The Vendetta Defense

by Lisa Scottoline

  “You know what it is. He doesn’t want to think he got away with murder, because to him, it’s not murder. It’s not just that he’s not guilty—he’s innocent.”

  “Then it’s done,” Bennie said simply, cutting Judy off with a chop and checking her watch. “We have two minutes until we go in.”

  Judy couldn’t stop shaking her head. She grabbed Pigeon Tony by both of his hands. “Pigeon Tony, do you understand that after you testify, Mr. Santoro can ask you questions? All sorts of questions?”

  “Si, si.” Pigeon Tony nodded, unfazed.

  “Mr. Santoro will not be nice to you, he will be very mean. He will try to make you look like a very bad man. He will ask you, ‘How did you murder him?’ He will say, ‘Tell the jury exactly how you broke poor Angelo Coluzzi’s neck.’ ”

  “I tell. I kill. No murder.”

  “It will be awful! Santoro will tear you apart! He can keep you up there for days! You hardly even speak the language!” Judy wanted to cry, but she had to keep a tenuous grip or she couldn’t save him. “The jury won’t like what you say! They will say, ‘This man is a killer. Let’s give him the death penalty. Put him to death!’ ”

  “Si, si.” Pigeon Tony half smiled, and his eyes, hooded with age, met Judy’s with a sort of serenity. Behind them Judy saw a strength she hadn’t noticed before, but also a folly. The bravest men got themselves killed. The pioneer was the one with the arrows in his chest.

  “Pigeon Tony, please don’t.” If she had to beg, she would. “I am begging you.”

  “Judy, no worry.” Pigeon Tony squeezed her hands. “You ask questions, inna court? Si?”

  Judy blinked back tears. She couldn’t imagine it. She would have to take him through it on direct examination. “Yes,” she said, but her eyes filled up anyway. She didn’t want to see him dead, or even in prison. She didn’t know it until now, but she loved him.

  “Ask me, I tell Silvana. Ask baby Frank. Ask tomato. Ask how Silvana die, inna stable. I tell. Like before, yesterday. I tell.”

  Judy remembered. She had been transported by his stories. But she wasn’t a jury. And nothing had been at stake, least of all Pigeon Tony’s life. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she let go of his hand to brush it away.

  “Everything okay, you see, Judy. Judge see. Jury see. Alla people see. Say me, how you see Silvana, Pigeon Tony?”

  Judy’s lips trembled and she couldn’t speak. Bennie had fallen silent.

  Frank sighed audibly. “Juries can do whatever they want, can’t they, Judy?” he asked.

  Judy wasn’t holding any false hope. “At least they can’t kill him twice.”

  Bennie shot her a disapproving look. “Yes, Frank. Your counsel should be telling you that there is something called jury nullification, which means the jury simply ignores the law and does what it thinks is just. It happened first a long time ago in the Old South, where white juries wouldn’t convict white men who lynched black men. Since then it has occurred, only rarely, in mercy killing and domestic abuse cases. But it is very rare.”

  “Very rare,” Judy echoed. “Like winning-the-lottery rare.”

  “Andiamo!” cried Pigeon Tony abruptly, clapping his hands together in excitement. His eyes were shining and his face was bright, and for a minute he looked positively victorious.

  Judy knew it couldn’t last.

  47

  “Pardon me, Ms. Carrier?” Judge Vaughn asked, trying to hide his astonishment as court resumed after the recess. Even the judge’s eyebrows curled like question marks. Tugging at his robes, he leaned over the dais, as if he had heard Judy wrong. “What did you say, counsel?”

  “The defense calls Anthony Lucia to the stand, Your Honor,” Judy repeated, and Judge Vaughn blinked in surprise. Judicial decorum prevented his commenting, That’s what I thought you said, bozo.

  Santoro wasn’t half as polite. At the prosecutor’s table he didn’t bother to hide his glee. He was smiling and alert, rejuvenated after the melee with Jimmy Bello. Santoro had gone from the nadir to the zenith faster than you can say vocabulary words. If he took fake notes he could write, WHAT ARE YOU, STUPID?

  Pigeon Tony rose next to Judy at counsel table, and she helped him to the witness stand, where he sat down behind the Bible and was sworn in by a rather startled clerk. Judy returned to the podium, holding her head high and trying to regain her professionalism after the waterworks in the conference room. If Pigeon Tony was determined to do this, she was determined to mitigate the damage, even if this murder trial had become an assisted suicide.

  Judy took the podium, gripped the edges, and found herself face-to-face with the tiny man who looked like a bird, in the cage that was the witness box. Her throat caught at the sight and she remembered the day she had first met him. How cute he was. How little. She prayed the jury would see him that way. It was almost all he had going for him, and she started feeling emotional again.

  “Judy?” Pigeon Tony whispered from the witness stand, and the jury reacted with soft laughter. Even the court personnel were smiling.

  Only Judy was on the verge of tears, looking at him. Nobody would tell him it was against the rules to talk to your lawyer from the box. He was on his own now. His fate was his own, and his karma. Judy believed in it, and it gave her heart. If anybody’s past could redeem his future, it was Pigeon Tony’s. But his lawyer still couldn’t chase the tears from her eyes.

  “Ms. Carrier?” Judge Vaughn said, moving his hand from underneath his chin.

  “Sorry, Your Honor.” Judy wiped her eyes and bit her lips to control their tremor. God! What an idiot! She was a lawyer! In a courtroom! Ask a question, dufus! “Mr. Lucia, please tell the jury where you are from, originally,” she blurted out, then realized it was only the stupidest question in the world.

  Pigeon Tony turned slightly toward the jury, as relaxed as if he were conversing over Cynar in a piazza café. “I am from Italy,” he said. “Abruzzo, Italy. You know, Italy?” He pronounced it Eeetaly, his accent flavoring his words as strongly as sweet basil, and the front row of the jury smiled collectively. One juror, an older schoolteacher in the front, even nodded. Judy remembered she was Italian and had family that were Abruzzese. Most of the Italians in South Philly were Abruzzese.

  Judy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She had to get it together. “And Pigeon Tony—wait, can I call him Pigeon Tony?” Judy wondered aloud, but didn’t wait for the judge to rule. Why the hell not? Her motto had always been, Don’t ask permission, apologize later. She was making up her own rules as she went along. After all, she had already called an expert witness whose conclusion she disagreed with. It was a slippery slope.

  “Sure,” Pigeon Tony answered with a grin. “Alla people, alla people here calla me Pigeon Tony.” He looked up at Judge Vaughn, who had been peering at him from behind his knuckles with a mixture of bewilderment and delight, neither of which Pigeon Tony noticed. “I have pigeons. Birds, you know, birds? They race, my birds. The Old Man, he come back. Soon. This, I know.”

  “That’s nice,” Judge Vaughn said politely, then hunched toward Pigeon Tony. “Mr. Lucia—”

  “Calla me Pigeon Tony! Alla people calla me Pigeon Tony! Even judge!”

  Judge Vaughn laughed. “Okay, Pigeon Tony, I heard you say that you are from Italy. Do you feel the need for a translator? We can have one brought in here very quickly.”

  “No, Judge. I no need. I know. I hear. I unnerstand.” Pigeon Tony pointed to his temple. Judy wanted to cover her face with her hands, but the jury burst into laughter.

  “Uh, Pigeon Tony,” Judy said, but when she had his attention, was too upset to think of a question. Talk about a slow start. She tried to remember her client’s coaching in the conference room. Every lawyer needs a smart client, to give them advice. Everything okay, you see, Judy. Alla people see. Say me, how you see Silvana, Pigeon Tony? Judy translated. “Pigeon Tony, please tell the jury how you met your wife, Silvana.”

  Pigeon Tony swallowed, his Adam’s ap
ple moving like an elevator. “I was young, but a man, I go to race. In Mascoli, with birds. You know, Mascoli?” He paused, and only when one of the jurors shook his head no, did he respond. “Is city, near Veramo, where Pigeon Tony live. Mascoli big city.” He spread his arms wide, which for his wingspan meant three feet. “Rich city. Not like Veramo. Veramo small, very small city. Alla farmer, in Veramo. You know, farmer?”

  The front row nodded and smiled. Yes, they knew farmer. Santoro was frowning. Judy made a real note on her legal pad, trying to recall the stories Pigeon Tony had told her the other day, and at other times. FIRST KISS, WITH TOMATOES. PICNIC IN THE WOODS. FIRST REAL KISS. THE DAY AT THE TORNADO.

  On the stand, Pigeon Tony was saying, “I see Silvana, onna cart, and her hair, it shines. Shines in the sun! Only dark, brown. Soft. Like earth. Rich.” He rubbed his fingers together, crumbling imaginary soil in his hands. “So beautiful. A woman, like earth she is beautiful!”

  Judy noticed that the front row of the jury, five of them older women, were engrossed in what Pigeon Tony was saying. Santoro’s frown had grown deeper. It got Judy thinking. If Santoro was hating it, maybe it was good. Maybe there was hope. She made another note. THE DAY PIGEON TONY KILLED ANGELO COLUZZI.

  Then again, maybe not.

  After three hours of direct testimony of Pigeon Tony, Judy was down to her least favorite story. The others had gone in beautifully, but this one couldn’t. She straightened at the podium and let it rip. “Pigeon Tony, let’s begin with you walking into the back room of the pigeon-racing club on the morning of April seventeenth. Where was Angelo Coluzzi when you came into the room?”

  “Near shelf.”

  Judy didn’t bother to fetch the exhibit. They were beyond exhibits now. Beyond laws. “Did you know Mr. Coluzzi was in the room when you opened the door?”

  “No.”

  “So you were surprised to see him?”

  “Si, si.”

  “You mean, yes?”

  “Yes.” The word sounded strange coming from Pigeon Tony’s mouth, and he managed to stretch it to two syllables, like Yays-a.

  Judy thought about the best way to couch the story. “You opened the door, and Mr. Coluzzi said something to you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did Mr. Coluzzi say to you?”

  “He laugh. He say, ‘Look who come in! A buffoon! A weakling! A coward!’ ”

  On the dais, Judge Vaughn was listening alertly. The court personnel, who usually did paperwork while court was in session, were listening, too. Santoro was taking rapid notes. Judy didn’t have to see the gallery to know what it looked like. She kept her focus on Pigeon Tony.

  “Please explain to the jury why he said that, Pigeon Tony.”

  His face flushed. “I no avenge Silvana. I go to America. I no make vendetta.”

  Judy thought it might be time for the short course. Vendettas 101. “What was wrong with that?”

  “Man must honor vendetta, must take eye for eye.”

  The schoolteacher on the jury gave a slight nod, and Judy knew she had at least one vote. Maybe the schoolteacher would be foreperson, please God. Judy kept an eye on the jury as she asked the next question. “Pigeon Tony, why didn’t you honor the vendetta? Why didn’t you take an eye for an eye?”

  “I no want to kill,” he answered, after a moment. “I no want to kill nobody, never.” He turned to jury. “I grow olives, in Italy. Tomatoes. Zucchini. I no want to kill. I grow.”

  Judy breathed a relieved sigh. “What did you do next, after Mr. Coluzzi called you a coward?”

  “I say to Coluzzi, you pig. You scum. You worse coward than me, for you kill defenseless woman.” Pigeon Tony turned to the jury. “My wife, Silvana,” he said, needlessly. Judy knew the jurors would never forget his account of the day he found Silvana in the stable, with his little son standing behind him. Two in the front row had wept openly.

  “Then what did Mr. Coluzzi say to you?”

  “He say, ‘You are a stupid, you are too dumb to see I destroy you. I kill your son and his wife, too. I kill them in truck and soon I kill Frank and you will have nothing.’ ” Pigeon Tony trembled, newly anguished, and several of the jurors gasped. The schoolteacher’s eyes narrowed with Abruzzese anger. Even Judge Vaughn shifted in his leather chair.

  “Then what happened?”

  “My heart is so full, and I say, ‘I kill you,’ and I run and I push him. I run at him, fast. I no think, I run, and I push, I shove. I no can believe how hard! He falls and shelf fall, and I make noise, and alla things offa shelves.”

  Judy focused on something she hadn’t before. “So, the scream was you, and not Mr. Coluzzi?”

  “Si, si. Yes, and alla people come in—Tony, Feet, Fat Jimmy. They say, ‘You break his neck,’ and I see, é vero, I break his neck!”

  Judy paused. It was death, after all, and it deserved its moment. It wouldn’t serve Pigeon Tony to gloss over it, and he looked stricken on the stand. The jurors’ faces were uniformly grave and several of them were looking toward the gallery. Nobody had to tell Judy that Coluzzi’s widow and family would be crying. She had to deal with it.

  “Pigeon Tony, are you saying, in open court, that you broke Mr. Coluzzi’s neck?”

  “Yes.”

  “In your opinion, was that murder?”

  Santoro was on his feet. “Objection! Your Honor, the witness is not a lawyer. His opinion about whether his act constitutes murder is a conclusion of law, irrelevant and prejudicial!”

  Judy shook her head. “Your Honor, the defendant is entitled to state his own personal belief about his own actions. His state of mind is always at issue in a criminal case.”

  Judge Vaughn mulled it over, looking from one lawyer to the next, then returning to Judy. “You may proceed. Objection overruled.”

  “Pigeon Tony,” Judy said, facing him directly. “Is it murder?”

  “No! Is killing, no is murder. Is no murder because Coluzzi kill my wife, Silvana. And my son and his wife, Gemma.”

  Judy watched the jury, but they didn’t react one way or the other. There was nothing left to tell. That was it. Pigeon Tony had told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. She hoped to God it didn’t kill him. But a detail was nagging at her.

  “Pigeon Tony, I have one last question. In the back room, after you pushed Mr. Coluzzi, why did you scream?”

  Pigeon Tony blinked. “I no know,” he answered quietly.

  But Judy did. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  Judy let it go, for now. “I have no further questions. Thank you, Pigeon Tony.”

  “Prego, Judy,” he said with a polite nod, but this time the jury remained unsmiling.

  She left the podium only reluctantly, aching inside as she took her seat at counsel table. She had done the best she could, and so had Pigeon Tony. There was no way she could predict what the jury would do. It would depend on how Pigeon Tony held up on cross-examination. Santoro was already on his feet with his notes and stalking to the podium, filled with the righteous anger that was regulation-issue to prosecutors. But this time, even Judy thought it was justified.

  She tried to relax in her chair. The only thing harder than assisting a suicide was watching one.

  In slow motion.

  Santoro glared from the podium at Pigeon Tony. “Mr. Lucia, is it your testimony that you believe Angelo Coluzzi killed your wife?”

  “Si, si.” Pigeon Tony straightened in his chair, which still brought him only six inches over the microphone. “Yes.”

  “Did you report this to the Italian authorities?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they bring charges against Angelo Coluzzi for this alleged murder?”

  “No. No do nothing.”

  Santoro raised a warning finger. “Confine your answers to yes or a no, Mr. Lucia, do you understand?”

  “Sure.” Pigeon Tony nodded, and Santoro clenched his teeth.

  “So the Italian police brought no char
ges against Angelo Coluzzi?”

  “Coluzzi the police.”

  “Mr. Lucia!” Santoro shouted so loudly that Pigeon Tony startled at the witness stand. “Only yes or no is proper! Do you understand me?”

  Pigeon Tony fell silent.

  “Do you understand me? Answer the question!”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want a translator? Yes or no, Mr. Lucia!”

  “No.”

  On the dais Judge Vaughn shifted in his leather chair, and Judy considered objecting but made herself stop when she saw the jury’s reaction. A few eased back in their seats, which she read—she hoped correctly—as distancing themselves from the scene. If Santoro was going to yell at Pigeon Tony, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing for the jury to see. For the jurors who liked him, it would increase their sympathy. For the jurors who hated him, at least they see him get some comeuppance. It was in Pigeon Tony’s interests for Judy to shut up, so she did.

  “I’ll ask again, Mr. Lucia, you do understand me, don’t you!”

  “Yes.” Pigeon Tony’s face fell, deep parentheses around a mouth that loved a smile, fissures on a forehead remarkably unfurrowed most of the time. The browbeating changed Pigeon Tony’s demeanor on the stand, and to Judy’s eye he seemed to shrink, his shoulders sloping, his eyes becoming opaque and guarded. Pigeon Tony knuckled under on the spot, and Judy wondered if it was an ingrained response, from growing up under Fascist rule.

  If anything, it encouraged Santoro. “Now, I’ll ask this again,” he said, his tone stern. “The Italian authorities ruled your wife’s death an accident, did they not?”

  “Yes,” Pigeon Tony answered quietly.

  “They came to your house and investigated her death, did they not!”

  “Yes.”

  “And they decided that it was an accident, did they not!”

  “Yes.”

  “They decided that she fell from the hayloft, didn’t they!”

  “Yes.”

  Santoro’s fingers tightened around the podium. “Now, your wife died sixty years ago, isn’t that right!”