“So, you’re saying you’ve made up your mind.”
“I’m leaning toward my decision. Strongly leaning. We’re talking about the capital count here. Nothing more. The rest of the convictions still stand. Second- and third-degree murder, kidnapping, aggravated assault, unlawful restraint, false imprisonment, conspiracy, possession of an instrument of crime. Heady stuff, Michael. A second-degree conviction carries a life sentence without the possibility of parole. It’s not like he’ll be skipping out of the penitentiary and traipsing down the Yellow Brick Road.”
“Twelve of his peers found him guilty of a capital crime. I got a first-degree conviction and the death penalty at the first trial. I’ll get it again.”
“Stop feeling like all of this is your responsibility, Michael. You need to let go of it at some point. You didn’t fuck up. It’s all part of the game. It’s too bad your father-in-law isn’t still on that bench,” Kettleman says wistfully. “He would have injected the fucking bastard himself despite believing the little fairy probably had it coming for offering to suck some lowlife’s dick.”
Michael understands why Kettleman’s hesitant to roll the dice again. The Court of Appeals has concluded the artfully worded and carefully crafted jury instruction proposed by the Commonwealth and adopted by the trial court failed to adequately charge the jury of the necessity of finding beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant charged as an accessory had the same requisite intent to kill as the actual perpetrator in order to find him guilty of a capital offense. The Commonwealth’s star witness will not be available to testify at a retrial. Last Christmas Eve, Thornton’s Harley was broadsided by a drunk teenager who lost control of his SUV on the icy road. Steven Kettleman is reluctant to risk the chance that, without a dead biker’s damning testimony about an agitated and blood-splattered Corcoran’s statements that fateful night, a second jury might find Tommy’s histrionic denials of culpability believable.
“Look, you need to get your mind off this. Focus. I’ve been talking to the Big Dog. He said he’s willing to meet you. As a favor to me. Think about what his support will mean when you run to succeed me. Name one other candidate for a fucking county office who will be endorsed by a former President of the United States.”
Michael’s patient suffering under the yoke of this self-promoting blowhard is about to pay off in spades. Kettleman’s just accepted the governor’s offer to head the Office of General Counsel of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. He’s being advised by an established team of political operatives that a move to Harrisburg will better position him for a run in the next midterms at a House seat in a congressional district rapidly turning blue. Michael will be named as the interim DA and is being encouraged to place his name on the ballot and run for the office at the end of Kettleman’s current term.
Michael Rocco Gagliano. District Attorney of the County of Delaware of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Back on track for an appointment to the federal bench or election to the state supreme court. The promise of the Note Editor of the Penn Law Review and member of the Order of the Coif, his ambitions having lain fallow for too many years, is about to be fulfilled at long last.
“Christ, I loathe this place. Why does he always schedule these events here?” Kit sighs, with the exasperated resignation she reserves for those who are definitely NOCD, Not Our Class Dear.
“He worked his ass off to get his mug up on that wall,” Michael says derisively. Steven Kettleman, son of a dry cleaner from the village of Forest Hills in the Borough of Queens, takes an inordinate pride at being among the elected officials and political dealmakers whose crude charcoal caricatures have been selected to grace the mural of local personalities and sports icons on the dining room walls of the Philadelphia political establishment’s favorite haunt. His portrait, vaguely resembling some cursed offspring of Colonel Sanders, is front and center, between the governor and Julius Erving. Kettleman’s mug is visible from every table in the room, more prominently featured than two United States senators and the last three mayors. “You think he’s going to pass up any opportunity to let it be admired?”
“Bitter, party of one,” she says teasingly.
“You haven’t just spent an hour sitting in traffic with him, listening to his bullshit rationale for not retrying that fucking savage on a capital charge.”
Even Kit is surprised by this news. Kettleman’s insistence on a vigorous prosecution of one of the vicious predators charged with killing that harmless young gay man had earned him national attention. He’d received an award from GLAAD and now has a second career as the keynote speaker at the annual banquets of the Human Rights Campaign Fund and Lambda Legal. It’s impossible to believe he’d alienate a possible constituency when he’s about to run for the House of Representatives.
“He’s worried about an acquittal on the capital charge without that Thornton kid’s testimony. He says that justice will be served by letting that animal rot in jail.”
“Michael, maybe he’s right. I don’t know. You’re out for blood. You’re too close to the situation. You need to put some distance between yourself and the ghost of that poor dead boy.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he says, in no mood for sage wisdom and advice. “I’ve had enough Steven Kettleman for one day. I don’t think I can stomach watching him swanning it up for the goddamn governor.”
“Go get a drink” she says. “An hour. We’ll put in an hour and leave,” she promises as she heads toward the Women’s Way contingent huddled at the end of the dessert buffet. These are serious women of a certain age, none younger than perimenopausal, all well groomed and expensively coiffed, with a flair for obscenely expensive scarves from exclusive London and Paris shops and pieces of large jewelry purchased at museum craft shows. Their excitement is palpable from a safe distance across the room. The campaign has been a call to arms for this army of accomplished Boadiceas, women who, despite their numerous professional accomplishments, feel they’ve been shunted aside and ignored, rendered invisible, marginalized, since their bodies started to sag and their faces began to show the signs of age.
Kit comes rushing back to share the news, giddy over the rumor racing through the crowd that the President of the United States of America is about to make his grand entrance.
“Bush is coming to a Democratic fund-raiser?” Michael asks, incredulous.
“President Clinton,” she says. “I just heard President Clinton is going to make a surprise appearance.”
A lousy evening now threatens to be even worse. Michael grows depressed at the thought of anticipating the spectacle of a room full of awestruck middle-aged women reduced to bobby-soxers, swooning over a legendary cocksman you’d think they’d want gleefully castrated for the epic humiliations endured by the long-suffering wife they adore. Instead they defend his integrity, refusing to hold him accountable for his despicable betrayal. They want to wrap him in their arms and give him a big, reassuring hug. And none of them will mind if he pinches their ass. In fact, they’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t.
A wave of nervous energy races through the room as all heads turn toward the entrance, hoping to see the famous shock of thick white hair. Steven Kettleman is gesturing theatrically at his anxious assistant to clear a path for the wildly anticipated arrival. But the excitement peaks and quickly plummets when the governor comes bounding through the doorway and the former president is nowhere to be seen.
“Maybe he’s stuck in traffic,” Kit says hopefully.
“You can always have a lovely chat with the governor,” Michael says, needling her.
“Oh God, look. He’s coming this way.”
The room seems more crowded, much more densely peopled than just a few moments ago. Everyone is gravitating toward the gubernatorial presence, a magnet that pulls mere mortals into its orbit. He can’t be, won’t be, ignored, sucking up all the oxygen in the room and leaving the masses gasping for air. The governor slowly plows through the sea of bobbing heads; his awkward-looking
body—a thick, brawny trunk tapering to spindly legs and dancer’s feet—is surprisingly agile. He grabs every extended hand and slaps every back, satisfying his carnivorous need to touch. His smile is actually a wicked grin, all exposed teeth, confrontational, daring you to resist him. He’s a man of the people, the salt of the earth, an unrestrained id with no use for nuance and subtlety. He sweeps through the room, stuffing his face with smoked salmon and capers from the trays of the passing waiters and spitting tiny pieces of pink fish into the faces of the well-heeled contributors he greets by name.
“Mike, it’s good to see you!” the governor shouts as he vigorously pumps Michael’s arm.
The governor is the only person on earth granted a pass to get away with using the hated diminutive “Mike.”
“Governor. You’re looking good.”
“It’s great, just great, that Steve’s naming you the interim. You deserve it, Mike. You can count on me to do whatever I can for you after you announce,” he assures Michael as he moves along to pounce on his next victim.
It’s after seven o’clock. Mariano had promised to return in an hour when he left early this afternoon to show off his brand-new Cannondale bicycle, a gift from Frankie, to his less-fortunate friends. Frankie’s going to trim his thick black locks, give him a clean, sharp neckline and trim around his ears so he’ll make a good impression on the lawyer Michael’s arranged for them to meet tomorrow. He’d taken a cab to Macy’s in Center City late this afternoon to buy Mariano a white oxford-cloth button-down and a pair of chinos, knowing Immigration and Citizenship Services isn’t likely to be impressed by a black shirt of clingy rayon and high-waisted pants chosen to flatter a bubble butt. Mariano won’t be pleased with the outfit Frankie’s chosen for him, but, in the end, pragmatism must prevail over a commitment to fashion, at least until he has the appropriate papers.
He tries Mariano’s cell, getting only voice mail, Spanish gibberish he assumes are instructions to leave a message. Finally, at long last, his own phone rings, but it’s only Jack, calling to update Frankie on the events of the day. He’d spent the morning with the parish finance director, reviewing the revenues and bemoaning the low balance of the building maintenance account. The roofers were in this afternoon for an estimate on the repairs to the flashing and tomorrow an engineer is scheduled to assess the water damage to the ceiling. He had a Pre-Cana meeting with Pete Delvecchia’s teenage grandson and his six-months-pregnant fiancée.
“And I just got back from Pennsylvania Hospital, where I gave Sal Pinto the last rites.”
It’s the fourth time in the past year the old bastard has received the sacraments.
“What’s the matter with you, Frankie? You don’t seem too concerned.”
“I am,” he lies, anxious to get off the telephone. “It’s just that I’m expecting a call from my brother. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Michael had one too many bourbons at the fund-raiser and slept the entire drive home, to the great relief of his wife, who was able to listen to the BBC report on the uptick of sex trafficking in North Africa without the distraction of her tipsy husband bitching about the Third Circuit and Steven Kettleman and Tommy Corcoran’s lucky break. But now that he’s undressed and lying in bed, he’s wide-awake and his mind is obsessing over the injustices of the world. It’s not fair to Carmine Torino. Not fair to the young man’s heartbroken parents. Not fair to the law-abiding citizens of the Commonwealth. And not fair to Michael Rocco Gagliano, who’d earned that conviction with blood, sweat, and tears only to have it stolen from him by a panel of constipated judges. These days it’s easier to get away with murder than it is to get a mortgage.
“Michael, please,” Kit pleads, unable to sleep lying next to her agitated husband. He apologizes, gets out of bed, pulls on his boxers, and closes the bedroom door behind him.
His wife is right. He’s obsessing. He should never have accepted the assignment, but Kettleman had appealed to his vanity, citing his years in the pressure cooker of the Philly DA’s Office, insisting he didn’t trust any of his other deputies to handle such a high-profile case. It was too personal, too familiar. From the moment he heard of the crime, mere hours after it was committed, he couldn’t think of Carmine Torino being tortured and murdered without seeing his brother’s charred body lying in that bed, dying in excruciating pain, hideously punished for being different.
He considers a nightcap, but heads for the freezer instead. He wolfs down a bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup. Still hungry, or at least still needing to eat, he carries the leaky carton to the family room and sprawls on the couch. There’s a DVD in the player in the family room, Pinocchio, much to his surprise, a movie Danny hasn’t watched for years, having moved on from Disney fairy tales to the noise and flash of video games and live-action adventure. Anything less than a nuclear blast elicits a yawn and complete disinterest, if not utter contempt. But apparently a nine-year-old who’s been pulverized by Spy Kids still seeks out the gentle charm of Jiminy Cricket when no one is around to tease him for being a baby. Michael has loved this fucking movie for forty years. And now technology lets him skip all those cloying scenes in the workshop with the kitten and the goldfish and start the movie as Geppetto sends naïve and trusting Pinocchio off to school with nothing more than an apple and a book satchel to defend himself against the conniving and treacherous Honest John and Gideon.
“Dad.”
Danny’s timid voice startles him. He looks forlorn and scared in the soft blue light cast by the television screen. His eyes are puffy, ringed with dark circles. Hobgoblins and ghosts are keeping him awake again tonight.
“What’s the matter, buddy? Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I heard something.”
“It’s just the television.”
“No. Upstairs. In my room.”
“You want me to go up with you? Make sure there’s no one there?”
“No. I want to stay down here with you.”
It’s going to be hell getting him out of bed in the morning. House rules are lights out by nine, but Kit’s the enforcer and Michael welcomes the company tonight.
“Can I have some?” Danny asks, looking longingly at the carton of ice cream in his father’s hand.
“Just don’t drip it all over your mother’s carpet or we’re both dead meat,” Michael warns him. Danny’s satisfied after a few bites and they lie together on the sofa. Danny’s back is against his father’s chest; Michael drapes his arm over his son. Danny, content, safe from the wild things stampeding three floors above, is completely absorbed in the little wooden boy’s adventures. Sleep is out of the question as Pinocchio and Lampwick disembark from the ship and step onto Pleasure Island.
“Whoa, buddy. You smell like a wet dog.”
“No way.”
It’s obvious Danny hadn’t showered before bed and his hair needs a strong dose of shampoo. Michael remembers the long-ago days when he couldn’t resist pressing his nose to his son’s sweet-smelling, powered skin. That little baby has grown into a stinky kid, just as his father had been at his age, always coming up with some excuse for avoiding a bath. But the poor hygiene of boys about to enter adolescence doesn’t deter his dad from hugging him and kissing the crown of his head.
“Way.”
“Bullshit.”
“Hey, don’t let your mother hear you talking like that or she’ll wash out both of our mouths with soap.”
“She just says that, Dad. She never does it.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. I thought you said this movie was for babies.”
He kicks Michael in the shin, hard. His feet are almost comically big for a boy his age. He’s growing every day. His favorite jammies are already too small; soon he won’t fit into them at all. His body feels both remarkably strong and impossibly fragile. He’s still got a trace of a cold. His breathing is shallow and his nose is chapped from constant wiping. He shudders as Lampwick sprouts a pair of donkey ears and a tail and, finally, morphs into a s
hrieking jackass.
“Dad?”
“Yep?”
“How come those boys turned into donkeys?”
“You know why. They were being punished for being bad.”
“Did they turn back into boys when they said they were sorry?”
“Well, it was too late. Donkeys can’t talk so they couldn’t say they were sorry.”
“Did those boys die when they turned into donkeys?”
“It’s only a fairy tale, Danny. It’s not real.”
Because if it were, Tommy Corcoran would morph into a jackass and be marched to the slaughterhouse to be melted down into glue.
Halfway through Leno’s monologue, just as he’s about to wash down an Ambien with a glass of white wine, Frankie hears the front door slam shut, then a terrible crash and a blast of angry Spanish, followed by hysterical laughter. He races down the stairs and finds Mariano sprawled on his ass. The front wheel of the Cannondale is wedged between the broken shelves of the étagère and jars and bottles are spinning across the tile. Mariano doesn’t look like he’s hurt. No fractured bones are protruding from his arms and legs and there aren’t any bloody gashes. He doesn’t even seem uncomfortable. As a matter of fact, he looks perfectly content to sit on his bum, amused by the wreckage. He slaps away Frankie’s hand when he reaches down to help him up.
“Are you all right?”
It’s obvious all’s not well, but Frankie doesn’t know what else to say. All he can do is start picking up the shampoos and conditioners and styling gels and try to salvage the salon so nothing looks out of the ordinary when Della Infermiera arrives for her cut and color at nine. He’s uncomfortable and wary. This isn’t his Mariano. It’s some imposter with the same face and a key to his front door. The boy seems harmless enough, giggling as he tries to pull himself to his feet. Frankie’s not exactly afraid of him, but he’s apprehensive. Some wild energy is emanating from him and Frankie knows a frisky, playful kitten can quickly turn into a vicious and nasty cat if it’s feeling threatened. And then Mariano pounces, jumping on Frankie’s back and knocking him to the floor. He laughs like it’s all fun and games. He says he wants kisses, big kisses, but there’s nothing that feels like love in his frantic, grasping hands. This isn’t desire or passion. There’s no trace of alcohol on his breath; his erratic behavior can’t be explained by cerveza or tequila. But something’s unleashed this feral beast, some drug or chemical.
The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter Page 18
