The Vendetta Defense raa-8

by Lisa Scottoline

  Judy leaned over and squinted at it. The awning cast a shadow that obscured the people, and the image was way too small to make out. Judy couldn’t see it well enough and she didn’t have a magnifying glass. But she did have a computer.

  She hurried back to her desk, logged on to her e-mail, and called up the scanned computer photos she’d sent Roser, pausing at the fifteenth. There was the tiny strawberry swatch. Then Judy opened the Photoshop program, marqueed that section of the photo, and enlarged it once, then again. The strawberry head filled up half the screen. It was Theresa McRea, as Judy had suspected. But who was Theresa with?

  Judy moved the photo to the man beside her and clicked the magnifying-glass icon to enlarge the image. The pixels went blocky on her and she stepped it down. A dark-haired man held Theresa’s hand. He had to be her husband Kevin. She clicked the icon again. His forehead was wrinkled, and his head close to another man’s, as if in confidence. Then Judy rotated the image to see who they were talking to. Only his profile was visible to the camera’s eye. Judy clicked the icon, and the image grew into itself, like the child to the man.

  The man was Marco Coluzzi. Judy eased back in her chair. She had a shot of Kevin McRea talking to Marco the day the complaint was filed against them. And Marco had evidently come out of the viewing to greet him. Judy moved the image down and spotted a white line at the bottom. A cigarette, in Marco’s hand. He had wanted a smoke, but he was also, in the vernacular, showing McRea respect.

  McRea had built the driveway for one of the Coluzzis, but Judy couldn’t remember which brother; she’d been so tired when she drafted the complaint. She closed Photoshop, opened Microsoft Word, and found their complaint, then skimmed down to allegation 55: It is alleged that the above-named defendant Kevin McRea did excavate, construct, and pave a driveway for the defendant Marco Coluzzi, at an estimated value of $130,000, in return for . . .

  So it had been Marco, not John, who got the fancy driveway. Judy reasoned it out. It made sense that Marco had the alliance with Kevin McRea, not John. After all, John apparently hadn’t recognized Theresa as Kevin’s wife when he stuck his head into the lounge, or he might have wondered why the wife of one of his subs was so broken up over his father’s death. Or maybe he had and didn’t want to show his hand. Judy had no way of knowing, which made her worry for Theresa.

  Judy glanced at the phone. Theresa hadn’t called. Judy was worried that she wouldn’t and equally worried that she would. What had she gotten the McReas into? Judy squirmed in her seat. She didn’t like waiting for witnesses to call any more than she liked waiting for men to call. Not that she was waiting for a man to call. Damn!

  Judy scrolled to the top of the complaint, to the caption naming the parties. There was Kevin McRea’s name, right over his address. He lived in Glenolden, Delaware County, which wasn’t that far from the city. She considered going there, but Bennie would kill her if the Coluzzis didn’t. Judy opted for the safer and more boring approach. She picked up the phone, called information, got the McReas’ phone number, and called it.

  Her heart was pounding as a woman picked up, but she didn’t have an Irish accent. Judy paused. “Hello, may I speak to Theresa or Kevin McRea?”

  “They’re gone,” the woman said flatly, and Judy started.

  “Gone? Gone? What do you mean?”

  “They just moved out. Right this afternoon. I thought their new house mighta been finished early but it ain’t. They left all of a sudden.”

  Judy felt only slightly relieved. “They moved out? I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it, baby. I’m the landlady, and I’m just as surprised as you.”

  “But Theresa’s a good friend of mine. I just saw her today. She didn’t say she was moving.”

  “Well, she’s gone. They came home together this afternoon, packed their clothes, and left. Paid off the whole year lease plus the security deposit, and I got no complaint with that. They were in a real big hurry. Left all their furniture and kitchen stuff, and they’re payin’ me two hundred bucks to pack it up and put it in storage.”

  Judy tried to think. Theresa must have told Kevin that Judy had approached her at the viewing, and they got the hell out of Dodge. He didn’t want to get caught between the Coluzzis and the lawsuit. “Did they leave you a forwarding address, or a phone number where they can be reached?”

  “Nothin’. Said they’d call later. Now, no offense, I got to get back to work here. Theresa kept a real neat house, but she had knickknacks out the wazoo. Shamrocks. Linen tea towels. Leprechauns carved outta Connemara marble, whatever that is.”

  Judy thanked the landlady and hung up, thinking about leprechauns and shamrocks. Unless she missed her guess, Theresa and Kevin were halfway to Ireland by now. Judy smiled in spite of her lawyerly instincts. The McReas were out of harm’s way, and she’d find another way to win her suit. She sat motionless with her hand on the phone, trying to process this new information. It made sense they’d take off, because a baby was portable, but how about a business? How could Kevin McRea leave his business? And for how long?

  Judy turned again to her laptop, logged on to the Internet, and ran a Google search for McRea Excavation and Paving. Sure enough, it had a website, since everybody had a website now. Judy was hoping that www.sexwithanitalian.com was still up for grabs. She clicked the link, and onto the screen popped an amateurish but effective piece of brochureware. There were pictures of backhoes and front-end loaders, ghosted over a clunky MCREA logo. The copy was badly written, but Judy was a lawyer, not a critic. She read:

  McRea Excavation and Paving is a complete, full-service company meeting the excavating and paving needs of numerous residents and commercial businesses in the tristate area for the past twenty years, with annual revenues of two million dollars. Kevin McRea is the CEO and sole proprietor of the company, and he supervises a workforce of 63 full-time employees, many of whom have been with the company for all of its 21 years in business. McRea never loses time on your construction job because of faulty or leased equipment. McRea owns all of its own equipment, and with it and its able workforce, McRea can meet any and all of your excavation and paving needs.

  McRea’s business was a going concern, with a very healthy income stream. Kevin couldn’t leave it forever, could he? Then Judy remembered something Theresa had said, through her tears. That the Coluzzis had wanted to buy his business. McRea Excavation was a $2 million company, so that would be a major corporate decision, not a routine expenditure. Judy stopped to think, her gaze coming to rest on the photos tacked up in front of her. Why would they be talking about buying a new business with the leadership of the company thrown into doubt? Or, more to the point, who would be talking about buying a new business?

  Judy’s eyes ran restlessly over the photos. Marco and John. John and Marco. It was Marco who came to greet Kevin, not John. It was Marco who got Kevin’s driveway, not John. What if Marco was the one who had tried to buy McRea Excavation, not John? And then Judy noticed something about the photos. In none of them did John Coluzzi appear with Marco or was he even shown speaking to him. They had arrived in separate limos. Their families weren’t speaking, even on the sidewalk. Or beside their father’s coffin. It was obvious there was a rift, and if the newspaper accounts were correct, it had to be over succession of the company. What else would divide two Italian princes but the kingdom?

  Something Judy had heard recently came to mind. There really is no honor among thieves. They’ll eat each other alive. She remembered Roser had said it, talking about the subcontractors. But didn’t the same truth apply to John and Marco Coluzzi? Would their rift turn into war? And could Judy do anything to make that happen? It could be a weapon more potent than any lawsuit. It would turn brother against brother, blood against blood. It was so, well, Italian.

  Judy picked up the phone. She was hoping you could still make trouble for bad guys, even from behind a desk.

  Chapter 27

  The sun shone bright Tuesday morning, in an alm
ost impossible run of good weather in Philly, but Judy was too psyched to care. She couldn’t see the blue sky for the TV and still cameras, tape recorders held high, and klieg lights. She couldn’t breathe the fresh air for the reporters exhaling coffee in her face. It was a Starbucks contact high.

  Judy plowed in her navy suit and lucky pumps through the press outside the Criminal Justice Center, with Pigeon Tony wedged between her and Frank. For the first time, she not only tolerated the reporters, she welcomed them. She felt safer for all of them with 384 witnesses on the scene, and the media was key to Judy’s new and improved plan.

  “Ms. Carrier, any comment about Kevin McRea’s disappearance?” “Judy, over here! What do you say to reports that Marco Coluzzi was trying to buy McRea Excavation?” “Ms. Carrier, do you believe Kevin McRea has met with foul play?”

  “No comment,” she shouted. She threaded her way to the courthouse entrance, putting on a professional mask to hide her glee at their questions. Obviously her late-night telephone calls, placed anonymously to any newspaper that would pick up, had worked like a charm. She had planted the story about Marco Coluzzi’s attempted purchase of McRea Excavation, and eager reporters had investigated the facts and gotten sources to confirm. It had been a year or two since a Philly paper had won a Pulitzer and nobody was forgetting it.

  “Ms. Carrier, do you care to comment on Marco Coluzzi’s expansion into the concrete and quarry business?” “Judy, who you gonna call now that Kevin McRea’s out of the picture?” “Ms. Carrier, what goes into a $130,000 driveway anyway? Gold?”

  Judy didn’t break a smile. Headlines on the morning newspapers had read DEFENDANT DISAPPEARS, with sidebars like “Marco Coluzzi’s Expanding Business Empire,” and Judy couldn’t have written them better herself. Reporters had interviewed the McReas’ landlady and, more important, had unearthed Marco’s tax records and SEC filings, which showed an increasing concentration of power in the construction industry, much of it through shell companies that disguised their true ownership. Judy was hoping the acquisitions had been hidden from John Coluzzi as well, and that he would feel surprised and threatened by Marco’s growing might.

  She looked quickly around, wondering when and how the Coluzzis would arrive. Together or apart? At peace or at war? She couldn’t stay to find out, because she had a murder case to defend.

  “Ms. Carrier, come on, cut us a break!” “Ms. Carrier, is Pigeon Tony gonna get off?” “Ms. Carrier, did he do it or not?” “Judy, did you hire a bodyguard yet?” “Judy, how’s your car?”

  Judy exchanged glances with Frank, who grinned, his teeth white and even against his freshly shaved olive skin. He looked handsome dressed up in a white oxford shirt, casual rep tie, and light tweed jacket he’d bought during a trip to the King of Prussia mall, when he was supposed to be calling his lawyer. But Judy could forgive men their shopping. They loved it so.

  “Did I tell you how much I liked your phone message last night?” Frank whispered in her ear before he went through the revolving door.

  “No comment,” Judy said, because it was time for work, not love. These Italians would never get it straight. She took Pigeon Tony by the hand and tucked him inside the courthouse.

  The courtroom, though modern, was one of the smallest in the new Criminal Justice Center, and its size contributed to the uneasy hostility that filled the room, as if the tigers and the lions had been mistakenly placed in the same tiny cage. The Coluzzi family and friends sat on the Commonwealth’s side of the courtroom, with Marco and John sitting unhappily together, and the Lucia family sat on the right, with Frank, Mr. DiNunzio, Feet, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block in the front pew behind a sleek black panel. The scene was an unfortunate carbon copy of the arraignment, except that it was staffed by double the blue-shirted court officers, for security. Judy wished for the National Guard and a bumper sticker that read MY ITALIANS CAN BEAT UP YOUR ITALIANS.

  She put the drama in the gallery behind her and took a seat at the counsel table next to Pigeon Tony. He seemed unusually quiet, but it could have been discomfort in the new striped tie and brown jacket that Frank had made him wear, over protest. They’d come from the boys’ department at Macy’s because Pigeon Tony was so small, and Judy, sitting next to him, felt more baby-sitter than lawyer. And she had wanted to get him a translator for court, but he had adamantly refused. Judy wondered if Pigeon Tony was turning into a problem child, in a clip-on tie.

  “Let’s begin, people,” Judge Maniloff said, from the sleek, modern dais with a gray marble front. Judge Randy Maniloff, a middle-aged gold-spectacled judge, had been picked by computer for the hearing, but Judy preferred to think it was her lawyer karma at work. Maniloff was one of the smartest judges on the municipal court bench, which heard preliminary hearings on murder cases and held misdemeanor trials. He wouldn’t be the ultimate trial judge, but he’d be fair at this level. “We have a crowded docket today for a change, and we can’t waste any time.” He banged a gavel loosely. “This is the matter of Commonwealth versus Lucia. Who’s here for the Commonwealth?”

  “Joseph Santoro for the Commonwealth, Your Honor,” said the district attorney, and he stood up. He was on the short side but powerfully built, with dark wavy hair and a black walrusy mustache. Santoro was the top assistant in the D.A.’s office, which was undoubtedly why he was picked for this high-profile case. His Italian surname wouldn’t hurt either. Judy resigned herself to being a minority for the duration.

  Judge Maniloff acknowledged Judy, swiveling in his black leather chair. “I see we have Ms. Carrier here for defendant Anthony Lucia. Welcome, Ms. Carrier.” He smiled pleasantly, and Judy stood up briefly.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Now that we’re all friends, Mr. Santoro, call your first witness,” Judge Maniloff said. He turned his attention to some papers on the dais, as Santoro stood up again.

  “The Commonwealth will present just two witnesses today, Your Honor, and we would first call James Bello to the stand,” he said, and in the front row the heavyset man from the funeral home wedged himself from the right side of John Coluzzi, moved with difficulty down the pew, and came before the bar of court. He took the witness stand heavily and was sworn in as the D.A. took the fake walnut podium between counsel tables.

  “Mr. Bello,” Santoro said, “please state your name and address for the record.”

  “My name’s James Bello, but they call me Fat Jimmy,” he said matter-of-factly, though Judy wasn’t sure it was what Santoro had been looking for.

  “And your address?”

  He rattled it off.

  “Fine, Mr. Bello. Let’s move directly to the morning of Friday, April seventeenth. Were you present at about eight twenty-three

  A.M. at 712 Cotner Street in South Philadelphia?”

  “Yeh.” Bello wore a black knit shirt with suit pants, and his thick wrist bore a gold Rolex. His lips were puffy, his nose a pockmarked bulb, and his eyes large, round, and unforgettable if they were glaring at you in a funeral home. If he recognized Judy, it didn’t show.

  “And that address is a clubhouse for a pigeon-racing combine, correct?”

  “Yeh.”

  Judy opened her legal pad to a fresh page and shifted forward on her seat. At a preliminary hearing the Commonwealth had to prove only a prima facie case of murder, and the D.A. would have more than enough in this case. The hardest punches at a prelim were thrown beneath the surface, because the Commonwealth was trying to reveal as little as possible about its case, and the defense was trying to find out as much as possible. It was a legal fistfight, and only apparently civilized.

  “Mr. Bello, please tell the court who else was present in the clubhouse on the day in question.”

  “Mr. Tony LoMonaco, Mr. Tony Pensiera. Angelo Coluzzi was in the back room, and Mr. Tony Lucia, the defendant, went in there, too.”

  “Was anybody else in the back room except for Mr. Coluzzi and Mr. Lucia?”

  “No, Angelo and me opened the place that morni
ng. He was the only one back there until Tony went in.”

  Santoro nodded. “Mr. Bello, please tell the court what happened next, if you would.”

  “Sure, yeh.” Bello cleared his throat of smoker’s phlegm. “Mr. Lucia went in the back room and there was a scream, and then we heard like a crash. And we went in and there was Angelo dead on the floor and Tony, Mr. Lucia, was standing over him, all worked up.”

  Judy held her breath to know what Bello had heard, or what he’d claim he heard.

  Santoro shifted closer to the microphone at the podium. “Mr. Bello, you said you heard yelling. What did you hear?”

  “I heard yelling, in English and Italian.”

  “Do you know who was doing the yelling?”

  “Mr. Lucia.”

  “Mr. Bello, what did you hear Mr. Lucia yell?”

  “He yelled, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’”

  Judy made a note, only apparently calmly. It would be home run evidence at trial. Worse, it was true.

  “Mr. Bello, did defendant Lucia yell this in English or in Italian?”

  “In Italian. Definitely, Italian.”

  “And you understand Italian?”

  “Very well. Been speakin’ it since I was a kid. Now, Angelo, he didn’t like to speak it. He wanted the old ways behind him. He wanted to be a real American. He didn’t have no accent either. Hardly.”

  Santoro nodded, his soft chin wrinkling into his stiff white collar. “So you are sure it was Mr. Lucia’s voice and not Angelo Coluzzi’s?”

  “I know Angelo’s voice and also, he’s the one who ended up dead.”

  Santoro didn’t blink. “Then what did you do, Mr. Bello?”

  “I got up and ran into the back room and there was Angelo, lyin’ on the ground, with the shelves over him and a big mess onna floor. I checked Angelo out but he didn’t have no pulse and his head was lying funny.”

  “Where was the defendant at this time?”

  “Standin’over Angelo.”