“Hmmph,” the lawyer snickered to the jury, “you’re quite the entrepreneur, aren’t you? You’ve owned a gun, haven’t you, Mr. Machia?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve always had a gun.”
“Ever use your gun or threaten the life of someone in connection to those drugs, Mr. Machia?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Ever take any of those drugs yourself, Mr. Machia?” Cavello’s lawyer pressed.
“Yes, I’ve taken drugs.”
“So you’re an admitted drug user, a car thief, a burglar, a knee breaker, and oh, yes, a killer, Mr. Machia. Tell me, in the course of your longtime crime dealings, did you ever have the occasion to lie?”
“Lie?” The witness chuckled. “Of course I lied. I lied all the time.”
“By all the time, you mean . . . once a month? Once a week? Every day, perhaps?”
“We always lied, Mr. Kaskel. That was what we did.”
“Why?”
“Why would we lie? To keep out of trouble. To avoid getting caught.”
“Ever lie to the cops, Mr. Machia?”
“Sure, I lied to the police.”
“To the FBI?”
“Yes.” The witness swallowed. “When I was first arrested, I lied to the FBI.”
“What about your wife, Mr. Machia? Or, say, your mother? Ever lie to them?”
Louis Machia nodded. “I guess in the course of my life I’ve lied to just about everyone.”
“So let’s face it, Mr. Machia, what you are is a habitual liar. Basically, you’ve lied to everyone you know. The people you work with, the police, the FBI, your wife. Even the woman who bore you. Let me ask you, Mr. Machia, is there anything you wouldn’t lie about?”
“Yes.” Louis Machia straightened up. “This.”
“This?” Kaskel mocked him sarcastically. “By this, I assume you mean your testimony?”
“Yes, sir,” the witness said.
“The government’s promised you a sweet deal, haven’t they? If you tell them what they want to hear.”
“If I admit to my crimes and tell the truth.” The witness shrugged. “They said they would take that into account.”
“By that, you mean reduce your sentence, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe even to ‘time served,’” the Eyebrow said, wide-eyed, “is that not correct?”
“It’s possible.” The witness nodded.
“So tell us,” Kaskel said, “why should this jury believe you now, when in practically every other instance of your life, you’ve admitted you habitually lied in order to save your own skin?”
“Because,” said the witness, smiling, “it makes no sense for me to lie now.”
“It makes no sense?” Kaskel scratched his chin again. “Why?”
“Because if they catch me in a lie I stay in prison. All I have to do to get my sentence reduced is tell the truth. How ’bout that, Mr. Kaskel?”
Chapter 20
THEY BROKE FOR LUNCH. Andie went out with O’Flynn and Marc, the crime writer, to Chinatown, a short walk from the courthouse in Foley Square.
For a while, as they picked at appetizers, they exchanged stories. Andie told them about Jarrod, about what it was like raising a kid in the city by herself. O’Flynn asked what it was like to work on The Sopranos, and Andie admitted she’d sort of stretched that a little bit: “I was an extra. I exaggerated to get off the trial.”
“Jeez.” O’Flynn stared at her glassily. “Y’just broke my heart.”
“John’s been rewinding through five years of reruns trying to pick you out in the Bada Bing.” Marc grinned, picking up a piece of bean curd with his chopsticks.
“So what about you?” Andie turned to Marc. “What kind of stuff do you write?”
Marc seemed like a cool guy to her. He had longish, curly blond hair, a bit like Matthew McConaughey, and always wore jeans with his navy blazer and open-necked shirt.
“Couple of okay mystery novels—one was nominated for an Edgar Award. I did some CSI and NYPD Blue scripts.”
“So, like, you’re famous,” said Andie.
“I know a few famous writers,” he said, grinning. “Am I making you nervous?”
“Yeah, I can hardly hold my chopsticks.” Andie smiled. “Look at them shake.”
“So I gotta ask you guys.” O’Flynn lowered his voice. “I know we’re not supposed to talk, but this Machia guy, what’d we make of him?”
“We make him to be one coldhearted sonovabitch,” Marc said. “But he does know how to get a laugh.”
“He is a sonovabitch,” Andie agreed, “but when he was talking about his friend, I don’t know, I felt a different side of him starting to come through.”
“I guess what I was really asking”—O’Flynn leaned in close—“is, do we believe him? In spite of all the shit he’s done.”
Andie looked at Marc. Machia was a murderer and a thug. He’d probably done a hundred horrible things he’d never owned up to. But that bit about telling the truth hit home, how he had nothing to gain from lying now.
The writer shrugged. “Yeah, I believe him.”
They both looked at Andie. “Yeah, I believe him, too.”
Chapter 21
WHEN THE JURY CAME BACK from lunch, a behemoth of a man took the witness stand. He was probably three hundred pounds, and he was one of the least healthy-looking people I’d ever seen.
“Can you state your name,” Joel Goldenberger stood up and asked, “and where you currently reside?”
“My name is Ralph Denunziatta,” the heavyset man said, “and I currently reside in a federal penitentiary.”
Suddenly there was an ear-splitting boom that seemed to shake the entire building.
Everybody jumped or covered their heads. It was under-the-table time. There were several loud cries. One of the marshals made a move toward Cavello. No one knew what was happening yet. I stood up and was about to jump over the railing to protect the judge.
Then the noise came again. From the street. Maybe a demolition explosion, or a truck backfire. Everyone looked around as the nervous gasps in the courtroom diffused.
The only one who hadn’t moved was Cavello. He just sat there, looking around, concealing an amused grin. “Don’t look at me,” he said, and nearly everybody in the courtroom laughed.
The trial resumed. Denunziatta was about fifty, with a couple of double chins and grayish thinning hair; he spoke in a soft tone. Like Machia, I’d gotten to know him well. I was the one who had arrested him. I actually liked Ralphie, if you could like a guy who wouldn’t shrug to see you dead.
Joel Goldenberger stepped up to the stand. “Mr. Denunziatta, would you state your position in organized crime?”
“I was a captain in the Guarino crime family.” He spoke in a hushed tone, eyes averted.
“Ralphie D.?” the U.S. prosecutor asked.
The witness nodded. “Yes. That would be me.”
“You have a college degree, don’t you, Mr. Denunziatta?” the prosecutor continued.
“Yes, sir, I do. In business. From LIU.”
“But you never got a regular job? You chose to dedicate yourself to a life of crime?”
“That’s correct.” Denunziatta nodded again. Ralphie’s father was one of Cavello’s henchmen when Ralphie was growing up. “My father wanted me to become a stockbroker or get a law degree. But things were changing. The family was in some legitimate businesses—restaurants, nightclubs, food distribution—so I got involved with them. I thought I could avoid things, you know, the things everyone talks about—the violence, the dirty work.”
“But you couldn’t, Mr. Denunziatta, could you?” Joel Goldenberger asked.
“No, sir.” The witness shook his head. “I couldn’t.”
“And one of those things you couldn’t avoid was involvement in the murder of Sam Greenblatt?”
“Yes,” he said, locking his thumbs.
“And you pleaded guilty to playing a part in that crime, is
that not correct?”
“That’s correct,” the witness said. “I pleaded guilty to murder in the second degree.”
“Why, Mr. Denunziatta? Can you describe your actual involvement in Mr. Greenblatt’s death?”
He cleared his throat. “Thomas Mussina came to me. He was a captain then. He reported directly to Dominic Cavello. He knew some people who worked for me owed the family a favor. Jimmy Cabrule—he had gambling debts. Also Louis Machia—he was looking to be made. He figured this was an opportunity.”
“By ‘opportunity,’” the prosecutor stated, “you mean that if Mr. Machia participated in killing Mr. Greenblatt, he would be rewarded with being formally inducted into the family? Is that correct?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Goldenberger.”
“So, go on, Mr. Denunziatta. Did Mr. Cabrule and Louis Machia carry out this hit?”
“Yes, they did. In front of Greenblatt’s home in Jersey. On the sixth of August, 1993.”
“You seem to know the date well, Mr. Denunziatta. Were you there?”
“I was in the area,” Denunziatta replied.
“In the area . . . ?” Goldenberger cocked his head.
“I was in a car driving around the neighborhood, maybe two blocks away. I heard the shots. I saw Louis and Jimmy C. speed by. Louie’s friend Stevie Mannarino was driving the vehicle.”
“Was anyone else driving around the neighborhood, Mr. Denunziatta? At the time Mr. Greenblatt was murdered?”
“Yes, sir.” The gangster nodded. “Tommy Moose was driving around. In a gray Lincoln.”
“Okay, Thomas Mussina was there. In a Lincoln. Was there anyone else in this car with Mr. Mussina?” the prosecutor asked.
“Yes, there was.” Ralphie sucked in a breath. “Dominic Cavello was in the car.”
“How could you be so sure, Mr. Denunziatta, that it was Mr. Cavello in the car with Thomas Mussina?”
“Because they stopped and waved to me. A few blocks from the hit.”
“But it didn’t surprise you, did it, Mr. Denunziatta? To see him, the Electrician, there?”
“No, sir,” the witness said.
“And can you tell the jury why?”
“Because Tommy told me they were going to be there the night before. He and Mr. Cavello. He said Mr. Cavello wanted to make sure everything was done just right.”
Denunziatta looked up, as if drawn almost magnetically toward the defendant.
Cavello met his gaze with the most chilling, mirthless smile. It had finality to it. Everybody saw it. It was as if the temperature in the courtroom had dropped twenty degrees in a few seconds.
Go ahead, Ralphie, Cavello’s smile seemed to say. Do what you have to do. When this has all played out, I’ll find you.
Dead man walking, Ralphie.
The prosecutor brought the witness back. “So to the best of your knowledge, Mr. Denunziatta, Mr. Cavello knew about Mr. Greenblatt’s murder before it took place?”
“’Course he knew about the murder, Mr. Goldenberger. Jimmy wouldn’t tie his shoelaces without the Boss’s say-so. Everybody knew that. Cavello ordered the hit.”
Chapter 22
MIRIAM SEIDERMAN HAD SEEN the monstrous look, too. It almost brought the proceedings to a halt, as all eyes went to Cavello.
Up to now the mob boss had been on his best behavior, but she knew he was tethered by a slender thread. The first two witnesses had been damaging. She could read the jury on that. Only a complete fool would think Cavello had nothing to do with Greenblatt’s murder.
Yet he just sat there, like he had it all planned out. His life was going down the tubes, and he was above it all: You can’t hold me here. I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger than the whole system. You can’t judge me. It made her shiver.
After trial that day, she met her husband for dinner with a client. Ben was a partner at Rifkin, Sayles, one of the biggest law firms in the city. She listened, tried to laugh. The client, Howard Goldblum, was one of the most successful real estate developers in the city.
But inside, she was scared. She kept reliving the trial. It kept reverberating through her. Something about that man. That he couldn’t be controlled by any system.
She and Ben got home around ten. The alarm was on. The housekeeper had gone for the night. She double-bolted the front door and went upstairs.
She knew she should tell Ben about today. But it was silly, and she wasn’t a silly person. She’d been on a hundred trials. She’d seen plenty of brazen criminals who thought they were bigger than life itself. Why was this one different? He wasn’t! To hell with him.
She watched Ben disappear into his walk-in closet to get undressed, then into the bathroom. She heard him brushing his teeth. She went over to their bed. She pulled off the pillows one by one. Then she stripped down the duvet.
Miriam Seiderman felt her heart slam to a stop.
“Ben! Ben, come out here, quick! Ben!”
Her husband ran into the room, his toothbrush in hand. “What is it?”
Under the covers there was a newspaper, folded open to page two. The headline read, GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.
She was staring at Dominic Cavello. An artist’s sketch. The very moment in the courtroom that had stayed with her all evening.
That look.
She turned to Ben. “Did you put that here?”
Her husband shook his head and picked up the Daily News. “Of course not, no.”
A chill started to creep down Miriam Seiderman’s spine. The house had been locked, the alarms set. Her housekeeper, Edith, had left at four.
What the hell was going on? This was this evening’s paper.
Someone had gotten in here tonight!
Chapter 23
AROUND THAT TIME, in a dimly lit Albanian café in Astoria, Queens, Nordeshenko sat reading a newspaper of his own.
A few customers were at the bar. A soccer game was playing on the satellite, piped in from the home country, and the local boys were drinking and cheering, occasionally shouting in dialect at the screen.
The café door opened. Two men stepped in. One was tall, with ice-blue eyes and long blond locks flowing over his black leather jacket. The other was short and dark, Middle Eastern-looking, wearing a green military jacket over camouflage trousers. The two men took a seat at the table next to Nordeshenko’s. The Israeli never even looked up.
“It’s good to see you, Remi.”
Nordeshenko smiled. Remi was his Russian nickname. From back in the army, in Chechnya. A version of Remlikov, his real name. Nordeshenko hadn’t used it in fifteen years.
“So look what the wind dragged in.” The Israeli finally folded down his newspaper. “Or maybe the sanitation trucks.”
“Always the compliments, Remi.”
Reichardt, the blond with the scar under his right eye, was South African. Nordeshenko had worked with him many times. He had been a mercenary in Western Africa for fifteen years and had learned his trade well. He had been taught how to inflict terrible pain when most boys were learning grammar and mathematics.
Nezzi, the Syrian, he had gotten to know while on duty in Chechnya. Nezzi had once participated in a terror raid against the Russians in which a lot of schoolchildren got killed. Nezzi had blown up buildings, shot Russian emissaries, whatever it took. He could construct a bomb from materials one could easily find in a hardware store. Nezzi had no qualms about anything, no ideologies. In this age of fanatics, it made him a dying breed. Refreshing in a way.
“So tell us, Remi”—the South African shifted in his chair—“you didn’t bring us out here to watch Albanian football, did you?”
“No.” Nordeshenko tossed the newspaper over on their table. Facing them was the courtroom sketch of Dominic Cavello—the same one he had left in the judge’s bed just a few hours before.
“Cavello.” Nezzi wrinkled his brow. “He’s on trial, no? You want us to do a job on him while he’s in jail? We could do that, I suppose.”
“Have a drink,”
Nordeshenko said, signaling the waiter.
“I’ll have one after,” the South African said. “And as you know, our Muslim pal here lives the rigorous life of the Koran.”
Nordeshenko smiled. “All right.” He lifted the newspaper one more time. On the other side was another courtroom sketch, one Nordeshenko had cut out of the paper from the trial’s very first day.
Both killers stared at it. Slowly the message started to sink in.
“You want that drink now?” Nordeshenko asked.
Reichardt’s look said, Lunacy. “This is America, Remi, not Chechnya.”
“What better place to break new ground?”
“Ouzo,” Reichardt called to the waiter.
“Three,” said Nezzi, shrugging.
The drinks came, and over the shouts for the football game, the men slugged them down, wiping their chins.
The South African finally started to laugh. “You know it’s true what they say about you, Remi: you’d be fucking dangerous if you ever got mad.”
“Shall I take that as a yes, you’re in?” Nordeshenko asked them.
“Of course we’re in, Remi. It’s the only game in town.”
“Three more,” Nordeshenko called to the waiter in Russian.
Then he picked up the paper, the sketch of the jury disappearing under his arm. They wanted a trial, these stupid bastards, they were going to get one.
They just didn’t know the meaning of the trial that was in store for them.
Chapter 24
NO ONE WAS ON the witness stand in the courtroom that morning. The press was cleared. The jury was being kept in the jury room. Judge Seiderman stepped in from her chambers and sent a fiery look hurtling toward the defendant in the second row. “Mr. Cavello, I want to see you and both counsels in my chambers, now.”
As the judge was leaving the bench, she caught my eye. “Agent Pellisante, I’d like you to join us as well.”
Our group made its way through the wooden door on the right side of the courtroom to the judge’s quarters. Judge Seiderman took a seat behind her desk, glaring. I’d never seen her so angry.
And she was glaring directly at the defendant.
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