by Peter Watson
“No wine,” growled Luca Mancuso. Then he gestured to a jug. “Water.”
This wasn’t going to be easy but Silvio had never thought it would be. Sicilians were like the church: they didn’t change. He accepted the water jug which Primo held out, and drank directly from it. He put the jug down.
“You are interested in buying Fontana Murata—yes?”
For the first time the impression on Luca Mancuso’s face altered. But all he said was: “Go on.”
“I understand from Palermo that the government recently completed a geological sweep of Sicily. There is coal under Fontana Murata. The property is far more valuable than anyone thinks. I’m told the expected price is roughly two hundred million lire. I can tell you that the Priolas have set aside three hundred million, not expecting anyone to go that high. But the property is actually worth more, much more. If, at the auction, you outbid the Priolas, you will become one of the richest men in Sicily.”
Luca Mancuso eyed Silvio warily. “Why are you telling this to me? To make amends for killing my son? You think you can buy his life back?”
Silvio brushed sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Mancuso, your son was killed because he betrayed the entire family at Bivio Indisi. Because of your son, Nino and I had to flee to America and many people died. Gaetano deserved to die, and if I hadn’t killed him someone else would have.” He paused. “You know in your heart that what I say is true. You have never sought revenge—because you know that would have been unjust.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m doing this for my own reasons. I never planned to blow up the orphanage, to kill those children. Alesso Alcamo did it to trap me—because he wanted to be Don, the Capo, and because he wanted Annunziata. I had to escape to America for a second time, and while I was away there was a deal made between the Priolas and the Liottas. Alesso is now Don in Alia and will live in Fontana Murata, with Annunziata, unless I stop it.
“It so happens that the estate is currently owned by the English priest who Nino kidnapped. Or rather by his sister, since his death. If you outbid the Priolas, and pay more than three hundred million lire for Fontana Murata, the priest’s sister does well, you become rich—and Alesso loses. It’s a happy fact, maybe, and given what’s happened, that the Englishwoman and you should benefit from my plan. But believe me, my main aim is to ensure that Alesso loses. I want him to lose Fontana Murata and then I want him, the Priolas, and the Liottas to know that I outthought them all. Then I shall kill Alesso. Sono sciocco? Am I a fool?
“That is why I’m telling you all this. I ask nothing from you except silence—that you tell no one I’m here. So I can complete what I came to do.”
He stood facing them, waiting for a response. Luca Mancuso was a shrewd man, a true Sicilian cynic. What Silvio had told him was all perfectly true, but Sicilians always looked for the twist in the story. “Never forget the fox has a tail” went the saying. This time there was no twist in the story, but Silvio could only hope that Luca Mancuso was astute enough to recognize that.
The three men stood, staring at each other for almost a minute. The Mancusos were in the shade but Silvio was in the full glare of the sun.
Luca Mancuso never took his eyes off Silvio, but he eventually spoke to his son. “Primo,” he growled. “Pass him some wine.”
On the Tuesday, Falmouth rose for the cross-examination of di Passo. “Mr. di Passo,” he began. “Do you see Gino Fazio in the dock this morning?”
Di Passo looked across to the row of defendants. “No.”
“The reason Mr. Fazio is not in the dock this morning, Mr. di Passo, is that last evening, after the trial proceedings concluded for the day, he suffered a severe nervous breakdown. This is the second time Mr. Fazio has been unable to attend court because of his health, but last night’s breakdown was brought about by your behavior, Mr. di Passo. Are you proud of yourself?”
“Objection!” Foley was on his feet. “This aggressive line of questioning is irrelevant to the main issue, Your Honor.”
“Overruled,” said the judge.
Falmouth steamed ahead. “Does it give you pleasure to reduce someone who is clearly nervous by nature to a gibbering wreck? Is that why you became a private detective, to victimize suspects?”
Di Passo was clearly unnerved by this line of questioning. He hesitated before answering, tentatively, “No, it doesn’t.”
But Falmouth wasn’t interested in his answer. He wanted to make an impression with the jury. “Who chose Gino Fazio as the man you were to share a cell with?”
“The governor of Parish Prison, I suppose.”
“And the governor, naturally, knew who the most vulnerable man in the jail was. What an unholy conspiracy, to pick on this hapless creature who is clearly so unstable that almost nothing he says while he is under duress can be relied upon.”
Foley was on his feet again. “Your Honor, we may all agree that Mr. Fazio is not well, today. But does that invalidate what he told Mr. di Passo in prison, a conversation that took place over a number of days, at all times of day and night, and when there was no pressure put on Mr. Fazio other than that he put on himself, by doing something that landed him in jail?”
“Thank you for your guidance, Mr. Foley. I am sure we shall all bear it in mind. Mr. Falmouth, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I’d now like to ask you, Mr. di Passo, whether at any time Mr. Fazio told you the name of the person or persons who had killed Chief Martell?”
“Not in so many words.”
“I’m sorry, but what does that mean: ‘not in so many words’?”
“No.”
“So, when he said that he knew who had done this killing, he could have meant anybody, anybody at all.”
“Yes, but—”
“Thank you, Mr. di Passo. For all you know, he could have meant that the murder was committed by someone not in jail at the time he made his statement to you.”
“Yes, but—”
“Thank you, Mr. di Passo.”
“Hold on a minute,” said the judge. “What were you going to say, Mr. di Passo?”
Falmouth looked angrily at the judge, but di Passo said quickly, “I was just going to say that if he knew who killed Martell, and if that person wasn’t in jail with him, why was he so frightened to tell me?”
Falmouth ignored him. “I come back to the point I was making: it is a fact, is it not, that you spent several weeks in close proximity to Mr. Fazio, during which time you say he told you all manner of things about this so-called Mafia underworld and yet he never—not once—gave you the name of the person who killed Martell? Isn’t that true? Please answer yes or no.”
“Yes,” said di Passo. “It’s true.”
“Which leads me to this thought, Mr. di Passo. Or rather a thought which I will frame as a question. You have seen Mr. Fazio, as we all have. He is clearly unstable and unwell. People in that state sometimes like to impress others since they are so … well, lacking in self-confidence. Mr. Fazio may well be such a person. Therefore, I ask you this: Do you think that when Mr. Fazio told you he knew who had done this killing, do you think that in fact he was telling the truth? Did he actually know, or was he showing off?”
Foley was impressed. Falmouth was doing a good job of sowing the seeds of doubt in the jury’s mind.
“I had no doubt at the time that what he told me was the truth.”
“The truth as it was or the truth as he saw it?”
“I had no doubt that he knew who killed Martell.”
“And now?”
“I … I have no doubts now either.”
Foley rubbed his chin. Di Passo had done his best. He had said he had no doubts but … he had hesitated, showing the jury that he did have doubts but wasn’t admitting them.
Falmouth recognized that he had gone as far as he could, and sat down.
Foley rose. “Your Honor, no more questions.”
“Very well,” said the judge, looking at the clock on the courtroom wall
. It was 11:40 A.M. “I think we will recess now for lunch. We shall reassemble at one-thirty instead of two, when I shall hear counsels’ concluding remarks.”
Silvio picked up an old shoe. This was the room in which Annunziata and he used to make love, so this shoe, a man’s shoe, could well be his own. He looked about the room again. He wasn’t sure why he had come back to the bivio. One reason was that he had to kill time while he waited for the auction. But there were other reasons, of course. His life in Sicily had been cut short suddenly, beyond his control. Life at the bivio had been cut off in much the same way, as was evident from the remains he had found so far. To judge from the rubble, the state of the cupboards and drawers, the beds and the outside sheds, people had left in a hurry and hardly anyone had returned.
It was depressing. Flies buzzed everywhere. He went down the stairs and out the back. He looked down to the dried riverbed. How unlike the Mississippi was this pathetic stream. It symbolized the difference between the size and strength of America and the thin, arid presence of Sicily. He hadn’t thought that when he was last here; now he did.
He turned to go. It was a mistake to have come back.
“Gentlemen of the jury, this has been a long case but not, I think, a complicated one. The facts of the matter are not in dispute.” The judge put on his spectacles and scrutinized a piece of paper in front of him. “David Martell was chief of police of New Orleans and, on the night of March the twenty-third, was shot, receiving eleven wounds from which he died the next day. There is no doubt that someone, or some people, murdered him. The question for you is therefore as simple as it is awesome: were those killers the same people as now sit before you in the dock of this court?
“Essentially, the evidence you have been asked to consider is straightforward, too. The prosecution presented you with a long line of witnesses who say they either saw the killing, or saw people with guns running away from the killing, and then they identified those people as one or other of the individuals in the dock. It has to be said, I think, that the defense called attention to several discrepancies in their accounts and it is for you to judge what importance to attach to those discrepancies.
“The defense, for their part, presented an equally long line of witnesses, all of whom provided alibis for one or more of the defendants. Again, I should point out that the prosecution then took issue with several of these alibi witnesses, presenting affidavits to the effect that these particular alibi witnesses had not been where they claimed to be.
“The evidence of Mr. Guido di Passo was quite different, as I am sure you appreciate. He is an employee of the Pinkerton’s Detective Bureau, and on the initiative of Mr. Parker, the mayor of New Orleans, and with the cooperation of the prison authorities, Mr. di Passo was infiltrated into the prison, apparently as a common criminal himself, and once there he shared a cell with one of the defendants, Mr. Gino Fazio.
“Now, first let me address the morality of the situation whereby Mr. di Passo entered the prison. I, as the judge in the case, have allowed this testimony and it is not for you to decide whether I did right or wrong. I have decided that Mr. di Passo’s evidence was admissible and that is the end to the matter. You must judge Mr. di Passo’s evidence as you judge the evidence of all the other witnesses.
“What is a matter for you is the exact detail of what Mr. di Passo said to you. He outlined that Mr. Fazio told him a great deal about the underworld, but that when he came to discuss this case, what he actually said was that Mr. Fazio had indicated that he knew who had done it. You may feel that in the context of the other conversations which Mr. Fazio had with Mr. di Passo, the meaning was clear enough. Alternatively, you may feel that whereas Mr. Fazio was very explicit on other matters, he was vague—or rather ambiguous—on this one issue, and that the difference is important. That is a matter for you.”
Judge McCrystal went on in this remarkably evenhanded way for several hours, reminding the jury of evidence they had first heard nearly three weeks before, and impressing on them that such evidence was every bit as important as evidence presented only a few days before. His summing-up lasted until the next morning, but at about eleven o’clock he was done and the jury was sent out.
The court officials moved onto other business, but the spectators, lawyers, and newspapermen involved in the case hung around the lobby of the courthouse, waiting.
An hour passed and lunch was sent in. Three o’clock came and went. At four-thirty, the jury asked for refreshments. At six, the judge sent word to ask if they were likely to reach a verdict that night. Came the reply: it was unlikely. And so at half past seven, under the strictest security, the jury was transferred to the St. Charles Hotel, where accommodations had been reserved for them.
Angelo Priola, Harrison Parker, and Clarence Foley met that evening at nine in the Pickwick Club.
“The longer the jury takes, the more likely they are to acquit—isn’t that the accepted wisdom?” Parker looked at Foley.
The attorney shrugged. “That’s what the newspapers always say. But I’ve known juries to convict after days in the jury room. Don’t forget there are thirteen defendants. They may be arguing about which ones are guilty and which ones aren’t.”
“They will acquit,” growled Angelo. “Get used to the idea. What they are arguing about is whether to convict one or two of the minor characters. In that jury room they all know that if they convict Liotta, they will suffer. But nine out of the twelve jurors are small businessmen. They know perfectly well that if they acquit entirely, they are going to be the most unpopular men in New Orleans—after Liotta and his men, that is. Their trade will suffer, their children will be picked on, their clubs will kick them out. Right now they are cursing the day they ever got involved in this trial. They are also dragging it out so that they can all say to their friends that they tried to argue for a conviction but were outvoted. Each man will find some area of doubt to hinge his acquittal on so he can tell himself he didn’t compromise.”
No one had anything to say as Angelo completed his bleak analysis.
“The jury no longer matters,” said Angelo after a while. His chest heaved as he gave a big sigh. “Harrison, it’s time I played our last card. The foxy card. Silvio set it up, but it’s up to me to finesse it.” He paused. “Let’s hope that New Orleans is not so different from Sicily after all.”
Silvio had never seen Alia so crowded. Carriages and wagons were drawn up on all sides of the piazza. The tables outside the café were full, children hung around in groups, watching everything. Of course, Fontana Murata was not the only property being sold today, but it was the biggest, and would be sold last.
Silvio had been crouching in some ruins, the hiding place he had used on his previous visit, and had been watching people arrive for the sale. Luca Mancuso was there, in his best suit, with his son, Primo, and another man who, Silvio guessed, was a banker. Luca had been civil enough after Silvio had outlined his plan, and had certainly turned up at today’s sale as if he meant business. But Silvio would only be able to judge by results, maybe two hours from now. He was growing tired of watching events from the sidelines.
Alesso had arrived, too, looking cocky, dressed in a red shirt and black trousers, flanked by his bodyguard and Ruggiero Priola, who would, of course, be doing the actual bidding. They had walked up the steps of the town hall and disappeared inside with all the casual confidence of people who expected things to go their way. Like a couple of bantams.
Silvio had also noticed the arrival of a tall, gray-haired, formidable-looking woman with a large bosom and an elaborate hat. She, he understood, was the Livesey woman, the sister of the priest Nino had kidnapped and the current owner of Fontana Murata. She was accompanied by a man, smaller than her but wiry. She looked apprehensive.
Eleven o’clock had come and gone and the crowd on the piazza, he noticed, was thinning. The auction had begun. For over an hour a thin stream of people came and went to and from the town hall. Some were obviously clerks. Others were
owners who, their property sold, hurried across the piazza and ordered a glass of wine or a beer at the café. Others were successful purchasers, who came out with either their families or their lawyers and stood on the steps of the town hall, discussing what they were to do next. A few came out looking worried; their properties had presumably failed to sell.
Another half hour passed. The heat grew more intense. Despite himself, Silvio found it hard not to think about New Orleans and the Liotta trial. Had a verdict been reached yet? Had he been proved right, and had Angelo been able to finesse the situation as Silvio had predicted? Ruggiero, inside the town hall, might know: Angelo could always telegraph Palermo. But Silvio couldn’t show himself just yet. He would have to stay in ignorance for a while.
There was also something Smeralda had said, about his father. That had given him an idea he hadn’t yet had a chance to follow up.
Suddenly the double doors of the town hall were thrown open and people spilled out onto the steps. All were chattering excitedly, as if something noteworthy had just happened inside. Then he saw the Livesey woman push her way through the crowds and stride across to her carriage. Silvio might have been mistaken but he thought he saw a smile on her face. From her point of view, it seemed, the sale had gone well.
But who had the buyer been?
Luca Mancuso came out. He was talking to Primo, but they both wore the traditional Sicilian poker face. You could not tell whether, from their point of view, the result was good or bad. Then two men approached Luca to shake his hand. Was that a sign he had succeeded? Or were they old friends who hadn’t seen him for some time?
Before Silvio could reflect further, Alesso barged through the crowd and ran down the steps in front of the town hall. He was followed by Ruggiero. Both men looked furious. At the foot of the steps, they resumed an argument that must have started inside the building. Their voices were raised and Silvio noticed Luca Mancuso looking down at them. The smallest of smiles creased his face.