The Vendetta Defense raa-8

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Yes. I see. Very good. Just like the wind. Pretend you are setting a boat sailing across a large, blue ocean,” Tony said. He had never seen a boat, much less a large blue ocean, but he hoped his son would someday leave the farm and see the ocean, for it wasn’t very far away. Unlike his own father, Tony wanted his son to grow up better than he, to go to school, to learn to read and write, and associate with city people without feeling like their servant. “Very good job, son.”

  “See, Papa.” Frank blew so hard he made ripples in the tin cup. “Do you? See?”

  “Very good. Blow gentler, son,” Tony said, keeping the harshness from his tone, for he knew children needed praise more than they needed lessons on coffee drinking or good manners.

  Frank stopped blowing, his face now quite red. “Can I drink?”

  “Yes, yes. Good job.”

  Just then Signora Milito walked by, carrying her brasciole from the butcher shop in a cloth bag on one arm and her heavy purse of needlepoint in the other arm. She was a wealthy woman, with her face made up and expensively powdered, but she was kind, and she paused at the table and smiled at Tony and Frank. “Good day, gentlemen,” she said, which was what she always said.

  “Good day to you, Signora Milito,” Tony replied, and both adults waited while Frank lowered his demitasse slowly to his saucer. It was a long descent for a two-year-old, and only after the cup had been nestled in place did Frank look up eagerly.

  “Good day, Signora Milito,” he said in perfect imitation of his father, and Signora Milito nodded with approval.

  “No biscotti today, for such a good boy?” she asked, and Tony smiled.

  “Not today. Today is Frank’s birthday, and Silvana has a special dinner planned, with cake. We mustn’t ruin his appetite.”

  “A birthday!” Signora Milito’s purse slipped down her arm as she reached over and pinched Frank’s soft cheek. “Happy birthday, little one!”

  “Thank you,” Frank said, pleasing Tony.

  Signora Milito was equally delighted. “And what a lucky boy you are, to have a cake on your birthday. Your mother must have saved her sugar rations.”

  “She did,” Tony said. The whole family had saved for the cake, for with Italy entering the war, so many things had been impossible to get. The coffee shops produced only the watered-down coffee they now drank and NO COFFEE signs hung on many espresso machines. Gasoline was short, and in the city a special permit was required for use of the cars. Meat could be sold only on Thursdays and Fridays. Farmers like Tony often had no electric light or running water. The telephone worked only when it wanted to. Everybody said soap, fats, rice, bread, and pasta were next to be restricted. Tony couldn’t imagine it. Italy without pasta?

  “Have you read the notice, posted on the kiosk near the church?” Signora Milito asked, but Tony shook his head, no. He didn’t add that he couldn’t read, though part of him suspected Signora Milito knew as much and was saving his face by informing him. “It says Il Duce needs our copper, from our houses. Pans, pots, tools, whatever you have. They need it for the war effort.”

  “Then we must turn it over,” Tony said, in case anyone was listening. You could never be sure. The Blackshirts held absolute power, and those who spoke against the regime were as good as dead, the massacre of partisans well known. Tony, who hadn’t been conscripted because of his feet, thought Italy was fighting only to serve Mussolini’s vainglorious needs and abhorred the war. Nevertheless he said, “We will do what is necessary according to Il Duce.”

  “We must.” Signora Milito nodded without enthusiasm, and Tony knew from their encoded conversations that she loathed the Blackshirts as much as he did. Signora Milito and her family had been prominent in Veramo for generations before the Fascists came. Everything that went on in Veramo, she knew. “Well, I must be on my way. Don’t let the boy drink too much coffee.”

  “I won’t. Don’t tell Silvana, should you see her.”

  “It’s our secret,” Signora Milito said, and with a wink, hobbled away on her dark shoes.

  “Ciao, Signora Milito,” Tony called after her, and didn’t add that it was not only their secret, but a secret many of the townspeople shared, a vast but benevolent conspiracy.

  The piazza began to fill with townspeople, strolling to this store or that, or hurrying home to change into their best clothes for the passeggiata. A group of Blackshirts rushed by, black tassels on their corded caps jumping with each step, their leather boots clattering across the cobblestones. Fascist presence was conspicuous in Abruzzo, with war wounded and party officials returning from the Ethiopian and Russian fronts. One of the passing Blackshirts caught Tony’s eye, then quickly looked away.

  It gave Tony a start. Who was that man? Tony knew him from somewhere. Then he remembered, with a bolt of fear.

  The day Tony was beaten, the day of the Torneo. The man was one of his assailants. He had been on the dais, whispering into Coluzzi’s ear. He was Coluzzi’s lieutenant. Tony found himself rising to his feet at the table, his eyes trained on the Blackshirt, and he felt as if he were back on the narrow vias of Mascoli, writhing like a whipped dog.

  “Papa?” Frank asked. “Papa?”

  Tony looked down and the sight of the child brought him back to the present. He had a son; he had won Silvana. But his thoughts raced ahead. If Coluzzi’s right-hand man had returned, had Coluzzi himself? It was likely. Holy God. Coluzzi was still a threat. Bad things had happened to the Lucias when Coluzzi was home; directly after Tony and Silvana’s engagement, but before Coluzzi had gone to the war in Ethiopia, Tony had found his beloved pony gutted in the pasture one morning, and his first car had been set afire one night. Tony knew that Coluzzi had done these criminal deeds, but he was too terrified to tell the police, who were all good Fascists. The crimes had stopped when Coluzzi had gone. But was he back? Reassigned? In Mascoli? In Veramo? Here?

  “Papa?” asked the child, his round brown eyes clouded with worry, and as much as Tony wanted to, he couldn’t dismiss his anxiety. Suddenly it filled him, setting him trembling.

  “We must go, son.” Tony reached for his wallet, pulled out the lira, and left it crumpled on the table. “Come, now. We go.”

  “But Papa, my coffee. Is not all gone.”

  “We’ll have coffee at home.” Tony came around the table and took Frank’s hand as the child slid obediently out of the chair. “Special for your birthday.”

  “At home?” the boy asked, bewildered. “Mama says no coffee.” Frank raised his arms to be lifted from the seat, and Tony grabbed him more quickly than usual. The mention of Silvana’s name had reached his heart. At home? Could Coluzzi be back? The fear in Tony’s stomach was undeniable.

  “We must go,” was all Tony could say, his voice unaccountably choked, and he carried Frank along to his bicycle, set him on the middle bar where he always sat, jumped on the bike and pedaled off.

  “Whee!” Frank squealed, delighted at the unaccustomed speed, but Tony kept a steadying hand on the boy’s chest. Tony’s fear powered his feet. His thoughts were on Silvana. This would be the perfect time for Coluzzi to strike. Everybody in town knew that Tony and the boy had coffee on this day, at this time. In fact, it was the only time all week Silvana was alone. And it was the boy’s birthday. Tony picked up the pace, as fast as safety allowed.

  They pedaled through the town, dodging farmers, cars, horses, carts, and other bicycles, into the countryside, with Tony fueled by sheer terror. Tony’s breath came in labored gulps. His legs began to ache. Sweat dampened his forehead.

  The child screamed gleefully on the middle bar. “Yiii!”

  Tony avoided each large rock as the paved road turned to dirt, swerving dangerously, and one time Frank yelped in fright. Then came another rock, and another yelp. Frank was becoming frightened, sensing his father’s mood, and with a child’s wisdom realizing that something was going very wrong. His hands reached up for his father, and Tony held fast to him. The bicycle barreled ahead, flying past a stray sheep, on a
momentum of its own. Silvana was alone, unprotected. Silvana. Coluzzi. Tony’s feet raced around the pedals. Silvana. Coluzzi. Silvana. Coluzzi.

  “Papa! Stop! Papa!” On the bar, Frank was crying fully now.

  “Hang on!” Tony called to him. He couldn’t stop now; the road led to home.

  “Papa! Stop! Please! I said please!”

  “Hold on!” Tony yelled, as the bicycle turned down the road to their farm, and as soon as he got home in his sight he found a reserve of strength and pedaled faster. The ache vanished from his thighs and the sweat evaporated from his brow. Even his child’s screams seemed far away. Home. Silvana. Coluzzi.

  They zoomed toward the house, and when they reached the front door, Tony slowed the bicycle on the soft grass, scooped Frank in his arms as he let the bike fall, and ran with the boy crying under his arm into the house.

  “Silvana!” he cried, charging over the threshold with the sobbing child.

  “Papa! Papa!” Frank wailed, squirming from Tony’s arms to collapse in a crying heap on the floor.

  “Silvana!” Tony looked wildly around the living room, gaily decorated with flowers and homemade notes for Frank’s birthday. The lace tablecloth had been put out, and a white cake sat in the middle of the table with noisemakers, pieces of nougat, and a large wrapped present. Silvana had readied everything for Frank’s celebration, to surprise him when they came home, according to plan. But she was nowhere in sight. Tony’s heart was seized with a fear he had never known.

  “Silvana!” he screamed, the sound so unaccustomed coming from the gentle farmer that baby Frank began to cry even harder, covering his ears in horror amid his birthday decorations.

  “Silvana!” Tony ran to the kitchen. No Silvana. He ran to the bedroom and through the small house, yelling. “Silvana!” He ran outside to the pasture.

  “Silvana!” Only the sheep looked over, peering with their slitted eyes. He ran to the olive groves, hill after hill of flowering trees, their fragrance usually intoxicating to Tony. But not tonight. Where was she?

  “Silvana!” he bellowed, cupping his mouth with his hands, but only her name came back, a hollow echo. “Silvana!”

  Tony’s thoughts were panicky. Where had she gone? She had few friends, her sister had moved and she had lost both parents. Silvana never went anywhere alone. What woman did? He racked his brain. What hadn’t he checked? The pigeon loft? Perhaps she was visiting them. She liked them as much as he did.

  Tony sprinted for the loft and threw open the wooden door. Birds fluttered on their perches at the intrusion, sending pinfeathers into the air. No Silvana. Tony ran from the loft for the house, but then he heard the sound of the horses neighing.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  The stable. It was the only place he hadn’t checked, for Silvana never went in there. She was afraid of horses. Still. Tony ran for the stable and yanked open the rolling door.

  The only sight worse than the one before him was the one behind him.

  “Mama?” asked the boy, his eyes wide with shock at the body that lay lifeless in the hay.

  Chapter 38

  “All rise!” announced the court crier, and everyone packing the largest courtroom in the Criminal Justice Center rose as one. “All rise for the Honorable Russell Vaughn!”

  Judy stood up next to Pigeon Tony, dressed in a dark blue suit that fit him better than the last one and matched her regulation courtroom wear, with navy pumps. In the four intervening months, she had sprung for a boring new wardrobe and her first pair of lawyer pumps. In her view, it wasn’t progress.

  Judge Vaughn, a tall man, gray-haired and ruddy-faced, whose voluminous judicial robes couldn’t conceal the power of his frame, swept into the courtroom from a pocket door, ascended the walnut dais, and took his leather seat as if he were born to it. In fact he was. His father had been a common pleas court judge before him, and both were equally respected. Judy considered his assignment to this case a good sign.

  “Good morning, all,” he said. “Please sit down. Court is now in session in the matter of Commonwealth versus Lucia. This trial has been expedited on request of defense counsel, and it’s already taken two weeks to pick a jury, so let’s not waste any more time.” Judge Vaughn glanced at the bailiff. “Please bring them in, Bailiff.”

  Judy watched as the jury filed in through another pocket door and took their seats, in bucket swivel chairs of black vinyl. The jury consisted of two rows of seven, including alternates; there were an equal number of men and women. Judy felt lucky to have gotten five people over age sixty-five onto the panel, in the hope that they’d be sympathetic to Pigeon Tony. But since it was a case of murder in the first, they had been death-qualified. So as sympathetic as they seemed, every one of them had sworn that he or she would be able to sentence Pigeon Tony to death.

  Judy gazed at them now, one by one, behind a sleek panel of walnut veneer. In time she would come to know their faces and they hers, in the oddly remote familiarity that occurred in every jury trial. But right now the jurors sat as stiff as the courtroom furniture, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes, almost blending in with the beige acoustic panels on the wall, a wool carpet of a graphite color, and walnut pews of the gallery. The only odd element of the courtroom’s modern decor was the expanse of bulletproof glass that separated the gallery from the bar of court.

  Judy glanced back at the gallery through the clear shield. In this case, security would be in order. The two guards Bennie had hired sat solidly in the front row; they had become Judy’s new best friends, shadowing her everywhere, advising her when it was time to change hotels. They’d even followed her to her few visits with Frank, and between the guards and Pigeon Tony, ensured that the affair remained unhappily chaste. Judy sought Frank out in the gallery, and he was sitting in the front row next to Bennie, Mr. DiNunzio, Tony-From-Down-The-Block, and Feet, wearing new glasses. Judy tried to catch Frank’s eye, but he was watching the Coluzzi side of the aisle.

  John Coluzzi, in a black suit and tie, sat on the right side of the gallery with his meaty arm around his mother, who was also dressed in black, next to Fat Jimmy Bello. No one had been charged in the death of Marco, and the police said they still had no leads. Like Frank, Judy found herself glaring at John, unable to look away. Flashing on the image of Marco, dying in her arms. Judy hadn’t been able to get far even in her lawsuits against them, without a live witness in Kevin McRea, but he was still nowhere to be found.

  “Let’s get started. Mr. D.A., Mr. Santoro?” Judge Vaughn was saying, and Judy turned around. The judge was slipping on a pair of black reading glasses, with half frames. “Your opening statement?”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe Santoro drew himself up, buttoned his well-made Italian suit at the middle, and strode to the podium facing the jury. His dark hair glistened in moussed waves, and his fingernails shone with nail polish, but his self-important grooming belied the time he had to have spent on case preparation. Judy knew it had matched hers, and she picked up her pen to take notes. The Commonwealth had turned over its evidence, which was predictably overwhelming. Given the evidence, the case was his to lose.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “my name is Joseph Santoro, and I represent the people of the Commonwealth. I’ll keep this short and sweet, because I prefer to let my witnesses do my talking for me, as you will see.”

  Santoro took a breath. “In my view, lying at the core of every murder case is a simple story. This case is no exception. This case is a story about defendant Anthony Lucia, a man who has hated Angelo Coluzzi for sixty years and has harbored malice against him, going back all the way to when they both were young men in Italy. The reason for this hatred? Defendant Lucia mistakenly believed that Angelo Coluzzi killed his wife sixty years ago and even killed his son and daughter-in-law in a traffic accident. Of course, this is pure fantasy, the imaginings of an angry man, who lives alone, with nothing but his malice.”

  Next to Judy, Pigeon Tony emitted a low growl, but she put a hand
on his to calm him. She had warned him to behave during the trial, as she had Frank and The Tonys. She couldn’t afford another courtroom war between the Lucias and the Coluzzis. It would play right into Santoro’s opening argument. Santoro had been clever to bring the vendetta into the case, recasting it as one-way grudge, or pure malice.

  “Defendant Lucia’s hatred for Angelo Coluzzi has been brewing for all of these years. And the defendant carried his malice with him when he immigrated to America, where Mr. Coluzzi built a successful construction company in his adopted homeland. In contrast, the defendant’s construction company, essentially a one-man bricklaying business, failed to thrive, feeding his hatred for and jealousy of Angelo Coluzzi. It was then that the defendant began planning to kill an innocent man.”

  Pigeon Tony’s mouth dropped open in offense, but Judy squeezed his hand, though she was equally outraged. None of what Santoro was saying was true, but she couldn’t disprove it.

  The proof of Silvana Lucia’s murder was long gone, and the accident reconstructionist who had examined the Lucias’ charred pickup had reached a disappointing conclusion: Negligent driving, poor weather conditions, and a substandard guardrail resulted in the lethal accident involving the Lucia family on January 25. The report also noted that the crash had killed the Lucias instantly, and found no evidence of tampering with the truck, as only residues of engine oil, diesel fuel, and gasoline appeared, not unusual in accidents involving construction vehicles.

  “Acting on this mistaken belief, defendant Lucia took his brutal revenge, and after lying in wait for decades, killed Angelo Coluzzi on April seventeenth. That morning, which was a Friday, defendant Lucia entered the back room of a pigeon-racing club that both men belonged to. Angelo Coluzzi was inside the room alone. You will hear that a fellow club member was sitting nearby and heard the defendant shout at Mr. Coluzzi, ‘I’m going to kill you.’” Santoro paused for dramatic effect, and the jury looked predictably surprised. One of them, an older woman in the front, glanced at Pigeon Tony, then looked away.