything. Everything! I’ll make a million in the first six months I’m out, several million, just selling the Brazilians things they need down there that we have plenty of right here.”

“No kidding?” said J.T., intrigued.

“Sure. Making a million is a lead-pipe cinch down there.”

J.T. was impressed. He recalled that DeValen had once said something like that to him. “What do you have to do to get all this done?” J.T. asked.

“I just need someone to stake me to some walking-around money for about two months, a thousand a week, ten thousand altogether, and we’ll make millions. I’ve got the people down there all set to buy whatever we can get them.”

“You have the people down there ready to buy?”

“Sure.”

J.T. nodded and thought.

“You know, J.T., just because I’ve lost my shingle doesn’t mean I’ve lost my touch. I can still write a mean brief, do legal research, run an office. I might be an asset to your office while I’m setting this stuff up in Brazil. I just need a place to hang my hat.”

“You fascinate me, Gus.”

“Well, if you have any doubts, you know all the people I know. They’ll tell you I’m the real goods. I was quite a lawyer in my day, before I stopped working for other people and made some real money for myself.”

“Mr. Wright,” said the prison officer in charge of their section. He wore a yellow shirt and gray pants. “You have a visitor waiting for you in the visitors’ room.”

J.T. stood up, straightening out his coveralls. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he said to Flector.

“If it’s George DeValen, tell him hello for me.”

“Okay, I will.” J.T. followed the guard to a corridor that led to a locked metal door. The guard unlocked it and J.T. entered a narrow corridor which had seats and compartments on one side. These seats faced thick glass windows looking out to the visitors’ area. Each compartment had a phone that the inmate and his visitor could use to talk to each other.

J.T. walked from one compartment to the next. He only saw other prisoners visiting with their families and friends. He didn’t see DeValen. Suddenly he saw a woman, sitting alone, smiling at him. It was Dana Reynolds.

J.T. picked up the phone. “Dana? What are you doing here?” J.T. was quite surprised. They looked through the glass into each other’s eyes, then looked away, then looked at each other again. They smiled again.

“I came to see you, of course,” she said into the hollow sounding phone.

“I’m shocked. Delighted, believe me. But nonetheless shocked. You look great.” She really did, J.T. thought. She was so distinguished-looking, so well dressed. She was still statuesque. “Gee, it’s great seeing you, Dana.”

“It’s good seeing you too, J.T. Even if it’s here.” Her eyes were warm and smiling at him. Her mouth was soft and glistening.

“What a genuine, delightful surprise,” J.T. repeated. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m excellent,” she replied. “But are you all right?”

“Oh, sure, real fine. This’ll be over in a bit. I’ll be out of here and on top of the world in a few weeks. Mean-while, I have time to write my memoirs.”

“Are you really writing?”

“No, just kidding. Some newspaper people asked me to do some articles, but I couldn’t put anything I know into writing.”

“Probably not,” she smiled.

“How’s the family? Uncle Chauncey? Your father?”

“Father’s had a stroke.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“It’s been a while now. He’s coming along. Can’t keep Dad down for very long. Right now he’s walking with a brace on one leg, but the doctor thinks he’ll be right as rain in a little. Uncle Chauncey is the same Uncle Chauncey.”

“I’ll bet.”

“And that’s about everything. I’m very involved in the business, as you can imagine, now that father is somewhat disabled. I’m doing all the things that he can’t—meetings, conferences, travel.”

“That’s an enormous undertaking, a worldwide business on your shoulders. Incredible,” J.T. marveled. “And you took time out to see me!”

“Why not, dear boy? You are still that to me, you know, dear. And, in a very cherished way, a boy—childlike, not childish.” His eyes were captured by hers. They were so warm, so welcoming. Dana brought back memories of all sorts of things. He wished he didn’t have the glass between them.

“It’s great seeing you,” J.T. said sincerely. “Not too many people come to see me here. The atmosphere must be too cold and damp for them.”

A guard came up behind J.T. “You have another visitor downstairs, Mr. Wright,” he said. The guards showed J.T. great respect and deference, particularly in front of his VIP visitors.

“Excuse me a minute, Dana,” J.T. said, turning.

“I have to get going anyway,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’ve got a tight schedule.”

“Stay another minute or two,” he asked into the phone.

“Of course.”

J.T. asked the guard, “Who is the visitor, do you know?”

“Let me ask on the phone, Mr. Wright.”

The guard locked the steel door and went to the phone on the desk. J.T. watched him talk. He couldn’t hear what the guard said.

The guard opened the steel door again.

“It’s Mr. George DeValen.”

“Can you have him wait until Miss Reynolds goes down? A couple of minutes?”

“That’s the way it has to be anyway, Mr. Wright,” said the guard. “They won’t let nobody up until this lady goes down.”

“Thanks.”

The guard nodded and went back to his desk.

“Do you know a man named Augustus Flector?” J.T. asked Dana on the phone.

“Oh, ‘Mr. Reflector’ I used to call him,” Dana smiled. “Of course. I knew him when I was a little girl. He was a good friend of Daddy’s. Don’t tell me he’s in trouble again.”

“Yes, he’s here,” said J.T. “He sent his regards.”

“That poor man. He’s been involved with litigation for the longest time—ten or twelve years now.”

“He’s here again, indicted for falsely swearing he didn’t have any money to pay a lawyer. They say he was getting two hundred dollars a week stipend.”

“Oh, dear God! What a sweet man, too. I knew him when he owned the world,” Dana recalled with a smile. “I went to one of his daughter’s birthday parties when I was just a girl. At his place in Old Westbury. That was my first plane ride. He had his own plane and pilot, and flew a bunch of children out from the city. His lands were immense. The horses—oh, my God, the horses—they were magnificent. He must have hired Ringling Brothers for his daughter’s tenth birthday—elephants, clowns, the works. He was truly on top of the world then. How is he?”

“Old, shaking.”

“That’s too bad. He always did drink. I remember Daddy telling me stories about when he would see him sitting at the bar in Orsini’s with a beautiful girl who had a little dog in her purse. You know how chi-chi Orsini’s is. Well, Mister Reflector was so important at the time that they let him bring in his girlfriend’s dog. How’s that for important?”

J.T. smiled. “It’s good to see someone from the old days, when we were all young.”

Dana’s smile became wistful. “You’ve got another visitor, and I really do have to run.” She looked at her watch again. “I’ll come in again, if you’d like.”

“If you have nothing better to do,” J.T. tried to say casually.

“Is there anything I can do for Mr. Flector?”

“Maybe mail in a money order for commissary so he can buy candy or razor blades. Nothing big. Ten or twenty dollars.”

“Surely more than that.”

“No, it wouldn’t do him any good. He can’t use it or spend it. I’ll tell him you were asking for him.”

“Yes, please. Tell him if there’s anything I can do. You call me if there is. Even if there isn’t,” she said as a second thought. “Let me give you my private number. Eldorado five, six three four two.

J.T. memorized the number.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked. Her face was so compassionate, J.T. thought. He was being drawn toward the warmth of it.

“No. Heck, I’m great,” he said. “I’ll be out of here in no time, on top of the world, making millions. That’s a lead-pipe cinch.” He stunned himself with that remark.

“Dear boy,” Dana said, leaning close to the window as if that would make their conversation on the phone more private. She whispered softly, “I already have millions. And I still have a broken heart.”

J.T. drew back and looked at her. Her forehead wrinkled, her eyes quivered as if she were about to cry. Then Dana took a deep breath, pulled herself tall and regal. She smiled. “Goodbye, J.T. Good luck.” She put down the phone and stood.

The guard let Dana out through the steel door. J.T. watched her go out through another steel door to the elevator that would take her downstairs. He remained at the window panel, staring at blank whitewashed cinderblock walls on the other side. He felt like a kid with his nose pressed against a store window.

“Hell,” he repeated to himself. “I’ll be out of here in no time, on top of the world, making millions. A lead-pipe cinch …”

He heard Dana’s voice reverberate contrapuntally. I already have millions. And I still have a broken heart. He realized at that instant that there wasn’t anything on the other side of the glass.