“Huh?”
“In my office, Ms. DeGrasse,” Sharon Ann ordered her.
Slowly Andie rose and, with a roll of the eyes, followed the dour court clerk into the cramped bathroom.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, Ms. DeGrasse,” Sharon Ann snapped as soon as the door had closed.
“W-what I’m up to?” Andie stammered. “I didn’t say anything that everyone in that room hasn’t already thought to themselves.”
Even her sister, Rita. It had been the first thing out of her mouth. Doesn’t it make you a little worried? I mean, they know you, Andie. It’s Dominic Cavello. They know where you live. You didn’t need to be a mother to be worried. Just human. The whole selection process had been right out in the open. “Listen, Sharon Ann, I . . .”
“You’ve wanted off this thing from the very beginning.” Sharon Ann cut her off. “I’m not having anyone poisoning this jury. You got your wish—you’re history, lady.”
Chapter 11
ANDIE RETOOK HER SEAT back in the jury room, blushing, a little embarrassed and hurt. A few minutes later the door to the courtroom opened again, and she found out just what the judge’s clerk meant.
Sharon Ann stuck her head in. “We’re not quite ready yet.” Then she pointed a finger toward Andie, motioning her up. “Ms. DeGrasse . . .”
A flutter of nerves went down Andie’s spine.
“Can you come with me, please? And you can bring your things.”
Andie slowly got up, flashing a resigned look around the table. She was gone!
She followed Sharon Ann into the courtroom, which, to her surprise, was hushed and packed. And all eyes seemed to be centered on her. She felt really embarrassed now, like she was being publicly marched into the boss’s office and fired—just for speaking her mind.
Sharon Ann led her through a side door in the courtroom behind the judge’s bench. A marshal was guarding the hallway. Sharon Ann motioned flatly. “Go in. She’s waiting for you.”
Andie stepped inside the large, book-lined room. Judge Seiderman looked up from behind a desk covered with papers.
“Ms. DeGrasse.” She peered over her reading glasses. “It’s come to my attention you seem to have a bit of nervous stomach of the mouth.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have trouble keeping your mouth shut, don’t you?” The judge looked at her sternly. “It might’ve been amusing during jury selection, but now. . . . We’re about to start an important trial, not a theatrical audition. I can’t afford any troublemakers on this jury.”
Andie stood her ground. “If you’re talking about what I said in there, I actually thought it was a pretty legitimate question.”
“What, Ms. DeGrasse?” Judge Seiderman looked up impatiently.
“Everyone heard our names during selection. And where we live. If we’re married or not. Or have any kids. Anyone in their right mind would be concerned. Certainly, people have raised questions.”
“People?” The judge arched her brows.
“I don’t know. My sister. My mother. When I told them I was on this case. That can’t exactly be a shock to you.”
“Why we opted for how we conduct this trial is the court’s business, Ms. DeGrasse. All you have to know is that if we thought there was the slightest danger to the jury, I assure you it would be our first concern.” Judge Seiderman sat back. She took out an official slip and reached for a pen. “You’ve wanted off this trial from the beginning, haven’t you?”
“I guess. Maybe last week, but . . .”
“But what? I’m about to give you your wish.”
Andie’s heartbeat accelerated. Last week she would’ve killed to hear those words. But over the weekend she’d begun to have a change of heart. She started to see this as a chance to do something decent, something good. She hadn’t done a whole lot before to help people. Never served in the armed forces or the peace corps. Never volunteered for much in the community. Basically, she’d had Jarrod—that was it. And over the weekend, it all kind of settled on her.
“It’s true. I did feel that way,” Andie said. “But if it’s all the same, I came here this morning to serve.”
The judge stopped writing. She gazed up at Andie, a little surprised by what she’d heard.
“You think you can be a positive force on this jury, Ms. DeGrasse? And not cause any trouble?”
Andie nodded. “Yes, if you let me get back in there, I think I can.”
Christ, Andie, all you had to do was keep your mouth shut, and you’d be gone.
Judge Seiderman put down her pen. She took a long, evaluating look at Andie. “Okay, why not? It’s your right to serve.” The judge summoned her clerk. “Ms. Moran, would you mind showing Juror Number Eleven back to the jury room.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Andie smiled.
Heading back to the courtroom, Sharon Ann held the door. “Well, I’m certainly surprised you’re still on this jury.”
“Yeah.” Andie shook her head in disbelief. “That makes two of us.”
Chapter 12
“ON THE MORNING of August sixth, 1993,” U.S. Attorney Joel Goldenberger began, “Samuel Greenblatt, a happily married sixty-two-year-old building contractor, was brutally murdered outside his home in Union, New Jersey.” The prosecutor pointed to a photographic enlargement resting on an easel. It depicted a smiling, slightly balding man with his wife at his sixtieth birthday party.
The jury stared at the face.
“A car pulled up as Greenblatt left for the office that morning. Two men in caps and sunglasses jumped out and shot him, multiple times, as he stepped onto the street. The victim looked at his killers and muttered, ‘Why?’ Then he called out, ‘Frannie,’ the name of his wife of thirty-seven years. Then, to make sure they had finished the job, one of them stood over Mr. Greenblatt’s dying body and calmly put two more rounds into his head. After the gunmen drove away, the first one to find the body was his youngest son, a senior at Rutgers. Members of the jury, you’re going to be hearing a lot about Samuel Greenblatt during this trial.”
One of Goldenberger’s assistants passed out graphic police photographs showing the victim’s bloodied corpse. One or two women in the jury box squirmed and shook their heads. “Now, no one is claiming Sam Greenblatt was an angel. In fact, he had assisted the Guarino crime family on several union-tampering construction jobs. He had secured bogus contracts for the family through the Local 407, a contracting union the family controlled.
“But what the government is saying,” the prosecutor continued, gripping the sides of his table, “and what will be repeatedly backed up by the words of several key witnesses, is that the defendant, Dominic Cavello, gave the direct order for Mr. Greenblatt’s execution. That the very killers were chosen by Mr. Cavello and rewarded by him—with money and promotions in the organization to which they all belonged. And what was the motive for this killing? Why did Mr. Greenblatt need to be eliminated? Because Mr. Cavello and his cronies believed they were the subject of a state law enforcement investigation, an assumption that turned out to be false. They simply thought Mr. Greenblatt could do them harm.”
The prosecutor stepped away. He placed his hands on the jury box. “But the killing didn’t end there. Contrary to the movies, mob hits don’t always go according to plan. What you’re going to hear is that this murder spawned a series of killings, three, in fact—all ordered by Mr. Cavello with the goal of covering up the first one.
“You’re going to hear of union tampering and construction fraud. Of extortion. Loan-sharking. You’re going to hear, above all, that Mr. Cavello was the boss of the Guarino crime family. The Boss of Bosses, in fact, using the Colombian and Russian crime syndicates to do his dirty work, a man whose principal business was to enrich himself at the misery and misfortune of any who stumbled into his way. The testimony you will hear will not be hearsay, as the defense would like you to believe, but facts from people who knew Mr. Cavello personally, who participated
in these crimes. The defense will surely tell you that these people are not exactly innocents themselves. And they’re right. They are criminals, coconspirators, killers. By all accounts, ladies and gentlemen, these are bad guys. The defense will say that it is their job to lie and deceive.
“But make no mistake,” Goldenberger said as he looked each member of the jury in the eyes, “in their stories you will hear the truth. It will be the preponderance of evidence and detail, all backing each other up, that will convince you that Mr. Cavello was the man giving the orders. You will hear the words he used, hear his reactions. And, under the law, that makes him as guilty of the crimes as if he pulled the triggers himself. I hope you will see Mr. Cavello for what he is, ladies and gentlemen: a vicious, cold-blooded killer.”
Chapter 13
LOUIS MACHIA, the prosecution’s first witness, stepped up to the stand and was sworn in. Machia had been a loyal soldier in Cavello’s crime family. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with thick black hair, and was wearing a gray golf shirt.
With a pleasant smile, he looked around the courtroom at the jurors and the press. Never once did his gaze drift anywhere near Cavello.
“Good morning, Mr. Machia,” U.S. Attorney Joel Goldenberger said as he stood up.
“Morning, Mr. Goldenberger.”
“Can you tell us your current address, Mr. Machia?” the prosecutor asked.
“My current address is a federal prison. I’m afraid I can’t divulge which one.”
“A federal prison?” The prosecutor nodded. “So, for the sake of the jury, you’ve been convicted of a crime?”
“Many crimes. Under the terms of my 509 agreement, I admitted to all sorts of them.”
“Can you describe these crimes for us? What you pleaded guilty to?”
“All of them?” The gangster chuckled. “That would take a lot of time.”
Several people in the courtroom laughed out loud. The jury, too. Even Judge Seiderman put a hand in front of her face to conceal a smile.
“How about we start with just the major ones, Mr. Machia?” Joel Goldenberger grinned as well. “The highlights, if you will.”
“The highlights . . .” Machia bunched his lips. “Well . . . murder. Two murders, actually. Attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, breaking and entering, loan-sharking, drug trafficking, auto theft . . .”
“That’ll do, Mr. Machia. You’re right, there is a lot to choose from. So it’s fair to say you’ve been breaking the law for a long time?”
“Pretty much since I learned to use a fork.” Louis Machia nodded thoughtfully.
“And these crimes,” the prosecutor said, “these are all things you’ve planned and executed entirely on your own?”
“Sometimes, Mr. Goldenberger, if I catch your drift. Other times I was told to do them.”
“Told?”
“Ordered, Mr. Goldenberger.” The gangster took a swig of water. “By the family.”
“The family.” Goldenberger stepped toward the witness. “Is it safe to say that for the past twenty years or so you’ve been a member of an organized crime family?”
“Very safe, Mr. Goldenberger. I was a soldier. In the Guarino family.”
“The Guarino crime family. Your Honor, with your permission, I’d like to show an exhibit to the jury.”
One of the assistant prosecutors put a large poster board covered with small photographs on an easel in front of the jury. It showed a pyramid-like family tree of about fifty faces. On the bottom, soldiers; on the level above that, captains; and on the highest tier were the leaders. That’s where Cavello’s face was displayed, above the heading Boss.
“This is a current depiction of the Guarino crime family, is it not, Mr. Machia?”
The witness nodded. “Yes. At the time of my convictions.”
“And that’s your face there, is it not, to the left, among those listed as soldiers?”
He smiled affably. “It’s an old picture. Not my best. But yes, that’s me.”
“Sorry, Mr. Machia, next time we’ll be sure to update it. What I want to know is if you were always a soldier in this family, Mr. Machia, or did you have to work your way up the ranks?”
“Everybody’s got to work their way up. I got in by my uncle Richie. I started doing little jobs. Picking up some cash, stealing a car. A B and E.”
“By ‘B and E,’ you mean ‘breaking and entering’? A burglary?”
“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Goldenberger. Maybe knocking someone’s head clear, so they’d see the light.”
Again, a few snickers trickled through the courtroom.
“And then you graduated,” Goldenberger pressed on. “I mean, from petty stuff, like knocking people’s heads clear, to some of the more serious crimes you’ve admitted to. Murder, attempted murder, drug trafficking . . .”
“I graduated.” Machia nodded. “Only thing I ever graduated,” he said with a crooked smile.
“Please just answer what the government asks you, Mr. Machia,” said the judge, leaning over.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” The prosecutor went back to his notes. “So I want to get back to the way in which you were promoted, Mr. Machia. From an associate to a soldier. If I’m not mistaken, I believe it’s called being made, right?”
“You mean like the ceremony? It was at Melucchi’s on Flatbush Avenue. In the back. They have a private room there. I never even knew. They asked me to drive one of the captains. Frankie Stamps. We called him that because there were two Frankies, and Frankie Stamps was into mail fraud. I figured it was just a meeting. Every one of the captains was there. Mr. Cavello, too.”
“By Mr. Cavello, you mean Dominic Cavello? The defendant? He was there? At that meeting?”
“Sure he was there. He was the Boss.”
“We’ll get back to that later,” the prosecutor said, letting the word boss resonate over the courtroom. “But I’m actually more interested in what got you to that ceremony.”
“What got me to the ceremony?” Machia shrugged. “It was a Lincoln, I think.”
This time, full-out laughter spread throughout the courtroom.
“I meant, what did you do to make yourself worthy, Mr. Machia?” The prosecutor pushed through the laughter. “In order to be promoted.”
“Oh, that.” Machia sat back and reached for his water. He took a long drink. “I killed Sam Greenblatt in front of his house.”
Chapter 14
A HUSH SETTLED over the courtroom. Everybody felt it. Andie DeGrasse couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
One minute this guy’s making a joke, a regular guy. Then he admits to blowing someone away. She’d never heard anyone speak so casually about killing someone. Like he had to run an errand and pick up something at the store.
“You’re admitting you killed Mr. Greenblatt in front of his home?” Joel Goldenberger looked just as shocked as everyone else.
“I already admitted that, Mr. Goldenberger. To the police and to the FBI. I wasn’t exactly proud of it, but that’s how you get ahead in this game.”
The prosecutor stepped back, letting the full effect of Machia’s testimony settle in. Andie recalled the crime pictures, the bloody scene. “Can you describe for the jury how that particular job came to be?”
“All right.” The witness took a deep breath. “I worked for Ralphie D.”
“Ralphie D.,” the prosecutor interrupted. “You mean Ralph Denunziatta, right?” He pointed to a round, heavy face higher up in the family tree. “He was a lieutenant in the Guarino crime family?”
“That’s him.” Machia nodded. “We called him Ralphie D. because—”
“We got it, Mr. Machia. Because there was another Ralphie.”
“Ralphie F.”
“Ralphie Fraoli.” The prosecutor pointed to another face on the other side of the board.
Machia scratched his head. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Goldenberger, I never actually knew what Ralphie F.’s last name was.”
The laugh
ter grew heavier now. This would be good comedy if it wasn’t so deadly serious.
“So your boss, Ralph Denunziatta, contacted you?”
“He said the family needed this thing done. For the Boss.”
“And by ‘this thing done,’ it was understood he meant a job, a hit? It meant you had to kill someone?”
“It was understood what he meant, Mr. Goldenberger.”
“And by the Boss”—the prosecutor faced the witness again—“you took that to mean . . . ?”
“Dominic Cavello.” He pointed in the direction of the defendant. “They said a favor had to be done. There was this guy in New Jersey who was causing problems. Not a protected guy, just a regular civilian.”
“And how did you feel about taking care of this, Mr. Machia? You knew that it meant killing somebody.”
“I knew what it entailed, Mr. Goldenberger.” Machia glanced over toward the jury. For a second, Andie’s blood ran cold. She felt his eyes were fixed on her. “Ralphie told me how they had it all planned out. It would be a cinch. So I mean, I got this friend of mine to steal a car.”
“By your friend, you’re referring to Steven Mannarino?” asked the prosecutor. He stepped back to his table and held up a large picture of a chubby, grinning kid with bushy hair in a Giants football jersey, maybe eighteen.
“Yeah, Stevie.” Machia nodded. “We’d known each other since we were kids.”
“So Mr. Mannarino was to steal the car?”
“And some plates. It was decided the easiest place to hit the guy would be at his house when he came out for work in the morning. What do they call that kind of street that ends in a circle?”
“A cul-de-sac,” the prosecutor said.
“Yeah, cul-de-sac. We had several cars around, patrolling the area. Checking for cops. Tommy Moose was in one—Tommy Mussina. Ralphie reported directly to him. We did a dry run two days before. We tailed the mark. This Jewish guy. He kissed his wife good-bye at the door. Seemed like an all-right guy.”
“But you were willing to go through with it anyway?” the prosecutor asked.
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