by Peter Watson
Silvio had his answer. Now the final twist of his plan could go into effect. There was just one item of personal business he had to attend to first.
The day had started misty but promised to become sunny. Judge Thomas McCrystal was an early riser and walked with his dog in Library Park every day. Now that his children had left home, indeed left the city, he found the dog companionable and these early-morning jaunts helped clear his mind for the day ahead.
He turned off Tulane Avenue into the park.
“Good morning, Professor Perran.”
The judge stopped.
Angelo got up from the bench where he had been sitting, waiting.
McCrystal’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“I’m Angelo Priola. I’m a relative of someone you know. Vanni Priola.”
The judge looked about him to see who was nearby. No one was. “What are you doing here? You belong in the Quarter.”
“I know. I’m trying to be discreet. Would you have preferred me to come to your home?”
“I would prefer not to see you at all.”
“We both know that’s not realistic.”
The judge stared at Angelo in distaste, restraining the dog, which was anxious to be on its way. “Walk with me, then. It’s less suspicious.”
Angelo fell in with the judge and his dog. “Think we’ll get a verdict today?”
“I would have thought so, but juries are funny things. Unpredictable, especially in important trials like this one.”
“What’s your guess about the verdict?”
“You know better than to ask that.”
“Do I?”
“Well, I’m not answering.”
“They’ll acquit. Liotta’s interfered with the jury.”
McCrystal looked genuinely shocked, as if the thought had never occurred to him. But it wasn’t that. “You … you want me to declare a mistrial? I can’t do that! Not unless someone comes to me with evidence. If I did that, Liotta would—”
“Relax, judge. We both know why I’m here, but I’m not asking you to risk your neck. Getting caught in a whorehouse is not a capital offense, not in my book. I know your power as judge is limited. But you can do certain things.” He paused. “If they do acquit, and I’m as certain as can be that they will, all you have to do is give one specific little order. You’ll be acting well within your rights and no one will suspect anything—not Liotta, for sure. If you do as I ask, you’ll have the photograph—and the negative—tomorrow. I promise.”
“A little thing, you say?”
“This is a foxy deal. No risk. I promise.”
“I can’t imagine what it could be.”
Angelo told him.
Silvio got down from his mule and tethered the animal to the gate set into the wall of the cemetery. Just outside Castronuovo, the graveyard overlooked Lake Fanaco, which had the Serra di Leone on its western side. It sloped gently down to the water’s edge and was a peaceful and colorful spot, with purple patches of bougainvillea festooning the walls in places, and a line of deep green cypress trees leading all the way to the black waters of the lake.
He picked his way among the gravestones. It was a long time since he had been here, too long. Most of his life since his parents’ death he hadn’t been able to face the graveyard, preferring to turn his back on that whole part of his life. However, on the boat from New Orleans this time, he had found himself thinking of Castronuovo. Then Smeralda had mentioned his father and he had developed the urge to come. If he did succeed in killing Alesso, he would have to escape to America for the third time. After that, he would certainly never return to Sicily again. There had to be one last visit to his parents’ grave.
He remembered, more or less, where the headstone was. The top left corner of the graveyard, near the line of cypresses on the far wall. The sun beat down on the back of his neck as he bent to read the inscriptions. He could be fairly certain that his parents’ grave would be one of the least visited and therefore most overgrown, but that appeared to be true of not a few graves. Also, the carving of the names was not always clear, covered in places with yellow lichen. It all reminded him, faintly, of the graveyard in the Ursuline Convent in New Orleans. For a moment his thoughts went back across the Atlantic, to the trial. Was it over yet? The auction here had gone well, things were falling into place. Please God, let the same be true in New Orleans.
Cirami, Gristia, Cangioloso. He moved past the headstones one by one. Some of these families he knew, or had heard of. Pietroso, Velez, Randazzo—ah! It was a plain stone, yellowed like the others. Nettles grew everywhere, untidy, like a goat’s beard. He looked down. The words were carved in plain lettering, not fancy and not deep. LORENZO RANDAZZO, 1834–1868 read one line. SYLVANA RANDAZZO, 1837–1868 read the other. Then, underneath, TOGETHER IN LIFE, TOGETHER IN PEACE.
Tears pricked the corners of Silvio’s eyes. It still made him angry that they had been taken from him, that he had been denied the chance to get to know them better. He knelt down and, with a twig, started to scrape away at the lettering, to make it easier to read. As he did so he searched his mind for memories. But all he could think of was that glint of gunmetal in the sunlight—the glint that should have warned him, that might have saved them. He looked at the wording one more time, pulled away the weeds and nettles that had grown up, and moved on. He lifted his gaze and looked across the lake. This was a beautiful spot, a type of beauty you never saw in Louisiana. Quisquina, he knew, was beyond the range of mountains to the south, but he couldn’t see the monastery, not from here. Mentally, he said good-bye.
He retraced his steps, threading his way between the graves. He went out through the gate. Despite his anger, he was pleased he had come. He began to untether his mule.
“Visiting family?”
The voice came from behind him and he swiveled instantly.
Two policemen, two sbirri, lounged against the wall of the graveyard, smoking. That’s why he hadn’t seen them. Merda!
He tried hard to be nonchalant. “Just looking up old friends.”
One of the policemen, dark-haired with a mustache, heaved himself away from the wall and came forward. “I don’t recognize you,” he said. “You’re not local.”
Silvio shook his head. “No, I’m from Palermo.”
“What’s your name?”
“Giuseppe Chiavelli,” he said quickly, choosing a well-known suburb of the town.
“Why are you here?”
Jesus. “I came for the property auction in Alia. I was bidding for a friend in Palermo, who couldn’t come himself.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Who?”
“Stefano Ciamba.”
“Show me your papers.”
“I don’t have them with me.” This, Silvio knew as soon as he said it, was unconvincing. If he had been bidding at an auction, his bids would not have been accepted without some identification. He had to rescue the situation.
“I left all my papers in Aha, when I came on here. I’m taking the train back to Palermo from there.”
But the sbirro was suspicious. “What is the name of the friends you were visiting?”
Damn the sbirro! What were the names that he had read? Pietri? Girami?
“Girami.”
“Who are they? Never heard of them around here.”
Why was this man so suspicious? Did he want a bribe?
“The Girami were originally from Borgo Regalmici. They moved to Palermo, where I met some of them.”
“And why should you visit the grave?”
“A debt of honor. You can understand that.”
The policeman wiped his mustache with his hand. He turned to his subordinate. “Beppe. Our friend here was at the top of the graveyard, on the left. See if you can find the Girami headstone.”
The other man did as he was told.
Silvio was thinking fast. He felt pretty sure he could overpower one sbirro, but was that wise? Any fight wit
h the police would draw attention to him and that was the last thing he wanted. If he attacked a policeman, and word spread, as it would, Alesso might get to hear of it and go to ground. Silvio had to wait, and hope for the best.
The sbirro with the mustache lit a cigarette while he waited. “We are on an alert,” he said. “There has been an escape from Bologna Prison. Antonino Greco, the Quarryman. He may come home.”
So that accounted for their belligerence, and suspicions. Silvio cursed under his breath. Just his luck.
The second sbirro came back from the graveyard. He whispered to his superior. As he listened the other man looked up sharply, dropped his cigarette, and took out his gun. It all happened too fast for Silvio.
The sbirro took a step toward him. “There is no Girami gravestone. There is a Cirami stone—and a Randazzo. Where the weeds have been cleared away and the wording recently cleaned. So, you’ll come back to Santo Stefano with us. I can’t believe you’re Sylvano Randazzo—you’d have to be crazy, pazzo, to set foot in Sicily—but we’ll soon find out. If you are, Beppe here and I are rich men. Now, please, very carefully, drop your gun.”
By the time that Liotta and the other defendants arrived at the courthouse from the Parish Prison that final morning, the public gallery of the court was filled to overflowing, and perhaps as many as two hundred people were gathered outside, milling on the steps. Several carried posters or placards. HANG ’EM HIGH read one. MAFIA = MURDERER said another. And a third: THE DAGOS DID IT! KILL!
The judge was a little late that morning, not arriving in court until ten forty-five, by which time the jury members were all seated in their places. He sent them out immediately and then he, the court officials, and counsel all disappeared. No one in the public gallery moved away. It was inconceivable that the jury would spend another night in a hotel and no one wanted to miss the final act in this long drama. David Martell’s mother was there, allowed a seat in the front row. Harrison Parker was there, along with other civic dignitaries, in the same front row. Angelo had a man at Foley’s desk, ready to rush the news to him as soon as it came.
Twelve o’clock arrived and went. Twelve-thirty. At a quarter to one the jury asked for lunch to be sent in. The empty plates and glasses were taken away at two. At two-thirty the unthinkable suddenly became thinkable. Court staff were instructed to book another night in the hotel.
At three-fifteen, the jury foreman told the clerk of the court that they were ready. The clerk informed the judge, who gave word that the attorneys and the press should be alerted. A buzz went around the public gallery as everyone suddenly realized that the moment they had been waiting for was at hand.
When the judge and attorneys were in place, the defendants were sent for and returned to their benches in the dock. Then the jury was brought in.
The foreman was a small, sandy-haired, wiry man who looked extremely nervous.
The clerk rose. “Mr. Foreman, will you stand, please.”
The foreman stood.
“Have you reached a verdict?”
“Yessir, we have.”
“And is that verdict unanimous in all cases?”
“Yessir, it is.”
“Very well. We will take the defendants one at a time, starting with Vittorio Liotta. Do you find Vittorio Liotta guilty or not guilty of conspiracy to murder David Martell?”
The foreman had answered the other questions readily enough, but now he hesitated. He looked first at the judge, then at Foley, then at Falmouth, then at the ground.
“Not guilty.”
The police station at Santo Stefano was new. Otherwise the town, what Silvio saw of it as he had arrived under police guard, hadn’t changed much. Yellowed buildings that from a distance looked as though they were made of Parmesan cheese.
Fortunately there had been few people to see his arrival. On the road they had passed what looked like old Frederico Imbaccari, the banker who had visited Nino when he had been Don in Bivona, but that was all.
Silvio had been locked into a cell in the back of the building and the sbirri had gone off to telegraph police headquarters in Palermo for instructions.
Silvio was beside himself with anger and apprehension. How could he have allowed himself to be arrested, how could he? Sono sciocco, sono sciocco, I’m a fool, he kept repeating to himself. And it wasn’t just getting caught. The wedding was approaching. He had to get to Alesso before that. Why had he visited his parents’ grave? There had been no need, no need at all.
But Silvio was frightened as well as angry. If he went back to jail now, he would be lynched, he had no doubt. That made him think for a moment. Had Angelo needed to use their trump card? Was the New Orleans business a mess, like this fiasco in Sicily?
The judge banged his gavel hard on the desk before him. “Silence! Silence!” Again, he beat the desk. “Silence, I say.”
It did no good, not then anyway. The minute the jury foreman had announced the not-guilty verdict, mayhem had erupted in the courtroom. It had grown as other—similar—verdicts had been handed down. People were now standing and shouting, some pointing at the defendants, some at the jury. There were whistles, catcalls, whooping, and groans of disbelief. “Lynch the eyeties!” someone had yelled. “And the jury,” chorused others. “Justice!” cried another faction. “We want justice!” Mrs. Martell was weeping, comforted by others near her. One or two people had tried to climb the barrier between the public gallery and the court proper but had been held back by the police. Even so, the judge was taking no chances and had sent for reinforcements.
He banged his gavel again. “Bailiff, I want you to eject anyone standing up or shouting. Do it now.”
The police began to move among the public benches. They picked on two men, a woman and a boy, and began manhandling them to the door. At first, the shouting increased, but then, as people saw that the police meant business, more and more people sat down. The uproar began to subside.
The noise had not gone away completely but there came a point when the judge realized he could make himself heard. “Any more interruptions of that kind, and I’ll have the courtroom cleared. Is that understood? The trial is not over. I will not say that again. If there are any more disturbances, the court will be cleared. Completely.
“Now, will everybody sit down, and calm themselves. Then we can proceed.”
He allowed a moment for the court to become settled and for himself to gather his thoughts. This was obviously a tricky situation. He was mindful of a conversation he’d had earlier in the day.
The policemen who had ejected the members of the public came back into the room and positioned themselves where they could act swiftly in the event of another outbreak of trouble.
“I now address myself to the defendants.” The judge looked across to the dock. “Gentlemen, you have been acquitted of the charges brought against you this day. However, I understand from the acting chief of police, and from Mr. Foley here, the prosecuting attorney, that several other charges against you are now pending. Also, because of the publicity this trial has received, and the way the trial itself has been conducted, and as you yourselves have just seen, there is a great deal of public feeling here in New Orleans, in regard to these events.”
He adjusted his spectacles. “In the light of this, I do not feel it is right or proper to release you. There is also the matter of your personal safety to consider. If you were to be released, then in the first place and in view of the charges pending against you, some among you might choose to abscond, and that risk I cannot allow. I also feel that one or more of you might come to harm, given the manifestation of violent emotion we have just seen here in this court.
“Accordingly, I shall remand all of you in custody until such time as the acting chief of police deems that it is safe for you to be released. Bailiff, return the prisoners to the Parish Prison.”
“You can’t do this, judge!” Falmouth was on his feet and clearly very disturbed. “They’ve been acquitted, judge, acquitted fair and square.
They should be released. This is an outrage!”
Liotta was also standing up in the dock. “We’ve been acquitted! We didn’t do these things, judge! I demand to be released!”
But the bailiffs were already moving across the court. The noise was building up again. People were on their feet.
The judge beat his desk with his gavel, but to no effect.
Amid the noise and bustle, the defendants were led away—all except Liotta, who still stood and shouted: “We were acquitted! We should be free men. Judge? Can you hear me? Judge!” Then he, too, was manhandled along the defendants’ bench and out through the door. His last words were: “Don’t do this, judge! Don’t do this!” Then he was gone.
The judge breathed a little more easily, now that the defendants were safe. It had been a sweat for a moment. But he had done it; he had kept his side of the bargain. The photograph was safe. He banged his gavel one more time and called out, “This court is now adjourned. Bailiff, clear the room!”
“Wake up, Randazzo, or whoever you are. Here’s your dinner.”
Silvio rolled off the bed. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock.
The sbirro was at the door to his cell, unlocking it. There was another figure behind him, but in the gloom, Silvio couldn’t see who it was.
Then the policeman stood to one side and a woman came forward. She looked at Silvio and smiled. He smiled back, involuntarily. He didn’t recognize her. Or did he? She came forward with a tray. On it were a jug, a plate with food, and a chunk of bread.
She looked at Silvio a second time, smiled, and then said loudly, to the sbirro, “Ah! I’ve forgotten the glass for your wine. I’ll bring it.”
She laid the tray on Silvio’s bunk and left the cell. The sbirro relocked the door and followed her back the way they had both come. Silvio was again alone.
But only for a moment. The woman was soon back, on her own this time. She had the glass with her. She held it through the bars. Silvio went to take it from her.
As he did so she gripped his hand and hissed. “Listen, quickly. There is a key at the bottom of the wine jug. Between nine and ten this evening the guard will eat his dinner. Open the door to your cell, leave, but lock the door again and put the key back in the wine jug. Do not drink all the wine. I shall then be able to put the key—which is a spared—back where it belongs, and I will not be blamed.”