by Peter Watson
Fully alert now, Silvio followed Saltram, at a distance. He had to be certain that Saltram was actually going where he thought he was going.
Saltram walked along Chartres, crossing St. Philip’s and Ursulines streets. By now Silvio had no doubts as to the other man’s destination. As Saltram came to Esplanade, Silvio slipped into an alleyway so that he could watch in relative safety. Eduardo stood across the street, some way behind.
Saltram stopped outside the house and looked up. It was two-fifty. Again he patted his breast pocket, then disappeared into the courtyard.
Saltram had used the entrance that Anna-Maria herself used, on Esplanade. Did that mean he had followed her? Did he know whom she met? It was possible he didn’t. Was Saltram intending to shoot his wife, her lover, or both of them? What did it matter anyway? He, Silvio, had to get to Anna-Maria before she arrived. Even if he didn’t turn up for their rendezvous, and she did, Saltram would assume the worst—and God knows what he might do. No man likes being a cornuto, a cuckold.
But how could Silvio stop Anna-Maria? He had never seen her arrive, had no idea which direction she came from. If he didn’t get to her until her carriage stopped outside the house, it would be too late.
He had no choice but to gamble on the fact that he knew vaguely where she ought to be coming from. At least, if she was coming from home.
He turned back down Chartres and made a right on Nicholls. If her cab from the Garden District came down O’Keefe, it would probably cross Canal at University Place and proceed down Burgundy.
A carriage was coming toward him now. He cursed the fashion for curtained carriages: it was impossible to see inside. As the carriage went by he stood in the road and called out, “Anna-Maria! Anna-Maria!”
The carriage rattled on.
He lit a cigarette and looked at his watch. Three o’clock exactly. Anna-Maria was usually a little late, because she liked him to arrive first. But she was never very late. She had to get home afterward.
Another carriage appeared. That too was curtained. Again he called out as it went by. Again it rode on.
He began to sweat.
Saltram was emphatically not a violent man, but sexual jealousy, Silvio knew, could do funny things to people. Look at Alesso Alcamo; he had been driven to extremes. All of a sudden Silvio was thinking of Annunziata. Now that he had made the decision to go back to Sicily, he was calmer inside. His only worry was being caught by the police. There was no death penalty in Italy now, but he would surely be lynched.
That gave him an idea, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. There was another carriage coming toward him. It, too, was curtained.
As it rattled by he shouted out, “Anna-Maria! Anna-Maria!” If he shouted any louder even Saltram would hear him, three blocks away.
Suddenly the curtains were pulled back and a head came out. It was Anna-Maria. She saw Silvio standing in the road and immediately called out for the coachman to stop. It was obvious to her that something was wrong.
Silvio ran to catch up to the carriage. He opened the door.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“Your husband. He’s found out.”
Her hand went to her mouth.
“I spotted him by accident in the street. I followed him—he’s at Esplanade now…. He’s got a gun.”
She nodded abstractedly. “I told you he’s been acting odd lately. And it’s been getting worse. Gruff, drinking. Out of character. Rough on the children, which is very unlike him. What are we going to do?”
“Get away from here for a start.”
“But after that? I must see you, Silvio. You know how I need you.”
“Anna-Maria! He’s mad as hell, strano, crazy, not behaving right. And he’s probably guessed it’s me you’re sleeping with. We’re not exactly strangers.”
“He’ll calm down—”
“Will he? How do you know? He could explode at any moment.”
“I know Dick. He’s not like that.”
“Anna-Maria! I saw him today. He was all keyed up. Smoking. God knows how many drinks he’s had.”
“But he’s not a killer, Silv—”
“Sure he is! If he’s mad enough. You never talked about how much he loved you. Everyone’s a potential killer when their wife is cheating on them. Look, we can talk about this later. We’ve got to get away from here. You’d better—”
A wave of warm air swept over them just then. Before Silvio had time to take it in, a loud boom! rolled over the rooftops, billowing upward and outward, and dissipating toward the river. Silvio looked behind him, to see black smoke rising in the hazy afternoon light. The clatter of falling pieces of wood, shards of glass, and other debris could be heard above the shouting that had broken out. People were moaning, and a dog whined. A woman screamed, and screamed again.
“No!” cried Anna-Maria. “No! Dick, no!” She made to get down from the carriage.
“Stay!” whispered Silvio. “Anna-Maria, please. You don’t want to see what’s happened, believe me. And it’s too late anyway.”
She fought him, raining blows at him, determined to get down, to see for herself what had occurred.
Silvio resisted, holding her arms. Eventually, she collapsed in tears. He hugged her then, feeling her warm, sobbing body against his. “Stay here,” he said more gently. “We both know it’s not safe for either of us to go looking. We must get away. That was meant for me.”
23
The day the trial opened, the courthouse was besieged by hundreds of spectators. At nine in the morning Vittorio Liotta and the other defendants were transferred from the Parish Prison to the courthouse by wagon. The courthouse, St. Patrick’s Hall, was situated at the corner of St. Ann and Conde streets. It was a tall building, with huge windows on either side of the judge’s bench, which had an imposing canopy above it. Outside it was raining.
Silvio stood at the window of the D.A.’s office and looked down into the yard of the courthouse. Clarence Foley had cooperated, allowing him to use his own room, but Silvio was taking a risk in coming here at all. Still, he couldn’t help it. After yesterday’s explosion, which had killed Dick Saltram, he had to see Vito Liotta one more time in the flesh. Not only had that bomb been meant for Silvio, it had been hidden under Anna-Maria’s bed, exactly the same device that Nino and Silvio had used to kill Giancarlo Cataldo all those years before. Liotta might be behind bars but his mind was still active, still creative, still foxy enough to devise a timely, symmetrical revenge. And obviously he still had clout on the street, enough forza to find out where Silvio went in the afternoons.
Anna-Maria was still in a state of shock. She hadn’t been allowed to see the remains of Saltram—they were too grisly. Her attitude to Silvio was mixed; although he had been the cause of her husband’s death, he had also saved her own life. She was at home with Angelo and the children, the house guarded like a fortress.
As Silvio looked down from the D.A.’s office into the yard, the gates opened. Two wagons rolled in, and came to a stop. The doors were thrown open and the defendants began to get down. They were all handcuffed to each other, except for one man. Liotta. He clearly had some extra sway with the guards, for he was left entirely alone. He was wearing a dark gray suit, a white shirt and cravat, and shiny brown shoes. He laughed and joked with the guards, as though he was without a care in the world.
Silvio stared down at him. After a moment Liotta must have felt the weight of his gaze, for he suddenly looked up, to the window where Silvio was standing. Their glances locked and the smile faded from Liotta’s face. Both men knew it was now a fight to the death.
In the courtroom, the public benches were filled long before the trial opened at ten-thirty. One by one, the players in this particular drama began to arrive. The first to come was the press, representatives of the Mascot, the Picayune, the Times-Democrat, and the Delta, as well as René Lefevre, an artist sent by the Delta to sketch the proceedings.
The prosecuting attorney, Clarence F
oley, arrived at about ten-ten. He was a tall, thin, stooped man, with a shock of iron-gray hair that seemed to sprout from his head. He unfolded his papers and sat calmly talking to an assistant. Next in were several police, security in case any of the prisoners tried to escape.
At about ten-twenty-five the defending attorney, James Falmouth, arrived with his aides. He nodded civilly to the D.A. and began setting out his papers on the table provided. Falmouth was a barrel-chested man with sandy hair and a freckled skin. He had big hands.
At ten-thirty-one Judge McCrystal was shown in. Everyone stood and watched as he took his seat.
Without any further ado, a side door in the court was opened and the defendants were shown in. Liotta did not come first. He didn’t want anyone to think that he was in charge, so he came in second from the end. Immediately there was a buzz of conversation across the courthouse as people began to discuss the appearance of the defendants. Neither Silvio nor Angelo was in court, but Parker was.
The clerk of the court stood and began to read the indictment. One by one, in alphabetical order, they pleaded not guilty. Each time they did, a section in the public gallery applauded loudly. Liotta had a great deal of support.
That night Silvio and Angelo met at the Capo’s house in the Garden District. Anna-Maria, wearing her black widow’s garb, had prepared a light supper of spaghetti and tomato sauce. In honor of the occasion, they drank Sicilian wine. Silvio was leaving the next morning on the Priola fruit ship the Ragusa. It was the first time that Anna-Maria had agreed to meet him since the explosion. She looked ravaged around the eyes.
The talk was general until the pasta was finished, Then, when the salad was on the table and the second bottle of wine had been opened, Angelo said, “Jury selection started today. Foley calculates it might take four, five, or even six days. The trial proper won’t start until next week.”
Silvio nodded, helping himself to more wine. “I figured. I should be in Sicily by Wednesday of next week. Thursday at the latest.”
“Then what?” Anna-Maria was belligerent. She repeated herself more softly. “Then what?”
Silvio shrugged. “We’ll have to see.”
“You sure you still wanna go?” Angelo stretched his hand across the table and took hold of Silvio’s wrist. “There’s something you don’t know.” Silvio could see the old man’s forehead glistening with sweat. “My liver. It ain’t what it was. In fact, my liver ain’t much of a liver anymore.” He gulped some wine and then pointed to the glass. “This don’t help much, neither.” He gripped Silvio’s wrist more tightly. “I ain’t got long, kid—sorry, I know you hate that word. I got a year, maybe more, maybe less.”
He sighed. “I’m getting old, Silvio. Maybe I ain’t as foxy as I was but … but I know why Dick was killed. You got to live with that—and so does Anna-Maria.” He squeezed his daughter’s arm.
“Another thing. I heard you been sending fruit to some orphanage. Without my permission.” But Angelo was smiling. “This war’s getting to all of us, you included. You maybe most of all. It’s sad, but Dick’s out of the way … you can have … that wedding you never had before. And, with Dick gone, you’re the next Capo. You sure you wanna risk losing that, in Sicily?”
Silvio took Angelo’s hand in both of his and kissed the other man’s fingers. “Angie, I want it. You know I want it. I earned it. But Sicily comes first. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
“They know you there!” Anna-Maria couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “They know what you look like, they’ll know what you’ve come for!”
Silvio turned his head to look at her. “I’m going,” he said. “You know why. There’s no point in saying another word.”
Angelo sighed and refilled all their glasses. “I can manage Parker, I can manage Foley, I can handle di Passo if need be. But that still leaves the judge. You’ve kept him to yourself so far, but if you’re gonna be away, you better tell me how to play him.”
Silvio nodded. “You’ve got to be foxy.” He smiled. “You can only use the judge once. It’s the last bit of the plan. So you have to pick your moment.”
“How will I know when that moment comes? And what do I say?”
Silvio told him.
On the Tuesday of the second week of the trial, Clarence Foley stepped into the main area of the court. He was dressed in a dark gray frock coat with a white wing collar. He solemnly addressed the jury, which had finally been agreed upon the afternoon before. “Gentlemen, the prosecution’s argument in this case is a simple one. It is simple because, although this cold-blooded and cowardly murder has received massive publicity, the facts of the matter are themselves very simple, and easily stated. On the night of March twenty-third David Martell, chief of police of New Orleans, a most wonderful man, was gunned down in Girod Street as he walked home. He had just eaten a late dinner at Virgut’s oyster bar after a long and hard day’s work running this city’s superb police force.
“He was alone as he turned into Girod Street and walked toward the house he shared with his mother. He was alone as he passed the corner of Girod and Basin Street. And it was there that he was attacked, set upon by six or seven men who fired a number of gunshots at Chief Martell, in a most cowardly and despicable manner. The chief was hit several times and fell to the ground. He had drawn his own weapon but had time only to fire it into the ground as he fell. Seeing him fall, and believing him dead, the cowards ran off.
“But Chief Martell was not dead, not then, and people soon came to his aid. Other police were summoned and he was taken to Charity Hospital. Police inquiries into the shooting were begun there and then, and a number of arrests were quickly made, mainly because people had seen the gunmen running away from the scene of the crime and could therefore identify the assailants.
“It is these witnesses who will be called before you, gentlemen of the jury, so that you can judge for yourselves the merits of their evidence. At this stage, I need to add two other things. One is a sad reminder that although he didn’t die on the sidewalk, as his assailants no doubt intended, Chief Martell did die, the next morning. Which is why this is a murder trial.
“The other matter concerns the appearance in the dock of that gentleman—” Foley pointed dramatically to Vittorio Liotta. “Vittorio Liotta was not present at the shooting and certainly did not himself fire a gun that night. Why, then, you may ask, is he in the dock with the others? I will tell you.
“He is in the dock because he is the leader of a Sicilian family—a gang—in New Orleans. The Liotta family. And they are one of two such families in this city whose bitter rivalry has created so much crime, and culminated in this dreadful murder. These gangs, these Mafia families, are mercifully new in America, but they are centuries old in their native Sicily. It is your opportunity, and also your duty, gentlemen of the jury, to help stamp out this scourge before it grows any stronger on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Vittorio Liotta organized this crime. It was his idea and all the detailed planning was his, as I shall show you, down to the use of a young boy to give the signal that Martell was approaching. Vittorio Liotta may not have been in Girod Street on the night David Martell was shot, but he is every bit as guilty of murder as the other defendants.
“Now, you may ask why Mr. Liotta and his associates would wish to murder Mr. Martell. Again, the reason is horribly simple. Some months ago, as a result of an attack on one Sicilian gang in New Orleans by another Sicilian gang, an attack in which a member of the general public lost an eye, a number of Mr. Liotta’s associates were arrested. This was not unreasonable, as the victims of the attack were all members of the Priola family, the Liottas’ deadly rivals. Unfortunately, after a number of witnesses had either disappeared or changed their testimony, proceedings against these individuals had to be dropped, and they were released.
“Mr. Martell had made the arrests in the earlier case. Therefore, this second attack, on Girod Street, was a simple but deadly act of revenge against Chief Martell, which is why so many of these defe
ndants are, in fact, here in court for the second time today.
“I trust that on this occasion, gentlemen of the jury, they will not be allowed to go free again. You can see what happened the last time they were let off the hook.” Foley sat down.
James Falmouth, for the defense, was less flamboyant but no less impressive. Though he had large, ugly hands, he used them expressively, like an Italian. His father had been named Giacomo Falmozzo.
“Gentlemen, you have heard from the district attorney, who has promised to convince you that the men in the dock carried out this heinous crime. Well, for our part, on this side, we shall be agog to see what evidence he brings into court. But the fact of the matter is, your responsibility in this matter is far graver than even he suggested. For we stand here on the edge of the greatest miscarriage of justice that there has ever been in the United States. Quite simply, gentlemen, the defendants are totally innocent of the charges so maliciously brought against them.
“As I hope to show, all of them have alibis—and convincing alibis at that. Of course, it is clear that someone killed Chief Martell. As to who that someone might be … well, I believe that may emerge in the course of this trial. From that, I believe you will see clearly why Vittorio Liotta and his business associates have been arrested. This is a most despicable case, which lays bare all the rivalries and tensions that can exist between businessmen. But business rivalry is one thing, a healthy thing on which the prosperity of this fine country has been built. Crime is something else entirely. I say to you now, as I shall say to you later in this trial, that none of the men sitting in the dock today, none of them, is guilty of the offenses they are charged with.” He sat down.