Elizabeth Street
Page 15
They met in the cafe the next morning before the matinee. Out of respect for Rocco, they met with Lucrezia chaperoning. Though they knew each other only through Nunzio’s letters, they reminisced as if they had known each other for years, their conversation punctuated by the stirring of their spoons in their espressos.
“Did you like that pasta pot drawing? He showed it to me before he mailed it.”
“I laughed so hard. It was in that same letter Nunzio told me it was you who named the first foreman ‘Linguine con Pomodoro’!”
Lucrezia was anxious to get to the heart of the matter. “Signore, Signora Siena is suing Brooklyn Union Gas and the construction company for negligence.”
Carmine leaned back in his chair and whistled. It only took him a moment to recover. “Good! Good for you!” A lawsuit, while within the confines of the system, appealed to his anarchist tendencies. “What can I do to help?”
The older woman continued, “Her lawyer needs to prove negligence. He has eyewitness testimony, the police reports, and the press, but he still doesn’t know precisely what they were doing wrong. Everyone said that Nunzio had doubts about the job and discussed them with you. Is that true?”
“Signora, you should consider becoming a lawyer yourself,” commented Carmine, appraising her with an interested eye. Lucrezia flashed him a “stop the nonsense” look, and he continued, although Giovanna could tell Lucrezia was flattered.
“Yes, it is true. I’ll tell you everything that I remember that wasn’t lost to liquor and sorrow,” answered Carmine dramatically.
Giovanna, with pencil poised, allowed Lucrezia to continue the questioning. Giovanna didn’t understand much of what Carmine said about timbers and compromised metal and load ratios, but she dutifully wrote it all down.
“You see, signora, your husband was smart,” said Carmine, tapping his temple with his finger. “He knew from the start that they were constructing that floor ass backwards, and then he knew that they were trying to lower it in a dangerous way.”
“Did he tell anyone that?” asked Giovanna.
“Of course! And the foreman called him a stupid dago that should mind his own business.”
Giovanna winced at the thought of her maestro husband being treated with disrespect. “Why didn’t he leave the job?”
“Signora, I think you’ve been here long enough to know you do not leave a steady job with good pay. Besides, at first he thought that they knew something he didn’t and it would soon all make sense. When it didn’t, I think he figured the job was engineered by asses, but he didn’t know it was going to kill him.”
Carmine dug in his pocket. “Here, take these tickets to the show. I have to go, but I’m here for a few more days if you need to ask me anything.”
“Carmine,” whispered Giovanna as he rose, “grazie…” She tried to say more, to thank him for finding Nunzio’s body, for his loyalty, but she could not. Since becoming pregnant, she couldn’t control her emotions the way she usually could and did not want to chance crying in public.
“Say nothing, signora. It has been my honor,” answered Carmine, sweeping his cap with a flourish. Giovanna could see tears in Carmine’s eyes.
When Giovanna and Lucrezia reported on their meeting to Signore DeCegli, he insisted that they bring Carmine to his office to swear an affidavit. The lawyer felt he had to get what he could, even if it was the testimony of a dead man delivered secondhand by a traveling show-man. Unable to locate Supervisor Mulligan, who was no longer with the company, and certain that there was no complete set of blueprints for the project, although he had subpoenaed them months ago, Signore DeCegli felt he had little to make a case.
DeCegli was born in America. In fact, if he didn’t say his last name, or had changed it like many of his colleagues had, he could “pass.” He had been drawn back to his old neighborhood to practice in part because his parents were still there and in part because he believed that with a good lawyer, an Italian immigrant in the American justice system would be treated the same as any American. This case was forcing him to question his conviction.
Ironically, up until now, his belief hadn’t been tested. By locating himself in an Italian community, most of his cases were Italians vs. Italians, because he was a civil attorney whose work consisted mainly of business disagreements and the occasional divorce. This was the first time he had come up against an American monolith and had to conduct anything resembling a criminal investigation. While he knew his unfamiliarity in these matters was not helping, he also knew that no amount of experience would get him past the closed doors and roadblocks. He felt stymied at every turn. Not wanting to risk the wrath of a giant, he had decided not to sue Brooklyn Union Gas and instead made the construction company, Taylor, Wood & Co., the sole defendant. But the giant was protecting its minion and had put all its legal and engineering expertise at the construction company’s disposal.
From the workers he was able to track down and interview, he knew that they would probably have to be treated as hostile witnesses because they were so afraid. If Signore DeCegli ever had any doubt about whether this was a case of negligence, it was erased when he saw the fear that had been instilled in these men, and when he learned that his key witness had conveniently disappeared. It was rare that a man of the supervisor’s stature could disappear without a trace. Even if Mulligan had left one afternoon months after the accident, never to return, as Taylor, Wood & Co. attested, it was clear the company had no interest in finding him or the files he supposedly stole. DeCegli’s case was further encumbered by the fact that the murder weapon, the steel floor that had crushed Nunzio Pontillo, was now covered in thousands of cubic yards of gas and would never be seen again until the tanks were demolished during someone else’s lifetime.
The greatest difficulty, however, was that without the qualified testimony of respected engineers, all the evidence was circumstantial. But the money to pay for expert testimony was only part of the problem. Signore DeCegli had approached a number of engineers on a speculative basis, and while they used the excuse of no payment upfront to turn down the job, the lawyer knew it was more likely because they were unwilling to go up against a giant. All of his testimony was from Italian laborers. Could he expect the same system that didn’t value their lives to believe their testimony?
DeCegli was tempted to close the case but knew that if he did, the signora would somehow continue it on her own. That thought frightened him for two reasons: First, he had grown fond of the signora and feared for her safety, and second, given her determination and intelligence, she could possibly humiliate him by succeeding.
After reviewing the affidavit that Giovanna had compiled for the tenth time, Signore DeCegli saw something in “Pretty Boy” Mariano’s story that ignited a spark. If they couldn’t afford their own expert witnesses, they would use the experts at Taylor, Wood & Co.
James Wood, one of the principals of the company, was a former engineer known for his brash style and his ability to “get them up faster than anybody.” Brooklyn Union Gas awarded Taylor, Wood the contract because they were under pressure to meet the demand for gas in the burgeoning city. DeCegli felt certain that it had been Wood on the phone with Mulligan that day.
James Wood walked up the five flights to Signore DeCegli’s office in disgust. Not only was he furious that he had been summoned to New York in this preposterous matter, he was resentful that he was forced to pay the high hourly rates of the lawyer who huffed and puffed behind him. Answering the rap on the door, DeCegli welcomed them in. Heads rotating, disgust palpable, the men sat without being asked. The court reporter was not introduced and remained a fixture in the corner chair.
“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” pronounced Wood, by way of introduction.
Seeing Wood’s irritation and revulsion, DeCegli realized he had the upper hand and decided to lengthen the proceedings as much as possible in hopes of getting Wood to say something in anger that he would later regret.
DeCegli drew ou
t the perfunctory questions. But when he saw the relish Wood took in reciting his credentials and that he was gaining strength from his belief in his own importance, DeCegli moved on to questions concerning the timeline and building of the gas tanks.
After a technical question, which Wood answered in arrogant detail, DeCegli quickly asked, “Did you speak with Supervisor Mulligan on the morning of the accident?”
“Yes.”
“How many times before the accident did you speak with him?”
“I don’t know, possibly three.”
“And what was the nature of those calls?”
“This was two years ago.”
“Yes, of course. Let me be more specific. Did Supervisor Mulligan express any concern about the procedure and safety of lowering this disc?”
“He was a man predisposed to worry. He left the company soon after.”
“Yes, I know. However, he had been with the company for ten years. I suppose his worry was not worrisome until this incident.”
“That is not a question, sir!” objected Wood’s lawyer.
“Excuse me. What precisely were Supervisor Mulligan’s objections to the method in which he had been instructed to lower the disc?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Sir, may I remind you, since the surroundings do not, that you are under oath.”
“I told you, he worried a great deal.”
“And I repeat, what was his worry?”
“That the disc would slip on its descent.”
“And by slip, do you mean fall?’
“That was his assessment, not mine.”
“If he was afraid of the disc falling, that would explain his reluctance to put men under the two hundred tons of steel, yes?”
Wood’s lawyer interjected, “My client cannot suppose to know what this supervisor thought.”
“You’re absolutely right, barrister. That is why I need your client to remember exactly what he said.”
It took more than a half hour of questioning before the court reporter was able to record Wood saying, “Supervisor Mulligan thought the disc was not secure enough for men to work underneath while it was being lowered.”
DeCegli tried to hide his elation because he wasn’t through with Mr. Wood yet. He got up and opened the window to allow the neighborhood sounds and smells to waft into the room.
“Mr. Wood, if your company wasn’t responsible for this accident, who was?”
“I told you. Accidents happen. That’s why they are called accidents.”
“Is it your belief that there is nothing Taylor, Wood & Co. could have done to avert this particular accident?”
“I realize we have a language problem here.” He exaggerated his enunciation saying, “There is nothing Taylor, Wood & Co. could have done to avert this accident.” Waving his arm toward the window, he snidely added, “If they spoke English…”
Wood’s lawyer jumped in. “Mr. Wood doesn’t think any party is responsible for this accident.”
“On the contrary, your client insinuated the Italians…”
“Don’t twist my words, young man. I was commenting on the difficulty of working with these—your—people.”
“If no one was responsible, why did you give the men money in exchange for not talking about the accident?”
“There was no exchange! We gave them money because they witnessed a tragedy and they worked overtime to find those bodies.”
DeCegli pulled out the agreement that Mariano had signed. “It says nothing about overtime here. However, it does state that he agrees not to talk about the accident.”
Wood’s face reddened at seeing the document. “Because they are ignorant and say ignorant things! That’s why. They could have said that one of their saints did it, or it was because of the evil eye, or something ridiculous that would have scared off the other workers!”
The attorney jumped in. “What Mr. Wood is saying, is that in order to protect future workers and his client, they asked the Italian workers not to talk about the accident.”
DeCegli was momentarily stymied. This was the type of argument that would resonate with an American jury. Everyone was well aware of Italian superstitions.
“I need water,” said DeCegli, getting up. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”
“This has gone on long enough!” exclaimed Wood.
“I’ll only be a minute,” said DeCegli, leaving the room. He stood in the hall and assessed where he was. He had gotten Woods to say exactly what he wanted him to, but he had a feeling if he pushed him more, he could cement his case.
DeCegli reentered his office. “Excuse me, gentlemen. We’re almost through. Carmine Martello, he was the laborer who was friendliest with Nunzio Pontillo and the one who found his body. Correct?”
“If you say so.”
“Why, if your motive for this agreement was simply to avoid rumor and superstition, did you take the trouble to track down Mr. Martello in Pennsylvania? Surely he couldn’t spread rumor and superstition in the Allegheny mountains about a Brooklyn construction job?”
Wood jumped out of his chair, indignant. “I’m tired of your innuendo! You people should be grateful! We let you into this country and gave you work, and you have the audacity to question us!”
His attorney tried to stop him, but Wood continued, sputtering, “If there was any problem on that job, it was hiring a pack of unskilled Italians and not losing more of them!”
DeCegli smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Wood. Thank you.”
SEVENTEEN
Lucrezia swabbed Giovanna’s head with a cool cloth. She was in her seventh hour of labor, and Lucrezia knew there were still many more to go. She told Rocco to take the girls to Teresa’s apartment and to stay there. Clement would remain behind in case Lucrezia needed anything. Rocco left, awkwardly nodding good-bye to his wife and sternly telling Clement to come get him quickly if he was needed.
Clement settled on his cot in the kitchen and tried to rest as Lucrezia instructed. The apartment was spacious by tenement standards. It had two small bedrooms, a large kitchen, and a closet with a toilet. Giovanna labored on her and Rocco’s double bed, above which she had hung pictures of the saints and her palms from mass. Borrowing from Sicilian tradition, she had encircled the bed with a turnialettu, a deep flounce of cloth to hide storage under the bed.
Lucrezia went to the sink for more water. The sink was also surrounded by drapery. Lucrezia smiled at the fussiness of this no-nonsense woman. It was hard to imagine Giovanna draping fabric or pinning religious medals on palm fronds and stepping back to see how they looked, but it was evident that she had.
While the labor was long, it was uncomplicated, and both she and Giovanna knew it. They simply had to settle in and wait for Giovanna’s body to cooperate fully. Giovanna was far enough along in her labor that Lucrezia had stopped making feeble attempts at telling jokes and stories between contractions and instead was letting her rest.
When Giovanna was ready to push at four in the morning, she did so with an intensity and concentration Lucrezia rarely saw. Lucrezia slowed her down to prevent her from ripping, teasing, “I sound like you.” When the baby’s head was birthed, Giovanna bent forward, and during the next contraction she delivered the rest of her baby’s body into the world.
At the first sound of the baby’s cry, Clement, who had feigned sleep through the delivery, jumped up and called, “I’ll get Papa!”
Lucrezia left the room, and in the quiet, Giovanna cuddled baby Angelina, examining every finger and every toe, crying with bittersweet happiness.
EIGHTEEN
1906
Elizabeth Street was bustling. It was late afternoon and the block was crowded with people selling, buying, and socializing, and with children playing among the barrels and boxes. Rocco looked at the few heads of cauliflower left in his cart; it had been a good day.
He surveyed the scene, and spying a short man with a beard, he called, “Fresh cauliflower! Only a few left.”
Yet another vendor joined in, louder than usual, “Parsley!”
Rocco looked around, confused. He hadn’t seen parsley on the carts today. Turning to the vendor selling clams next to him, Rocco asked, “Do you see parsley?”
“Yeah, there’s parsley right there,” he answered, pointing to the short man with the beard.
“What are you talking about?”
“Petrosino, the sergeant in charge of the Italian Squad.”
Rocco now understood the local thugs were being warned of the sergeant’s not-so-undercover presence. “But why say parsley?” he asked the man.
“Ah, you Calabresi! Petrosino, in Sicilian, means parsley.”
“Limonata!” shouted Giovanna, knocking on the door of apartment sixteen on the floor above her. Their building had five apartments per floor—two at the front, two at the back, and one small side apartment, which was where Limonata lived.
“Prego?” A young woman holding a nine-month-old—nearly the same age as Giovanna’s daughter, Angelina—opened the door. “Oh, signora!” she said upon seeing Giovanna, sounding both pleased and relieved.
“Limonata, could you please be more careful! Your colored wash on the line drips onto my clean white clothes.”
“Oh, scusi, signora, scusi.”
The poor young woman looked like she was going to cry, and Giovanna at once regretted scolding her new neighbor who was having a difficult time coping. Noticing little spots of blood on Limonata’s apron at her chest, Giovanna asked, “Are you having trouble again?”
“Sì, signora.”
“Let me see.” Giovanna entered the tiny apartment, which was crusted in dirt. The only thing sunny in this woman’s life was her nickname, which she carried from childhood because of her love of lemonade. Her dull brown hair and slight body made her appearance even more nondescript.