by Peter Watson
Angelo shook his head.
Again there was silence around the table.
“All we can do,” breathed Parker at length, “is hope and pray.”
Angelo shook his head. “No, there’s still one card we can play.”
The other man looked at him.
“We wait for the defense to end their case. Then di Passo has to give evidence.”
“The judge will never allow it,” said Parker. “The prosecution has completed its case.”
“But there’s a precedent,” said Angelo quietly.
“Oh yes? How do you know? You a legal expert?”
“No. But it was a trick used against us, way back. In New York. An English priest, who’d been scalped. He gave evidence for the prosecution after the defense had finished their case. It worked against us then. Maybe it’ll go the other way now.”
The Serra de Moneta was a far more difficult observation post then Pratomeno. Because the abbey of Quisquina was three thousand feet above sea level, Silvio had to be higher than that if he was to properly observe all its comings and goings. But at that height there were no trees and he was forced to hide behind rocks and boulders. That made his vigil uncomfortable.
Strictly speaking, he didn’t have to do this, not yet. The plan he had formulated did not call for him to see Annunziata, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to see her as soon as possible, even if it was only from a distance, when she couldn’t see him. He had ridden over from Vallelunga the previous day, on a journey that had brought back memories, taking him closer to Bivio Indisi than he had ever been before. Before he had left Vallelunga, however, he had seen a good deal more of Alesso and was satisfied that he was not heavily guarded and that he followed a simple routine. Silvio had bought bread at a bakery on the way and helped himself to water from the fountain of a village he had passed through. He was as content as the circumstances would allow.
He focused his telescope on the abbey. Monks were still working in the almond groves as they always had. Once he fancied he saw Luigi Garofali, who had been there the night it was decided that Nino and Silvio should go to America, but he couldn’t be sure. As yet there was no sign of Ignazio Serravalle or Annunziata.
Silvio didn’t yet know how he was going to kill Alesso, but he wasn’t worried. The wedding was still a few days away, and between now and then there were things to put in place. As far as he was concerned, it was a stroke of good fortune that the house auction came first. That fitted his plan perfectly.
He suddenly noticed a flash of color to the left of his field of vision. A woman’s dress? He was right. A woman—or a girl—was approaching the main gate of the abbey, up the long incline that he knew so well.
But it wasn’t Annunziata. The dress was blue and the woman’s hair was jet-black, more like Silvio’s own than Zata’s. The woman stood at the main gate and pulled at the bell. After a short delay a monk appeared, talked to her for a few moments, then admitted her.
An hour passed. The high sun beat down on the rocks of the serra, making the mountains almost white with heat. Above him an eagle, wings outstretched, circled on a current of warm air, looking for prey. Silvio had visited the abbey often enough to know that the visitor would be there for at least three hours. She would be fed, offered water and wine, and rest. She would not leave until the day began to cool.
Around three-thirty she reappeared. She stepped through the gate, and a woman in a black dress came after her. Silvio knew from the way that this second woman moved that it was Annunziata, even before he refocused his binoculars. His heart beat faster. She was as blond as ever, her skin as clear. There were the same lines around her face. Yet there was a change that he could detect even at this distance. She was listless. It was as if a light inside her had been extinguished.
As Silvio watched, the two women embraced. Then the woman in the blue dress turned and began to descend the incline away from the abbey gate. Annunziata stood and watched her go. After about a hundred yards, the woman in blue turned and waved to Annunziata, who raised her arm, then stepped back inside the abbey, closing the door behind her.
He had seen her. Inside him, he now knew, the same fire still burned. It was right that he had come. He had never really doubted that it was, but it was good to have it confirmed all the same. He took out the ring he still carried with him, and kissed it.
Suddenly he was jolted out of his reverie. The woman in blue had nearly reached the foot of the long incline in front of the abbey and was a good deal closer to him than she had been before. He now recognized her face. He had seen her before—in Vallelunga. Had she brought Annunziata a message from Alesso? And, if so, what? Had Smeralda betrayed him?
On the Tuesday of the third week, the defense finished presenting its case. There had been thirteen witnesses for the prosecution but twenty-three for the defense, all alibi witnesses. Foley had been able to dent some of them, but none so convincingly as Mrs. Aquila. It was difficult to know what the drip-drip effect of so many witnesses was having on the jury.
So, after Falmouth sat down, Foley rose. “Your Honor, in the few days since the prosecution finished its case, a new witness has become available. I had known about him before but had assumed he wouldn’t be giving evidence since he was too ill. Over the weekend, however, I have been informed that his recovery is now taking place and he is anxious to do his civic duty—”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Falmouth was on his feet. “The defense has had no notice of this witness. The whole idea is most irregular.”
“I agree it is irregular, Mr. Falmouth. The question is: Is the new witness important? Mr. Foley?”
“I would be happy to explain in chambers, Your Honor.”
“Yes, I think you should.”
The two attorneys and the judge adjourned to the judge’s room, off the court.
“Now, is this another eyewitness, Mr. Foley? You’ve had thirteen and I don’t see how—”
“No, judge.” Foley explained about di Passo, how he was a Pinkerton agent and had been infiltrated into the jail to eavesdrop on the defendants.
Falmouth became agitated as Foley began this story, and eventually very angry. “Judge!” he screamed. “You can’t allow this witness. The evidence was obtained illegally and by the most tawdry piece of deception. It is an outrage.”
“Calm down, Mr. Falmouth. You are not in front of the jury now. Have you anything more to say, Mr. Foley?”
“Yes, Your Honor. This is an important witness because his evidence is so unlike that of the others. It tends to corroborate what the others had to say, yet adds a lot of detail about how the Mafia works in New Orleans. He could be a very important witness, not just for this case, but in regard to criminal activity on a wider scale. Also, he caught dysentery in the prison, which is why we didn’t think he could give evidence. He risked his life for this case and wants his day in court.”
“I’m not interested in his health, Mr. Foley, or in the light he may throw on wider criminal practices. I agree that he may provide new evidence, but I’m not sure I want to create a legal precedent with such a move. That could give grounds for appeal—”
“There is a precedent, judge. The People versus Greco and Randazzo, 1881. A priest who had come to New York to give evidence, but whose boat was delayed—”
“Yes, yes. I remember the case, Mr. Foley. Thank you.” He turned to the other man. “I’ll allow this testimony, Mr. Falmouth, and no more arguments, please. The trial has already gone on long enough.” And with that, they returned to the courtroom.
The main house at Fontana Murata was handsome. There was no doubt about that. It was large, made of yellow Cammarata stone, had a wide terrace and a formal garden that sloped away from the front of the house. There were box hedges, alleys of cypress trees, an ornamental pond, dried up at the moment.
Silvio had followed Alesso here. At a distance, of course. He had watched, earlier in the day, as Alesso had saddled his mule, in the courtyard of his house, and rid
den north out of Vallelunga with another man. They had headed west, toward La Catena, along the road that paralleled the new railway, past the road that joined from the north, from Valledolmo, until they reached the Regalmici crossroads, where they turned right onto the Fontana Murata track.
At first Silvio hadn’t known where they were headed and hadn’t cared. He just wanted to study Alesso, to get as close to him as he could, so that he knew his man when the time came. He watched now as Alesso dismounted in front of the main house. It was obviously deserted and closed up. Alesso strutted this way and that, as if he were inspecting the property, as if it were already his. He took a knife from his boot and played with it, throwing it expertly at a tree trunk.
As Silvio watched this performance he made himself a silent vow: Annunziata would never live in this house.
Guido di Passo appeared in the courtroom, pale and emaciated, his eyes like dark sockets, his neck scrawny. His voice was quiet. He took his place tentatively on the stand and read the oath. Falmouth glared from him to the dock, where, as soon as di Passo had appeared, Gino Fazio had begun to fidget.
Clarence Foley took the Pinkerton man through his story very slowly. He began with his training. He then moved on to his other cases, to demonstrate his credentials. Everyone had heard of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and the court was utterly silent, spellbound, as he recounted his efforts to mastermind their capture. Even Fazio stopped fidgeting.
Then Foley brought di Passo back to the case in question. He described the meeting in Chicago, where he had been introduced to Parker and been offered the job by William Pinkerton. He did not mention Angelo Priola. He described his journey to Amite, and the Astoria Hotel. He described his arrest, how he had nearly been shot by a fellow resident when he pretended to make an escape, and how he had deliberately been infiltrated into the prison and put in a cell with Gino Fazio.
All through the story, the public galleries were enthralled and the press scribbled away in earnest. Foley led di Passo through Fazio’s deteriorating behavior. The Pinkerton detective explained how Fazio began confessing his part in various crimes on Liotta’s behalf. He had, for example, described his initiation into the Mafia.
“Please tell the court what he said,” Foley asked.
“He said it took place outside the city, in the countryside. He said there was a ceremony. He had to hold a piece of paper on which was printed a holy image. Someone pricked blood from his finger, and he had to drip blood onto the image. He said the image represented the authority of the Mafia, which was as absolute as the church’s. The blood showed he was joining a brotherhood. Then the image was set on fire and Fazio was forced to pass it from one hand to the other until it was all burned up—the singeing of the flesh symbolized the pain he would feel if ever he betrayed the brotherhood.”
Next, di Passo told how Fazio had described their attack on the ice factory, and another incident, in which a steamboat captain who refused to accept bribes had been murdered.
Falmouth tried to interrupt several times. “Your Honor, I object wholeheartedly to this line of questioning. These events have nothing to do with this case. Mr. Foley is willfully misleading the court.”
The judge looked at the prosecuting attorney. “Well?”
“Your Honor, I agree that so far all this witness has given us is background information. But I maintain it is important to show the court what sort of people the defendants are. And I shall shortly be addressing the main issue.”
The judge nodded. “Very well. You may proceed, Mr. Foley, but please get to the main matter as quickly as possible.”
Foley wouldn’t be hurried, though. Di Passo was going down well, and he knew it. As the truth was revealed Gino Fazio was becoming more and more agitated in the dock, and the jury could not help but notice. In fact, by now Fazio was a good bit more than agitated. He would occasionally call out, shouting “Rubbish!” or “Not true!” when di Passo was speaking. Several times the judge ordered him to be quiet.
Finally, Foley brought di Passo around to the shooting of Martell.
“Did Gino Fazio ever discuss the shooting of David Martell with you?”
“Yes, he did.”
Utter silence in the court. Even Fazio was still.
“What did he say?”
“He said he knew who had done it.”
A buzz of noise went through the court. In the dock Fazio was not shouting anymore, but sat whimpering in his seat. “He’s lying. It’s a lie. He’s lying.”
“Did he mention any names?”
“No, but he said he knew not only who had pulled the trigger that night but who had organized it and why it had been done. I’m afraid that both he and I had dysentery very badly at that stage and we were both very weak.”
“I understand, Mr. di Passo, and the court is grateful that you have been able to give this testimony, despite your illness. I won’t keep you much longer, but please tell the court if Gino Fazio said anything else relevant to this case while you were in Parish Prison together.”
Di Passo hesitated, for effect. “During our conversations, he said that, although he knew who killed Martell, he didn’t know everything. He said there was only one man who knew everything. Then, one day as we were going to the washrooms, he pointed out this man who knew everything, in another cell.”
“And can you see that other man, the man who knew everything, in the court today? Look very carefully and tell us if that man is here.”
“Oh yes,” said di Passo. “I’ve no doubt. That’s him.” And he pointed at Vito Liotta.
Alia was a big village, twice the size of Vallelunga and nearly as big as Cammarata. It was situated on the side of a hill, the Zappalanotte, and consisted of six streets, three of which came together to form a triangular-shaped piazza in front of the church. Here there was a café, a bank, and not much else.
Silvio was still following Alesso. The other man had continued on here after Fontana Murata, which now appeared to have been the secondary reason for the journey. Alesso had been in the café for more than two hours, and Silvio, watching from the ruins of a cottage beyond the far side of the square, had observed a regular stream of people visiting the café. As Don of Alia, Alesso appeared to be fulfilling his obligations. A single bodyguard sat outside. Silvio had no doubt that he was armed.
By now Silvio had a good picture of Alesso’s routine. It was hardly exciting, scarcely matched the bustle of life in the French Quarter, but that was so much the better from Silvio’s point of view. He still hadn’t fathomed exactly how he was going to end Alesso’s days, but it would come, it would come.
He thought about New Orleans from time to time, but he didn’t want to dwell too much on the trial. If he did he would only worry that Liotta might have gotten off and he had to concentrate on the job at hand, if he wanted to achieve what he had come all this way to do. He had to rely on Angelo.
He wondered about Nino and his escape. The old fox had been so near death. Now this. Even if Liotta got off, he’d have to contend with Nino now, as well as Silvio himself.
He brought his mind back to Alia. Alesso was leaving. Silvio watched as the two men mounted their mules and rode off south, back toward Marcato Bianco and Vallelunga.
He let them go. It was time to make the next move.
Guido di Passo’s evidence created a sensation. Foley’s examination had finished at about half past three on that Monday, so the judge had adjourned the trial for the day. Tuesday’s papers were dominated by the prosecution’s revelations. LIOTTA FINGERED AS MAFIA CHIEF, said the Times-Democrat. DRAMATIC JAIL CONFESSION REVEALED said the Picayune.
Borgo Regalmici was about halfway between Cammarata and Vallelunga, a tiny hamlet on the slopes of Mount Perziata along the road that led to the Dominican convent at San Giovane Gemini. Silvio had never been there. All he knew was that this was where Luca Mancuso lived.
Silvio had shown no sign of recognition when Ruggiero mentioned that Mancuso was one of the Priola rivals, i
nterested in buying Fontana Murata, but he hadn’t let it pass him by.
He had never met Luca. He had seen him, across the square, that time when he had shot Gaetano in revenge for Nino’s betrayal, but that was all. Of course, he could scarcely hope for a warm reception today, having killed Luca’s son. But if the old man would hear him out, there ought to be a way forward.
He asked the first person he saw where the Mancuso house was, and was directed to a large farm to the south of the hamlet. He rode up the main track, past farm buildings and machinery, and left his mule tethered to one of three small oak trees that formed a copse. The farmhouse and outbuildings were arranged around three sides of a courtyard, rather as in Bivio Indisi, and he walked toward a large door set into the wall of the main house. Before he could reach it, however, a voice to his right said, “Yes?”
He stopped, and turned. Two men sat at a table under a porch. One was old, gray, and squat. The other was about Silvio’s age, and just as thin and dark. He got to his feet.
“I am looking for Luca Mancuso,” said Silvio quietly.
“Who wants him?” replied the older man.
Silvio, having stared into Gaetano Mancuso’s eyes before he shot him, saw the family resemblance there and then, even though the shooting had been twelve years ago. Before replying, he put his hand in his pocket, where his gun was.
“Sylvano Randazzo.”
Both of the other men grunted in amazement as he said this. Their reaction might have been more violent but for the fact that Silvio had now taken out his gun.
“You are Luca Mancuso?” Silvio asked the older man.
The old man nodded.
“Mr. Mancuso, I have some information for you. Valuable information.”
“Why would you bring me information? Information about what? Why should I trust you? You killed my son.” He indicated the other man. “Primo’s brother.”
Silvio looked at Primo, then back to his father. “I’ve ridden a long way and I’m thirsty. Offer me some wine and I will tell you.”