“Mr. Bello,” Santoro said, “please state your name and address for the record.”
“My name’s James Bello, but they call me Fat Jimmy,” he said matter-of-factly, though Judy wasn’t sure it was what Santoro had been looking for.
“And your address?”
He rattled it off.
“Fine, Mr. Bello. Let’s move directly to the morning of Friday, April seventeenth. Were you present at about eight twenty-three A.M. at 712 Cotner Street in South Philadelphia?”
“Yeh.” Bello wore a black knit shirt with suit pants, and his thick wrist bore a gold Rolex. His lips were puffy, his nose a pockmarked bulb, and his eyes large, round, and unforgettable if they were glaring at you in a funeral home. If he recognized Judy, it didn’t show.
“And that address is a clubhouse for a pigeon-racing combine, correct?”
“Yeh.”
Judy opened her legal pad to a fresh page and shifted forward on her seat. At a preliminary hearing the Commonwealth had to prove only a prima facie case of murder, and the D.A. would have more than enough in this case. The hardest punches at a prelim were thrown beneath the surface, because the Commonwealth was trying to reveal as little as possible about its case, and the defense was trying to find out as much as possible. It was a legal fistfight, and only apparently civilized.
“Mr. Bello, please tell the court who else was present in the clubhouse on the day in question.”
“Mr. Tony LoMonaco, Mr. Tony Pensiera. Angelo Coluzzi was in the back room, and Mr. Tony Lucia, the defendant, went in there, too.”
“Was anybody else in the back room except for Mr. Coluzzi and Mr. Lucia?”
“No, Angelo and me opened the place that morning. He was the only one back there until Tony went in.”
Santoro nodded. “Mr. Bello, please tell the court what happened next, if you would.”
“Sure, yeh.” Bello cleared his throat of smoker’s phlegm. “Mr. Lucia went in the back room and there was a scream, and then we heard like a crash. And we went in and there was Angelo dead on the floor and Tony, Mr. Lucia, was standing over him, all worked up.”
Judy held her breath to know what Bello had heard, or what he’d claim he heard.
Santoro shifted closer to the microphone at the podium. “Mr. Bello, you said you heard yelling. What did you hear?”
“I heard yelling, in English and Italian.”
“Do you know who was doing the yelling?”
“Mr. Lucia.”
“Mr. Bello, what did you hear Mr. Lucia yell?”
“He yelled, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’ ”
Judy made a note, only apparently calmly. It would be home run evidence at trial. Worse, it was true.
“Mr. Bello, did defendant Lucia yell this in English or in Italian?”
“In Italian. Definitely, Italian.”
“And you understand Italian?”
“Very well. Been speakin’ it since I was a kid. Now, Angelo, he didn’t like to speak it. He wanted the old ways behind him. He wanted to be a real American. He didn’t have no accent either. Hardly.”
Santoro nodded, his soft chin wrinkling into his stiff white collar. “So you are sure it was Mr. Lucia’s voice and not Angelo Coluzzi’s?”
“I know Angelo’s voice and also, he’s the one who ended up dead.”
Santoro didn’t blink. “Then what did you do, Mr. Bello?”
“I got up and ran into the back room and there was Angelo, lyin’ on the ground, with the shelves over him and a big mess onna floor. I checked Angelo out but he didn’t have no pulse and his head was lying funny.”
“Where was the defendant at this time?”
“Standin’ over Angelo.”
“What did Mr. Pensiera and Mr. LoMonaco do then?”
“Objection as to relevance,” Judy said for the record, but Judge Maniloff overruled her.
“They said to Mr. Lucia, ‘Let’s get outta here,’ and they got him out and they left.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I called 911 and they came and took Angelo away, and that was that.”
Judy made a note. It was the least emotional account of a murder she could imagine. Santoro would have to offer Fat Jimmy a dozen ravioli to shed a tear or two at trial, but for the time being the D.A. nodded in satisfaction, returned to counsel table, and sat down.
“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” he said, and he didn’t need any.
Judy stood up to pick Fat Jimmy’s brain for cross-examination, though she couldn’t win here anyway, and as a defense lawyer, wouldn’t want to. If the defense won at a preliminary hearing, the Commonwealth could rearrest the defendant and retry him, because double jeopardy hadn’t yet attached. Not that winning anything was in the cards today. Judy approached the podium.
“Mr. Bello,” she began, “describe where you were sitting when you allegedly heard Mr. Lucia yell, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’ ”
“I just come into the room from the bathroom, and sat down at the bar, when I saw Mr. LoMonaco and Mr. Pensiera. They told me that Pigeon Tony, Mr. Lucia, had gone in the back room.”
Judy recalled the layout of the racing club. “So you were at the bar.”
“Right.”
“How far is the bar from the back room?”
“About ten feet.”
“Which seat were you sitting in at the bar?”
“In the middle.”
“Were you having a drink?”
“I was gonna but I didn’t get to.”
“What was the drink?”
“Coffee.”
Judy made a note. It was good to take notes in court because it made you look as if you were getting somewhere. This note said NICE GOING, BUCKO. “Anything alcoholic in the coffee?”
“No.”
Judy made another note. OUTTA THE PARK, LOSER. “Now, you said you heard yelling. Did you hear anything else other than Mr. Lucia allegedly yelling, ‘I’m going to kill you’?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yeh.”
“You didn’t hear Angelo Coluzzi say anything?”
“No.”
Judy made a note. NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO TELL US YOU HEARD ANGELO COLUZZI CONFESS TO A DOUBLE MURDER. Santoro looked over at Judy from his counsel table, and she knew she had him wondering what else had been said in that back room, and if it made a difference. Let him sweat. “Let’s change gears, Mr. Bello. Are you married or single?”
“I’m, uh, divorced.”
“I see. And are you related to the Coluzzi family in any way?”
“Yeh.”
“How so?”
“Uh?”
ENGLISH, PLEASE. “I mean, how exactly are you related to the Coluzzis?”
“I’m a second cousin, twice removed. I think. My father Guido married somebody’s second cousin.”
GUIDO. NOT TONY? “I see. And how long have you worked for the Coluzzi family?”
“Objection, no foundation, Your Honor,” Santoro said, popping up, but Judy waved him off.
“I’ll rephrase. Mr. Bello, do you work for the Coluzzi family?”
“Yeh.”
GLAD WE CLEARED THAT UP. “What is your job, Mr. Bello?”
“Office.”
“You work in their construction office?”
Jimmy seemed unsure. “Yeh. I help out.”
“How?”
“Whatever Angelo axed me to do, I do.”
“Like an assistant?”
Santoro stood up again. “Objection as to relevance and beyond the scope, Your Honor.”
“Overruled.” Judge Maniloff looked up from papers he had been reading. “I think the defendant is entitled to know something about the primary witness against him, don’t you, counsel?”
NO, HE DOESN’T, Judy wrote, but Santoro didn’t answer and sank into his seat. She cleared her throat. “So, Mr. Bello, did you say you were a personal assistant?”
Jimmy frowned at th
e term. “Kinda.”
“And were you a personal assistant to Angelo Coluzzi, or are you to John Coluzzi, or to Marco Coluzzi?” Then she added, because she couldn’t resist, “In his various businesses?”
“I guess, the whole family now. I’m like an office assistant.” Jimmy looked over at the front row uncertainly, and Judy acted like she didn’t notice. She didn’t want him coached out of it; she wanted him to repeat it in front of the jury, when she could get mileage out of it.
“And how long have you been an office assistant to the Coluzzi family, Mr. Bello?”
“Thirty-five years.”
Judy made a note. NOW WE’RE GETTING SOMEWHERE. “I see. And how much do you currently earn as their office assistant, Mr. Bello?”
“Objection!” Santoro said, shooting up like a booster rocket, but Judy wasn’t having any.
“Your Honor, how can it be of no relevance that the primary witness is on the family payroll?”
Judge Maniloff arched a graying eyebrow. “I’ll allow it, tiger, but do finish up here.”
Judy smiled. “Thank you, Your Honor.” IT’S GOOD WHEN A JUDGE CALLS YOU TIGER. “Mr. Bello, you were telling us what the Coluzzis pay you. Please proceed.”
Jimmy paused, undoubtedly trying to remember the difference between what he earned and what he reported. “Fifteen grand a year.”
EEEK. YOU NEED A LAWYER. Judy closed her pad and stepped away from the podium. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“Excellent,” Judge Maniloff said, nodding at the district attorney. “Mr. Santoro, your next witness?”
“Commonwealth calls Dr. Patel to the stand.” Santoro stood up, turned to the second row, and gestured like Vanna White to Dr. Patel, reducing the distinguished medical examiner to the status of a free refrigerator. The medical examiner took the stand, raised his hand politely, and was sworn in.
“Please identify yourself for the record, Dr. Patel.”
“My name is Voresh Patel,” the coroner said, his voice soft and professional. He had the same kind brown eyes and steel-framed glasses Judy remembered from the autopsy, and he wore a trim brown suit. She would have to question him with care, because she didn’t want to show her hand.
“Dr. Patel, what is your profession?” Santoro asked.
“I am an assistant medical examiner for the County of Philadelphia.”
“I see. And did you perform the postmortem examination on the body of Angelo Coluzzi?”
“I did.”
“And when did that take place, Dr. Patel?”
“The day after the body was taken to the morgue.” Dr. Patel thought a minute, his eyes rolling heavenward. “April eighteenth, I believe.”
Santoro nodded, rolling a pencil between his fingers. “And did you form an opinion about the cause and manner of Angelo Coluzzi’s death, Dr. Patel?”
“Yes, it is my opinion that the cause of the decedent’s death was a homicide and the mechanism was a fractured vertebrae at C3.”
Santoro gripped his pencil. “In common parlance does that mean a broken neck, Dr. Patel?”
“Yes.”
“I have no further questions, Dr. Patel.” Santoro moved aside and sat down, as Judy rose with her legal pad. She stepped behind the podium.
“Dr. Patel, there has been testimony that the decedent fell against a bookcase. Just so the record is clear, did that fall have anything to do with Mr. Coluzzi’s death?”
“Objection, beyond the scope,” Santoro said, half rising, but Judge Maniloff was already shaking his head.
“Overruled, counselor. Please, let’s move along.”
Dr. Patel looked at Judy. “No, the decedent was dead by the time he fell.”
Judy wanted to nail him down. It would avoid sympathy for Coluzzi later, at trial. “And you can be sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“I have no further questions, Dr. Patel.” Judy grabbed her pad and sat down as Judge Maniloff reached for the next case filed and opened it.
“Mr. Lucia, I find that the Commonwealth has proved a prima facie case of murder sufficient to support their indictment on a general charge of murder, and I order you held over for trial. Your attorney will inform you of the schedule of further court appearances, sir.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Judy said, almost at the same time as Santoro. It was the last time they’d show any unanimity. She looked over at Pigeon Tony. “Now all we have to do is get you out of here.” As they had discussed, Frank left the gallery instantly to stand behind Pigeon Tony, and two courthouse security officers came from the side to flank him, as they would a prisoner in custody. They’d escort him out the secured exit to a waiting car Frank had rented. “I’ve made arrangements to get you out a secure way, where they take prisoners, so you’ll be safe.”
“I no afraid,” Pigeon Tony said quietly, but even with the precautions, Judy found herself wondering if they made bulletproof vests in a size 6X. The Lucia side of the gallery was lingering, evidently making sure that Pigeon Tony got out alive. The Coluzzi faction also filed out slowly, with Marco going with his mother, and John stalling, ostensibly to join Fat Jimmy. Each man eyed Judy pointedly, and if looks could kill, they’d already be in handcuffs.
Judge Maniloff began banging his gavel, loudly this time, his voice more urgent than during the procedure. “Clear the courtroom, please. Clear the courtroom immediately!”
Judy stood guard as Frank guided Pigeon Tony from his chair, and the guards flanked them quickly. “You got him?” she asked Frank, who smiled tensely.
“Don’t worry about him, worry about you.” He glanced back at the gallery, where John Coluzzi stood with Fat Jimmy, his dark gaze morphing into an undisguised glare.
“We’re ready to go, Mr. Lucia,” said one of the security guards, but Frank’s jaw clenched with anger.
“We go nowhere until that asshole is gone and she’s safe.”
“Frank, I’m fine,” Judy said, but the court security officer was already looking in the direction of Frank’s glare.
“Move it along, Mr. Coluzzi,” the guard called out. “We don’t want any more trouble from you.”
“Tell him that!” Coluzzi bellowed, drawing Judge Maniloff’s gavel.
Crak! it sounded, loud. “Clear this courtroom right now, Mr. Coluzzi, or I’ll find you in contempt! Bailiff?”
The bailiff hurried to the gallery, but two other security guards were already in motion, escorting Coluzzi and Fat Jimmy to the door.
Frank was looking at the guard. “You’ll follow her out, right?”
“Fine,” he said reluctantly, but Judy knew she’d lose him outside the courtroom. She’d been watching her back since she left the office and she’d be doing it until the day of trial. “Better get going,” she told Frank.
“Okay.” He nodded quickly and slipped an arm around Pigeon Tony. “I’ll call you, and thanks for everything today, tiger.”
“Grrrr.” Judy managed a smile, wondering when she’d see him again as the guards led them away.
BOOK FOUR
By 1870 . . . these somewhat self-contained communities were becoming the neighborhoods, or “urban villages,” of modern America. The Italian case had also attained a peculiar sociological anomaly that tends to mark most ethnic groups in complex societies. With its own internal order and partial autonomy, the Italian community in South Philadelphia formed a distinctive and separate social system in itself.
—RICHARD JULIANI,
Building Little Italy: Philadelphia’s Italians
Before Mass Migration (1998)
Fratelli, flagelli.
The wrath of brothers is the wrath of devils.
—Italian proverb
28
Tony caught the look on Judy’s pretty face when she said good-bye to Frank, and he felt sad for them, lovers who were not yet lovers, because it was a feeling Tony knew well, its memory deep in his bones. He wanted to tell Frank to go back to her, to run to her, that he would be fine, b
ut there was no time to speak, for the guards had clamped their hands on his arms and were rushing him along roughly, as police do even when there is no need. Frankie, who walked behind, where Tony couldn’t see him, had said that the police were working for them this time, helping them stay safe, but Tony had seen things in the world that his grandson never would, and he knew that in the end, police never worked for anyone but themselves, and that they were rough with others because they enjoyed the sensation it gave them, as the Coluzzis welcomed the pain they inflicted, their depravity so deep it coursed even in the blood.
The police hustled Tony down a plain white corridor, then another, which took a sharp right turn, then a sharp left, then down a flight of white stairs, bearing Tony along so swiftly he soon grew dizzy with the twists and turns, with no landmarks to orient him, or to make one corridor different from the next, and he became a field mouse in a pasture, vulnerable and confused. Fear grew in his stomach, anxiety rising from the police taking him away, and his knees grew weak and his palms damp, as they had so long ago, when his terror had been so real, but then it hadn’t been for him but for Silvana.
It was the second Sunday in August, he could not forget it because nobody could; the second Sunday in August was the Torneo della Cavalieri, a festival in Mascoli since the fifteenth century. Although Tony had heard of the Torneo, he had never been to see it, for he had no time for such diversions and would not have been at this one except that he knew Silvana would be there. In the two months since they had shared their kiss wrapped in a kerchief, they had in fact kissed, as man and woman, seeing each other on a regular basis.
Tony would pack a basket of hard cheese, olives, fresh-baked bread, and juicy tomatoes, with a bottle of home-pressed chianti, and Silvana would meet him, leaving her house with some excuse, but only during the daytime. They would spread out a blanket in the hills around Mascoli, and while their ponies grazed, talk the entire afternoon, confiding in each other, kissing and laughing, and Tony grew to love the hills of Marche as his own, almost as much as he loved Silvana. In these talks, Silvana told Tony that she also saw Coluzzi on some nights for dinner, and that she appreciated the Fascist’s strength and cunning in ways Tony could not comprehend, so that in time the three of them—Tony, Silvana, and Coluzzi—were dancing that delicate tango that occurs when a woman is trying to make up her mind between two suitors.
The Vendetta Defense Page 22
