Robert Tanenbaum - Act of Revenge

“Somehow I doubt Tommy Colombo is going to have those kind of scruples,” said Keegan sourly. His immaculate cigar drooped below a lower lip petulantly protruding.

“I agree, and that’s the difference between a cheap grandstander like Tommy Colombo and us. What’s the matter, Jack? You don’t look happy.”

“I’m struggling to keep my joy under control. You know we’re going to get raped in the press on this. Colombo’s going to have a field day.”

“True, but meanwhile it’s over three years to the next election. Let him have his thrill. Meanwhile, we still have our ace in the hole.”

“Which is what?”

“Murder,” said Karp. “The feds can’t offer immunity against a crime that’s not on their books. So sooner or later we’ll have our crack at Mr. Lie and whoever really did Eddie Cat. Even assuming that’s not saying the same thing.”

“You think Lie was more involved than he’s letting on?”

“It wouldn’t knock me off my chair. Priority one is finding out more about this guy. Especially where he was on the night of, although I’d lay money he’s alibied to the hairline.”

Keegan considered for a moment, then nodded, and placed his cigar on his desk. “Okay, go do it, and keep me informed. And fill in Roland, too. He’s going to be even more delighted than I am.”

“He’ll get over it,” said Karp.

“Oh, yeah. Especially since he’s going to have to field the press questions, him or you, buddy, because this is one I’m happy to delegate to my loyal staff. What about the Colombo front?”

“Oh, I think he’ll give Mr. Lie a big, sloppy kiss. He’ll buy whatever he has to say and put him in front of the federal grand jury and use his testimony to indict Pigetti under any number of federal statutes. Conspiracy, interfering with a federal prosecution, witness intimidation, depriving Mr. Catalano of his civil rights. There’s a grab bag for him there.”

“And what does Lie get out of all this?”

“Oh, he’ll get federal immunity, of course, but what he mainly wants out of the feds is the witness-protection program. Mr. Lie is what they used to call a shadowy figure, Jack. He tried to set it up with us so that he’d start with a clean slate regarding any state crimes he’s committed. I wouldn’t roll on that, so he’s dropped back to his second choice. I have the feeling that he wants to fade away entirely about now, and Colombo is going to help him.”

“And we’re going to stop him, I hope you’re going to say.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Karp. “If we can.”

[NYT 12 JUN 60]

Gangland Lawyer in Suicide Leap from Empire State

By Joseph P. Huntington

Police sources revealed today that the man who threw himself from the observation deck of the Empire State Building at 9:30 yesterday morning was Gerald S. Fein, of Brooklyn, a disbarred criminal lawyer well known for his defense of reputed organized-crime figures. According to police, Mr. Fein left his home at 1320 Avenue M in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn at the usual time, about eight o’clock, and arrived at his parking garage at 8:45. He then walked to the Empire State Building, where his law firm, Kusher, Fein and Panofsky, had offices on the fifty-seventh floor. Witnesses, including Dennis Horgan, 32, a ticket taker at the Empire State’s observation deck, stated that Mr. Fein entered the deck at about nine, purchased a ticket, and strolled around the deck for a few minutes. The deck was relatively empty at that time of day, Mr. Horgan recalled, and Mr. Fein did not seem to be particularly distraught. Some minutes later, in a manner still under investigation by police, Mr. Fein made his way past a normally locked door to a service area, and then through another door to the parapet above the observation windows, where he threw himself off. He landed in the roadway of Fifth Avenue, ten yards from its intersection with 34th Street, causing several minor traffic accidents. No injuries were reported.

Because of Mr. Fein’s ties to reputed organized-crime figures, a police investigation has been authorized under the command of Detective Lieutenant Arnold D. Mulhausen of the 14th Precinct, but at present the police have no evidence of any foul play. Mr. Fein’s family remains in seclusion and was unavailable for comment, but Mr. Herschel Panofsky, Mr. Fein’s law partner, was reported as saying that Mr. Fein had been despondent in recent weeks after losing his appeal against the New York Bar Association’s decision on April 18, 1959, revoking his license to practice law. Mr. Fein was convicted of jury tampering in the trial of alleged racketeer Salvatore Bollano for the murder of an associate, John Gravellotti. Mr. Fein had won an acquittal for Mr. Bollano in that case, but his victory was immediately marred by accusations that several jurors had received bribes. In the jury-tampering case against him, Mr. Fein had accepted a plea bargain, resulting in a fine and a suspended sentence. Mr. Panofsky said, “Jerry expected a censure from the Bar Association, but not the loss of his livelihood. He just couldn’t handle it. The law was his whole life.”

See obituary on Page A30

Marlene declined to read another obituary just now, although she thought the one in the Times would be the most complete. There had been seven daily newspapers in New York when Jumping Jerry had gone off that parapet, and each had given the suicide a big play. Marlene’s secretary and factotum, Sym McCabe, had been set to gathering Xeroxes of these reports for the past week or so, and doing other research tasks. The young woman sat across the cluttered table from her, poring over phone books, trying to locate various people who might be useful to the investigation. Sym was a small tan woman of twenty-odd, with large, suspicious eyes and an intense, hungry look, like an osprey nestling. She was another of Marlene’s brands from the burning: taken in at seventeen, illiterate, addicted, and carrying an unspeakable family and sexual history, taught, encouraged, nurtured, and converted into a useful citizen with a GED and twenty credits already at Manhattan Community College. This was the first time Marlene had sent her out to do research. Sym had found that while scoring facts was not as easy as scoring dope, many of the same skills were required.

“I got six John J. Dohertys in the five boroughs,” she said. “You want me to look on the Island, too?”

“No, call those first, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Sym went into the front room to call, and Marlene shoveled through the piles of folders and clipped copies on the table, looking for a place to start spending Vivian Fein’s money in a useful way. There was plenty of it. Two days before, Marlene had walked out of a cubbyhole in the diamond center on 47th Street, minus Vivian’s gaudy ring, and holding a certified check for $108,750, after which, armed with a power of attorney from Ms. Fein (or Mrs. Bollano, as she would have been called in certain circles), she had opened a checking account for the woman, plus an escrow account upon which Osborne Group Security, Inc., was entitled to draw for the purposes of conducting an investigation into the death of Gerald Fein.

Her hand fell on a thick folder containing a stack of glossy photos. Sym had found a photo essay in Life and then tracked down the photographer’s agency and paid them to generate prints, not only of the shots Life had used, but all the relevant shots in their negative files. She’d been sent to do the same at most of the other prominent photo agencies, because Marlene believed that almost everything you wanted to know about had been photographed by somebody, somewhere, and this was especially important in a situation where she didn’t really understand what she was searching for. Again, the two big questions: First, why now? The man had been dead twenty-three years, the daughter had let it lie all that time, and then it had become desperately important. Marlene had asked, and been given the answer, not very satisfactory, that Ms. Fein had decided it was time. Clearly something to do with leaving the hubbie, divorcing in a sense from the Mob. That made some sense, but Marlene thirsted after details. The second was, why had a supreme courtroom master copped a plea to something he hadn’t done? Or maybe he had done it. Something to explore with the old-timers.