Judy gazed at them now, one by one, behind a sleek panel of walnut veneer. In time she would come to know their faces and they hers, in the oddly remote familiarity that occurred in every jury trial. But right now the jurors sat as stiff as the courtroom furniture, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes, almost blending in with the beige acoustic panels on the wall, a wool carpet of a graphite color, and walnut pews of the gallery. The only odd element of the courtroom’s modern decor was the expanse of bulletproof glass that separated the gallery from the bar of court.
Judy glanced back at the gallery through the clear shield. In this case, security would be in order. The two guards Bennie had hired sat solidly in the front row; they had become Judy’s new best friends, shadowing her everywhere, advising her when it was time to change hotels. They’d even followed her to her few visits with Frank, and between the guards and Pigeon Tony, ensured that the affair remained unhappily chaste. Judy sought Frank out in the gallery, and he was sitting in the front row next to Bennie, Mr. DiNunzio, Tony-From-Down-The-Block, and Feet, wearing new glasses. Judy tried to catch Frank’s eye, but he was watching the Coluzzi side of the aisle.
John Coluzzi, in a black suit and tie, sat on the right side of the gallery with his meaty arm around his mother, who was also dressed in black, next to Fat Jimmy Bello. No one had been charged in the death of Marco, and the police said they still had no leads. Like Frank, Judy found herself glaring at John, unable to look away. Flashing on the image of Marco, dying in her arms. Judy hadn’t been able to get far even in her lawsuits against them, without a live witness in Kevin McRea, but he was still nowhere to be found.
“Let’s get started. Mr. D.A., Mr. Santoro?” Judge Vaughn was saying, and Judy turned around. The judge was slipping on a pair of black reading glasses, with half frames. “Your opening statement?”
“Yes, sir.” Joe Santoro drew himself up, buttoned his well-made Italian suit at the middle, and strode to the podium facing the jury. His dark hair glistened in moussed waves, and his fingernails shone with nail polish, but his self-important grooming belied the time he had to have spent on case preparation. Judy knew it had matched hers, and she picked up her pen to take notes. The Commonwealth had turned over its evidence, which was predictably overwhelming. Given the evidence, the case was his to lose.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “my name is Joseph Santoro, and I represent the people of the Commonwealth. I’ll keep this short and sweet, because I prefer to let my witnesses do my talking for me, as you will see.”
Santoro took a breath. “In my view, lying at the core of every murder case is a simple story. This case is no exception. This case is a story about defendant Anthony Lucia, a man who has hated Angelo Coluzzi for sixty years and has harbored malice against him, going back all the way to when they both were young men in Italy. The reason for this hatred? Defendant Lucia mistakenly believed that Angelo Coluzzi killed his wife sixty years ago and even killed his son and daughter-in-law in a traffic accident. Of course, this is pure fantasy, the imaginings of an angry man, who lives alone, with nothing but his malice.”
Next to Judy, Pigeon Tony emitted a low growl, but she put a hand on his to calm him. She had warned him to behave during the trial, as she had Frank and The Tonys. She couldn’t afford another courtroom war between the Lucias and the Coluzzis. It would play right into Santoro’s opening argument. Santoro had been clever to bring the vendetta into the case, recasting it as one-way grudge, or pure malice.
“Defendant Lucia’s hatred for Angelo Coluzzi has been brewing for all of these years. And the defendant carried his malice with him when he immigrated to America, where Mr. Coluzzi built a successful construction company in his adopted homeland. In contrast, the defendant’s construction company, essentially a one-man bricklaying business, failed to thrive, feeding his hatred for and jealousy of Angelo Coluzzi. It was then that the defendant began planning to kill an innocent man.”
Pigeon Tony’s mouth dropped open in offense, but Judy squeezed his hand, though she was equally outraged. None of what Santoro was saying was true, but she couldn’t disprove it. The proof of Silvana Lucia’s murder was long gone, and the accident reconstructionist who had examined the Lucias’ charred pickup had reached a disappointing conclusion: Negligent driving, poor weather conditions, and a substandard guardrail resulted in the lethal accident involving the Lucia family on January 25. The report also noted that the crash had killed the Lucias instantly, and found no evidence of tampering with the truck, as only residues of engine oil, diesel fuel, and gasoline appeared, not unusual in accidents involving construction vehicles.
“Acting on this mistaken belief, defendant Lucia took his brutal revenge, and after lying in wait for decades, killed Angelo Coluzzi on April seventeenth. That morning, which was a Friday, defendant Lucia entered the back room of a pigeon-racing club that both men belonged to. Angelo Coluzzi was inside the room alone. You will hear that a fellow club member was sitting nearby and heard the defendant shout at Mr. Coluzzi, ‘I’m going to kill you.’ ” Santoro paused for dramatic effect, and the jury looked predictably surprised. One of them, an older woman in the front, glanced at Pigeon Tony, then looked away.
“You will hear, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that this same club member heard a scream, then a crash coming from the room, apparently the sound of a bookshelf falling over. He ran into the room. Too late, unfortunately. Defendant Lucia had gone into that room, attacked Angelo Coluzzi, and broken the poor man’s neck with his bare hands.”
Judy set down her pen. The opening worried her, if she wasn’t already worried enough. She had prepared for something more conventional and had outlined a complete defense, described witness by witness in black notebooks. But Bennie had warned her to try the case that went in, from word one. She struggled not to panic.
“By the end of this case,” Santoro said, “the Commonwealth will have proven beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant murdered Angelo Coluzzi and that he is guilty of murder in the first degree. That is how the story of this murder case will end. It can by no means be considered a happy ending, for it will never bring Angelo Coluzzi back to his loving wife and family. Nor will it be an unhappy ending. What it will be is an ending that serves justice. Thank you.” Santoro left the podium, crossed to the prosecutor’s table, and sat down.
Judge Vaughn looked at Judy. “Your turn, Ms. Carrier,” he said, and nodded.
Judy stood up and took the podium, after a thoughtful moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Judy Carrier, and I stand before you to defend Anthony Lucia. I will keep it short as well, because I want you to be clear on the one and only question in this case, which is this: Has the Commonwealth proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Anthony Lucia is guilty of murdering Angelo Coluzzi? The Commonwealth must prove that answer beyond a reasonable doubt, and that is the one question before you. I heard nothing about such proof in Mr. Santoro’s opening. And proof is the only thing that matters.”
Judy came out from behind the podium and, when Judge Vaughn didn’t rebuke her, leaned on it. “As you listen to the evidence that follows, please keep your focus on the question at hand. Has the Commonwealth proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Anthony Lucia is guilty of murdering Angelo Coluzzi? And I submit to you, the answer to that question will be no. My client, Anthony Lucia, is not guilty of murder. And finding him not guilty is the only just ending to this case.” Judy looked at the jurors for a moment, but they seemed attentive, which was the best she could hope for. She left the podium and sat down.
“Call your first witness, Mr. Santoro,” Judge Vaughn called out, and Santoro gestured to the court officer through the bulletproof glass to the gallery. Judy half turned, expecting to see Detective Wilkins or Jimmy Bello getting to his feet, but entering the courtroom through the double doors at the back was an elderly, frail woman she didn’t recognize. Her face was wrinkled and her cheeks gaunt behind plastic glasses with upside-down frames. Her hair was as poofy as Mrs. DiNunzio’s.
“The prosecution calls Millie D’Antonio to the stand, Your Honor.”
Judy didn’t recognize her name, but the witness list had been endless, covering most of South Philly. Judy had interviewed as many as she could and only vaguely recollected a Millie D’Antonio. She leaned over to Pigeon Tony. “Who is that?”
“She live next door,” he whispered, and gave the woman a happy wave as she walked by. Judy forced herself not to grab his hand away, but Pigeon Tony kept smiling at his neighbor even as she was sworn in and took the stand. She wore a flowered dress with a worn red cardigan over the top, and Judy remembered speaking with her. But why would Santoro call her? Their conversation had been innocuous.
“Mrs. D’Antonio,” Santoro began, “please tell the jury where you live.”
“I live next to Pigeon Tony.” Mrs. D’Antonio’s hand trembled as she adjusted the microphone. “I mean, Anthony Lucia.” She smiled apologetically.
“And how long have you lived there?”
“All my life. It was my mother’s house. When she passed, she left it to me, may she rest.” The woman crossed herself, and Judy caught the jury’s approving reaction.
Santoro nodded. “How long has Mr. Lucia lived next door to you, if you know?”
“I lived next to him since he came to this country, I guess. A long time ago. Seventy years ago, maybe sixty.”
Judy half rose. “Objection, Your Honor. This is completely irrelevant to this case.”
Santoro looked up at Judge Vaughn. “Your Honor, the relevance of her testimony will become clear in just a few questions.”
“Overruled,” Judge Vaughn said. “Better make good on that, Mr. Santoro.”
Santoro held up a finger. “Mrs. D’Antonio, have you ever had conversations with Mr. Lucia about his late wife?”
Judy half rose again. “Objection, relevance, Your Honor,” she said, but Santoro barely waited for her to finish.
“It’s relevant to the defendant’s motive, Your Honor.”
“Overruled.” Vaughn eyed the lawyers. “But this fighting stops now, counsel. There are no cameras in this courtroom. This is too slow a start on testimony for me. Let’s get on with it.”
“Yes, sir,” Santoro said, then addressed Mrs. D’Antonio. “Now, as you were saying, what was the substance of these conversations?”
Judy wished she could object. What conversations? When? But Vaughn wouldn’t like it, and a hostile judge could be lethal to a defense. It was always a choice between not pissing off a judge and not sending a client to the death chamber. To Judy’s mind the Constitution guaranteed rights to the defendant, not the judge. But she had to be practical.
“The substance?” Mrs. D’Antonio asked, confused.
“What were the conversations about? Take the most recent one, for example. The last conversation you had with the defendant, which was six months before Angelo Coluzzi was murdered, I believe.”
Objection, leading, Judy wished she could say. But she was picking her battles.
Mrs. D’Antonio nodded. “They were about Angelo Coluzzi.”
“And what did Mr. Lucia say about Angelo Coluzzi?”
“That he hated him, and that Angelo Coluzzi killed his wife and his son.”
Judy sat stoically. Pigeon Tony looked unsurprised. It was undoubtedly the truth, but it didn’t look good at all for the defense. And Santoro kept casting the hatred as one-way. Should she do anything about it? It was risky.
“Mrs. D’Antonio, was that the only time Mr. Lucia said those words to you, or words to that effect?”
“No, he said it all the time. Everybody knew it. He made no bones about it.”
“So it is your sworn testimony that Mr. Lucia said that Angelo Coluzzi killed his wife, son, and daughter-in-law?”
“Well, yeah.”
Santoro paused. “Mrs. D’Antonio, to the best of your knowledge, have any of these alleged murders ever been prosecuted by police, either in Italy or in the United States?”
Pigeon Tony started to speak, but Judy shot up instantly. If Santoro wanted to prove it wasn’t murder, he’d have to do it another way. “Objection, no foundation.”
“Sustained,” Judge Vaughn ruled, and Judy sat back down.
Santoro nodded quickly. “I have no further questions. Your witness, Ms. Carrier.”
Judy was on her feet, fueled by an anger she couldn’t hide from the jury. She couldn’t let this testimony go unanswered, even for a minute. “Mrs. D’Antonio, do you know anything about the events of Friday, April seventeenth, the morning on which this alleged murder occurred?”
Mrs. D’Antonio wet her lips. “No.”
“You didn’t see Mr. Lucia that morning, did you?”
“No.”
“You weren’t at the pigeon-racing club that morning, were you, Mrs. D’Antonio?”
“No.”
“So, in truth, you don’t know anything about the murder for which Mr. Lucia is now standing trial, do you?”
“Uh, no.”
Judy considered stopping there. No lawyer was supposed to ask a question she didn’t know the answer to. But these were friendly witnesses, asked only for half the story. She decided to take the risk. “Mrs. D’Antonio, you testified that Mr. Lucia hated Angelo Coluzzi, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it well known that Mr. Coluzzi hated Mr. Lucia as well?”
Santoro jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Coluzzi’s motives are irrelevant here. The poor man is dead!”
Judy stood her ground. “Your Honor, it is extremely relevant to the defense that there was ill will between the two men. It’s important for the jury to see both sides of the story.”
Judge Vaughn said, “Sustained, but let’s dispense with the speaking objections, counsel. I give the speeches in my courtroom, not you.” The judge turned to the witness. “You may answer the question, Mrs. D’Antonio.”
The witness nodded. “It is true. Mr. Coluzzi hated Mr. Lucia, too. They hated each other.”
Judy wanted to ask why, but she let it be. It was tempting but was too risky. She sat down. “Thank you, ma’am. I have no further questions.”
Santoro was up in a minute. “The people call Sebastiano Gentile to the stand,” he said, and Judy turned, almost recognizing the old man entering the door in the bulletproof panel. Sebastiano Gentile, a small, wizened man wearing a white shirt, baggy dark pants, and a cabbie’s hat of sky blue, came in shyly and approached the witness stand. He took off his hat when he was sworn in, leaving wisps of white hair like cirrus clouds around his pink head. His eyes were blue as his cap, magnified by thick bifocals.
Judy leaned over to Pigeon Tony, to confirm her suspicion. “Is Mr. Gentile another neighbor?”
“Si, si,” Pigeon Tony said, nodding happily at the stand. The anger caused by Santoro’s opening argument had left him. It had become old home week, and Pigeon Tony was having the best time anyone could have at his own murder trial.
Santoro faced the witness after he was sworn in. “Mr. Gentile, where do you live?”
“Across the street from Pigeon To—I mean, Mr. Lucia.”
“And have you ever discussed his late wife or his son with him?”
“Yes. All the time.”
“And when was the most recent of those conversations?”
“Uh, last spring, after his son passed. He was washin’ his stoop, and I was puttin’ out the trash.”
“And what did Mr. Lucia say on that subject, as you recall?”
“He said Angelo Coluzzi killed his wife and his son. And his daughter-in-law. He told everybody that.”
Pigeon Tony remained pleased, evidently glad the facts of the murders were stated as truth, but his lawyer’s head began to throb. Judy knew what Santoro was doing. He was beefing up the evidence of Pigeon Tony’s motive, even front-loading the witness line-up with it, because his evidence of intent to murder and his physical evidence were borderline. If the jury knew Pigeon Tony’s avowed motive, it wou
ld make it easier to find that he had killed Coluzzi in that room.
“Mr. Gentile, did you hear Mr. Lucia say this on more than one occasion?”
The witness didn’t even have to think twice. “Sure. All the time.”
Santoro nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Gentile, I have nothing further.” He crossed to counsel table and hit a key on his laptop as Judy stood up.
She lingered at the podium. “Mr. Gentile, were you present at the pigeon-racing club on the morning of April seventeenth of this year?”
“No. I’m allergic to animals.”
Judy smiled, as did the jury. But it was important to stay on message. “So isn’t it a fact that you don’t know anything about the murder for which Mr. Lucia is now standing trial?”
“I really can’t say nothin’ about no murder. I don’t know.”
Judy nodded. So far, so good. “Mr. Gentile, you testified that Mr. Lucia hated Mr. Coluzzi. Isn’t it true that Mr. Coluzzi hated Mr. Lucia, too?”
Mr. Gentile smiled, revealing even, white dentures. “Oh, yeh. Angelo hated Pigeon Tony. I mean, Mr. Lucia. There was bad blood between them, very bad.”
“I have no further questions.” Judy sat down, pleased.
As Mr. Gentile left the stand, Judge Vaughn looked over his glasses. “Next witness, Mr. Santoro?”
Santoro nodded. “The Commonwealth calls Mr. Guglielmo Lupito to the stand.”
Judy could see where this was going. The cavalcade of Italian senior citizens, all of whom had heard our hero announce his hatred of the deceased, would continue. The cumulative effect would hurt the defense, even given whatever small points Judy made on cross. She had to do something. She half rose. “Your Honor, the defense objects to the repetitious nature of these witnesses.”
Santoro’s glistening head snapped around. “Your Honor, it is important that the jury see the witnesses, and how many there are.”
“Your Honor, it’s a waste of the court’s time and resources for a tangential line of questioning. Perhaps I could save time if I stipulate—”
“No, Your Honor,” Santoro interrupted. “The Commonwealth will not stipulate. I think the jury should hear this from the horse’s mouth.”