“What is the nature of your objection, Mr. Brigante?”
“I’m objecting to my being on trial here when my name ain’t been mentioned and I ain’t never seen none of these witnesses.”
“Objection overruled. Sit down, please.”
And like, “I object to all this noise about Jorge Betancourt when he ain’t even here. I got a right to face my accusers.”
“This is taken subject to connection. Please sit down.”
And, “I object to all this gas about Canada—I ain’t been north of Green Haven. This is deflammatory and prejudiced to me—I object.”
And my favorite, “I object on the grounds it is unrelevant, unmaterial, and unconsequential.” I loved to say that one. Used to drive ol’ Guy up the wall.
“Mr. Brigante, will you please refrain from these exclamations in the presence of the jury? This is uncalled for. Consult your attorney.”
“That’s me, Judge.” Wow, would he get hot! Ol’ prissypants, Scott, would have a pained look on his puss like he been goosed with an umbrella.
“This is inexcusable, Your Honor. Mr. Brigante is deliberately thwarting the continuity of my train of thought.
It is a shameful attempt to thwart the orderly presentation of the evidence.”
I really got out of line that time. I said, “I object to all this talk about twat in the presence of the jury.” That did it. The judge ordered a recess for the day and had a shrink check me out at West Street.
Through all this, Amadeo would have daily conferences like he was a field marshal. Mickey, Petey Pumps, Joe Cass, Larry, and even Rocco had to sit still for his speeches. He scared the shit out of all the lawyers. “I’m paying big money, you bunch of scumbags, meanwhile you’re sitting on your asses and let this one
figlio di putana
, Scott, do all the talking. I got a family, I got businesses, I pay taxes—I gotta hear this
bastardo
ruin my good name with this talk of junk. I’ll break your ass you don’t do something.” His lawyer, Jacobs, had to be the most underpaid lawyer out. But Pete wouldn’t look at me—I knew he thought I was crazy. Fuck ’im.
By now, I was getting bored with all the yin-yang. Just when I was losing interest, Scott played his trump. Mario Battaglia also known as Joe Bats. I remember like now. The marshal opened the door behind the jury box and there he stood, all 260 pounds of him. Joe Bats—I heard stories he offed people with his bare hands. The bosses had their eye on him when he was sixteen. He could rip the gates on store fronts when he was a kiddie burglar with his mitts, didn’t need no crowbar. Didn’t take long before he was mobbed up. He didn’t disappoint them— they could aim him in any direction, all six-four of him.
He took two bullets meant for a boss, and he still put the shooter through a plate-glass window, and then he kicked the guy to death. They don’t come no tougher than Joe Bats. He was a pig-fucker but he was bad. But like having balls in front of a gun or a knife got nothing to do with having the balls to do time. That’s another scene, baby. Believe that. And then a lot of guys with heart ain’t got no smarts, so then the bulls outfox them, put them in a bind, and then turn them around.
Scott was carrying on like the MC in a lounge act, like here he is, the one and only made-guy canary in captivity.
Madre mia
. Amadeo said, “I’ll drink his blood, I’ll eat his liver—” Jesus Christ! All hell broke loose, the marshals had to grab the boys. Talk about blowtops, they were screamin’ and cursin’. There was a recess, the judge threatened to put them all in straitjackets and gag them. I was cool, the jury could see that. Then I made my objections. “I demand a mistrial, Your Honor. This commotion just now has hurt my case. The jury is gonna visit with me the sins of other people, namely these guys.”
“Motion denied—do you think you can exploit a disorder of your making?”
“It ain’t of my makin’, I’m an innocent bystander. And I object because all this ruckus has messed up my continuity, like Mr. Scott would say.”
“Objection overruled. Proceed with your questioning of the witness, Mr. Scott. The jury is instructed to disregard the disturbance before and to draw no conclusions from it.”
Ain’t this a bitch. King Kong could appear at the window and some judge will say, “The jury will disregard that.”
Well, Battaglia put the zinger on all the troops. He buried them all, one by one, all the time looking up in the air. He said he gave Rocco two hundred thousand dollars of Amadeo’s money for the last order and they had discussed what the junk would be worth. Amadeo screamed, “Mario, how could you do this to me, how could you lie like this?” Then he bit his own hand and turned purple. We had another recess. Then Battaglia put the wood to me—he talked about the sitdown out on the Bath Beach, how I had been there with Rocco and how he had discussed the two hundred thousand for the junk with me and Rocco. I jumped up. “I object. I plead surprise, Your Honor!”
“What do you mean, surprise?”
“I’m surprised this man is testifying against me—I have never talked to him in my life.”
“You will have ample time to cross-examine him. Your objection is noted. Please refrain from these unnecessary outbursts.”
Then Battaglia went into heavy details, really loading it in. How he had discussed the arrival of the
France
with Rocco. How Betancourt’s go-fer, Marcel Boucher, was with Rocco’s man Vincent Fusaro at a garage on West 44th Street. Vinnie Fusaro was to be in work clothes, chewing on a toothpick, and with a work cap on backwards. Once Fusaro was in the bus, they was to match up halves of a dollar bill. Then they was to drive to a
motel in Jersey where Rocco had some guys waiting. The jury ate it up. We were in trouble. Al Friedman did a good job on cross, I gotta admit. He brought Joe Bats up from his kid days on Thompson Street through all his collars. There was assaults with iron bars, assault with a hatchet, assault with an ice pick, with sawed-off shotgun, with a pistol, hijacking, extortion—the dude was a crime wave all by himself. A terrible record. I was shocked that such a hoodlum was walking around the streets.
Friedman: “Mr. Battaglia, you have criminal matters outstanding now right in this jurisdiction, do you not?”
Battaglia: “Mr. Scott says you ain’t suppose to axe me about dem tings, I ain’t convicted.”
Judge Rossi: “I determine what questions are to be answered, Mr. Battaglia. You will please answer the question.”
Friedman: “And what is the nature of the charges pending against you, Mr. Battaglia?”
Judge Rossi: “Mr. Friedman, I try to afford counsel the widest latitude on cross-examination, but I believe you are now straying far afield into collateral matters.”
Friedman: “Quite so, Your Honor—I shall endeavor to hew to the prescribed limits more carefully. May we have a side-bar conference, Your Honor?”
Ugh. All this Alfonso-and-Gaston jive gets me sick.
Friedman: “Mr. Battaglia, you are expecting consideration from the government in exchange for your cooperation in this case, is that not a fact?”
Battaglia: “That ain’t why I’m here. Mr. Cronin told me the truth about the dope racket and I seen the light.
Now I’m trying to do the right thing to make up. I don’t need no break—they ain’t got nuttin’ on me.”
Friedman: “Mr. Cronin is the agent in charge of this case, is that correct, Mr. Battaglia?”
Battaglia: “You got it, counselor.”
Joe Bats had a tan. Had to be in La Tuna, Texas—the stool-pigeon farm. But he started to lose it as the legal fleagles had him under cross for close to a week. Judge Rossi was hot. I never seen a guy in such a hurry—he must sleep with his clothes on. I said I got to have my shot at Joe Bats. Even my fellow lawyers was yellin’ at me that they had covered all the ground.
Friedman: “Mr. Brigante, you’re opening up a Pandora’s box.”
Me: “I ain’t worried about her box, I’m worried about my ass.”
Jacobs: “Brigante, you’re irritating the judge and the jury; you’re repetitious and redundant.”
Me: “Listen, Jacobs, I’m the one that’s being double-jeopardied here.”
Friedman: “I was unaware that you had been tried before on the same matter, Mr. Brigante.”
Me: “Don’t be a wise guy, Al, you know what I mean. What do I give a shit about being redundering? I’m worried about going to jail. Now lemme do it my way.”
So they trotted Battaglia out again special for me. He looked like the Swedish Angel with a tie on.
Me: “They call you Joe Bats, right?”
Joe B: “Yeah, short for my name, Battaglia.”
Me: “It ain’t ’cause you been battin’ people on the head with tire irons, right?”
Joe B: “Do I have to put up with this abuse, Your Honor? He ain’t even a lawyer, I mean, am I right or wrong?”
Judge Rossi: “Mr. Brigante, please limit your questions to the issues in the case.”
I tried to do an Al Friedman: “I shall endeavor in the utmost extreme, Your Honor,” and I bowed.
Me again: “Now. Mr. Joe Bats, you say you saw me at Messina’s Restaurant in Brooklyn, right?”
“Right.”
“What I was wearing?”
“The hell I know what you was wearin’. The nerve of this scurve!”
Me: “Would Your Honor please apprise Joe Bats not to use profanity in the eyes of the jury?”
Judge Rossi: “Mr. Battaglia, please refrain from the use of any profane language. Answer the question if you can.”
Joe B: “You was wearin’ a suit—yeah, a dark suit and a tie.”
Me: “Ugh, what a goddamn liar. I was wearin’ a knit sport outfit with no tie.”
Mr. Scott, blowing smoke-rings out his ass: “Your Honor, this is an outrage; this is a travesty. If Mr. Brigante wants to testify he will get his chance later.”
Me: “Aha—I demand a mistrial—the D.A. can’t talk about me going on the stand in front of the jury—but I agree that what Joe Bats is doing here is an outrage.”
Judge: “Motion denied. You will not make statements, you will put questions to the witness, Mr. Brigante. I warn you, I am approaching the limits of my patience with your contumacious behavior. I will not tolerate it. Put your next question.”
Me again: “What song was they playin’ when you saw me at Messina’s?”
Joe B: “That’s easy—‘Mala Femina.’”
Me: “Who singin’?”
Joe B: “Al Martino, I tink.”
Me: “Ha! Wrong again—Jerry Vale.”
The judge called a recess. Then he told me my cross-examination was over, that he ain’t gonna allow no more questions from me. Just when I had Joe Bats on the ropes!
“In the words of Mr. Scott, this is an outrage, Your Honor, this is breaking my chain, this is a drag. I have harpooned the witness lyin’ like a rug. And in the middle of my job I’m being cut off. I’m moving for a mistrial, for a severance, and for a reduction in my bail. And I want it in the records.”
Judge: “Everything being said here is on the record, to my great distress, Mr. Brigante. Your motions are denied and your cross-examination of the witness is terminated. Call your next witness, Mr. Scott.”
The agents marched up and down the stand, a slew of them. Goddamn feds don’t look like feds no more—some of them look like zonked-out freaks, long hair, pocketbooks. Unbelievable. Finally, Scott got the junk into evidence. Bad news—once a jury locks on a live exhibit you in trouble. Words are just words, but a pistol is a
pistol—they can see it, they can touch it. Same with the junk—they know that ain’t pancake flour, they can see it. I figure I’m behind on points, but with a dynamite summation in the last round, I can pull it out. Sugar Ray did it with Randy Turpin, so did Marciano with Ezzard Charles. When you been stunned, when you reelin’ and the canvas is spinnin’, that’s when you separate the men from the pussy. I saw Muhammad Ali go it with Frazier— cost me eight hundred to get ringside, worth every penny. The dude was hurt bad in the eleventh, but he showboated his way out like ’tweren’t nothin’—then in the fifteenth, Ali saw it coming, he leaned back to get away, and he’s the only pug ever been able to do that, but Frazier was off his feet and he threw the hook high enough. Left hook with all the shoulder behind it—I knew it was a homerun ball, Ali’s feet flew out from under him. Splat on his ass. No jukin’, no jivin’ now, no playin’ ’possum, you all by your lonesome on the seat of yo’ ass. Where you at, colored boy? Brain don’t do you no good now, only your heart. Ali showed them that night—the man got heart. If you ain’t got that, you ain’t into nothin’.
The main man in that department of all time was Rocky Marciano. He had every handicap—short, around five-ten; light, 188 pounds; no jab; no speed; and at the beginning, no left hook—he was not a good defensive fighter and to cap it, a bleeder. Of course he had a great cut man, Whitey Bimstein, and Charley Goldman, a great trainer, taught him to shorten up his shots and develop a left hook. The rest Rocky did all by himself, from inside— his great heart got past all these hurdles. Nobody will ever
come close to the Rock. I saw him not long before he got killed in the plane crash. It was at the Copa at a Tom Jones show. I don’t go around makin’ a big deal out of celebrities, but that night I felt like going over and telling him what a great champ he was. I wish I had. I was at the Garden after he got killed. They rapped the gong ten times for him, only time he was counted out—me and a couple of tough-guys with me got sloppy for a few seconds there. Yeah, we cry too. I’m just like anybody else—I don’t beat up on old ladies or kick a guy on crutches, ain’t no tail and horns on me. The only difference between me and the average guy is that I don’t follow no rules put down by somebody else. I gotta do things my way—don’t matter what the cost, and it’s been heavy—I gotta go my way. I always thought I coulda been a good duker but people would tell me, You a pretty boy, supposed to be a pimp. Yeah, they gave you great advice in those days.
We’re down to the wire and we’re neck and neck. You know whose neck. Summation, the last roll of the dice. My associate counselors did their thing rapping long and hard, mostly long. It ain’t easy to get up and sell them stone faces. I didn’t listen too close, I was working on my summation—I wrote it all down, then I shitcanned it. This got to be done on the feet from the top of the head, otherwise it ain’t gonna have no punch. I watched them laywers rattlin’ papers—that jury is gone in a minute. No way, you’re shooting from the hip, Carlito.