Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
“By ‘opportunity,’” the prosecutor stated, “you mean that if Mr. Machia participated in killing Mr. Greenblatt, he would be rewarded with being formally inducted into the family? Is that correct?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Goldenberger.”
“So, go on, Mr. Denunziatta. Did Mr. Cabrule and Louis Machia carry out this hit?”
“Yes, they did. In front of Greenblatt’s home in Jersey. On the sixth of August, 1993.”
“You seem to know the date well, Mr. Denunziatta. Were you there?”
“I was in the area,” Denunziatta replied.
“
In the area . . . ?
” Goldenberger cocked his head.
“I was in a car driving around the neighborhood, maybe two blocks away. I heard the shots. I saw Louis and Jimmy C. speed by. Louie’s friend Stevie Mannarino was driving the vehicle.”
“Was anyone
else
driving around the neighborhood, Mr. Denunziatta? At the time Mr. Greenblatt was murdered?”
“Yes, sir.” The gangster nodded. “Tommy Moose was driving around. In a gray Lincoln.”
“Okay, Thomas Mussina was there. In a Lincoln. Was there anyone else in this car with Mr. Mussina?” the prosecutor asked.
“Yes, there was.” Ralphie sucked in a breath. “Dominic Cavello was in the car.”
“How could you be so sure, Mr. Denunziatta, that it was Mr. Cavello in the car with Thomas Mussina?”
“Because they stopped and waved to me. A few blocks from the hit.”
“But it didn’t surprise you, did it, Mr. Denunziatta? To see him, the Electrician, there?”
“No, sir,” the witness said.
“And can you tell the jury why?”
“Because Tommy told me they were going to be there the night before. He and Mr. Cavello. He said Mr. Cavello wanted to make sure everything was done just right.”
Denunziatta looked up, as if drawn almost magnetically toward the defendant.
Cavello met his gaze with the most chilling, mirthless smile. It had finality to it. Everybody saw it. It was as if the temperature in the courtroom had dropped twenty degrees in a few seconds.
Go ahead, Ralphie,
Cavello’s smile seemed to say.
Do what you have to do. When this has all played out, I’ll find you.
Dead man walking, Ralphie.
The prosecutor brought the witness back. “So to the best of your knowledge, Mr. Denunziatta, Mr. Cavello knew about Mr. Greenblatt’s murder before it took place?”
“’Course he knew about the murder, Mr. Goldenberger. Jimmy wouldn’t tie his shoelaces without the Boss’s say-so. Everybody knew that.
Cavello ordered the hit.”
MIRIAM SEIDERMAN HAD SEEN the monstrous look, too. It almost brought the proceedings to a halt, as all eyes went to Cavello.
Up to now the mob boss had been on his best behavior, but she knew he was tethered by a slender thread. The first two witnesses had been damaging. She could read the jury on that. Only a complete fool would think Cavello had nothing to do with Greenblatt’s murder.
Yet he just sat there, like he had it all planned out. His life was going down the tubes, and he was above it all:
You can’t hold me here. I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger than the whole system. You can’t judge me.
It made her shiver.
After trial that day, she met her husband for dinner with a client. Ben was a partner at Rifkin, Sayles, one of the biggest law firms in the city. She listened, tried to laugh. The client, Howard Goldblum, was one of the most successful real estate developers in the city.
But inside, she was scared. She kept reliving the trial. It kept reverberating through her. Something about that man. That he couldn’t be controlled by any system.
She and Ben got home around ten. The alarm was on. The housekeeper had gone for the night. She double-bolted the front door and went upstairs.
She knew she should tell Ben about today. But it was silly, and she wasn’t a silly person. She’d been on a hundred trials. She’d seen plenty of brazen criminals who thought they were bigger than life itself. Why was this one different?
He wasn’t! To hell with him.
She watched Ben disappear into his walk-in closet to get undressed, then into the bathroom. She heard him brushing his teeth. She went over to their bed. She pulled off the pillows one by one. Then she stripped down the duvet.
Miriam Seiderman felt her heart slam to a stop.
“Ben! Ben, come out here, quick!
Ben!
”
Her husband ran into the room, his toothbrush in hand. “What is it?”
Under the covers there was a newspaper, folded open to page two. The headline read,
GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.
She was staring at Dominic Cavello. An artist’s sketch. The very moment in the courtroom that had stayed with her all evening.
That look.
She turned to Ben. “Did you put that here?”
Her husband shook his head and picked up the
Daily News.
“Of course not, no.”
A chill started to creep down Miriam Seiderman’s spine. The house had been locked, the alarms set. Her housekeeper, Edith, had left at four.
What the hell was going on?
This was this evening’s paper.
Someone had gotten in here tonight!
AROUND THAT TIME, in a dimly lit Albanian café in Astoria, Queens, Nordeshenko sat reading a newspaper of his own.
A few customers were at the bar. A soccer game was playing on the satellite, piped in from the home country, and the local boys were drinking and cheering, occasionally shouting in dialect at the screen.
The café door opened. Two men stepped in. One was tall, with ice-blue eyes and long blond locks flowing over his black leather jacket. The other was short and dark, Middle Eastern-looking, wearing a green military jacket over camouflage trousers. The two men took a seat at the table next to Nordeshenko’s. The Israeli never even looked up.
“It’s good to see you, Remi.”
Nordeshenko smiled. Remi was his Russian nickname. From back in the army, in Chechnya. A version of Remlikov, his real name. Nordeshenko hadn’t used it in fifteen years.
“So look what the wind dragged in.” The Israeli finally folded down his newspaper. “Or maybe the sanitation trucks.”
“Always the compliments, Remi.”
Reichardt, the blond with the scar under his right eye, was South African. Nordeshenko had worked with him many times. He had been a mercenary in Western Africa for fifteen years and had learned his trade well. He had been taught how to inflict terrible pain when most boys were learning grammar and mathematics.
Nezzi, the Syrian, he had gotten to know while on duty in Chechnya. Nezzi had once participated in a terror raid against the Russians in which a lot of schoolchildren got killed. Nezzi had blown up buildings, shot Russian emissaries, whatever it took. He could construct a bomb from materials one could easily find in a hardware store. Nezzi had no qualms about anything, no ideologies. In this age of fanatics, it made him a dying breed. Refreshing in a way.
“So tell us, Remi”—the South African shifted in his chair—“you didn’t bring us out here to watch Albanian football, did you?”
“No.” Nordeshenko tossed the newspaper over on their table. Facing them was the courtroom sketch of Dominic Cavello—the same one he had left in the judge’s bed just a few hours before.
“Cavello.” Nezzi wrinkled his brow. “He’s on trial, no? You want us to do a job on him while he’s in jail? We could do that, I suppose.”
“Have a drink,” Nordeshenko said, signaling the waiter.
“I’ll have one
after,
” the South African said. “And as you know, our Muslim pal here lives the rigorous life of the Koran.”
Nordeshenko smiled. “All right.” He lifted the newspaper one more time. On the other side was another courtroom sketch, one Nordeshenko had cut out of the paper from the trial’s very first day.
Both killers stared at it. Slowly the message started to sink in.
“You want that drink now?” Nordeshenko asked.
Reichardt’s look said,
Lunacy.
“This is America, Remi, not Chechnya.”
“What better place to break new ground?”
“Ouzo,” Reichardt called to the waiter.
“Three,” said Nezzi, shrugging.
The drinks came, and over the shouts for the football game, the men slugged them down, wiping their chins.
The South African finally started to laugh. “You know it’s true what they say about you, Remi: you’d be fucking dangerous if you ever got mad.”
“Shall I take that as a yes, you’re in?” Nordeshenko asked them.
“Of course we’re in, Remi. It’s the only game in town.”
“Three more,” Nordeshenko called to the waiter in Russian.
Then he picked up the paper, the sketch of the jury disappearing under his arm. They wanted a trial, these stupid bastards, they were going to get one.
They just didn’t know the meaning of the
trial
that was in store for them.
NO ONE WAS ON the witness stand in the courtroom that morning. The press was cleared. The jury was being kept in the jury room. Judge Seiderman stepped in from her chambers and sent a fiery look hurtling toward the defendant in the second row. “Mr. Cavello, I want to see you and both counsels in my chambers,
now.
”
As the judge was leaving the bench, she caught my eye. “Agent Pellisante, I’d like you to join us as well.”
Our group made its way through the wooden door on the right side of the courtroom to the judge’s quarters. Judge Seiderman took a seat behind her desk, glaring. I’d never seen her so angry.
And she was glaring directly at the defendant.
“Maybe I didn’t quite get this across to you, Mr. Cavello, but if you think I will ever bow to intimidation or your mob-scare tactics, you have picked the wrong judge and this is the wrong courtroom. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Your Honor.” Cavello stood, staring right back at her.
“But what I particularly don’t take to”—Judge Seiderman raised herself up—“is a defendant who thinks he’s big enough to toy and interfere with the criminal justice system.”
“Can Your Honor explain what it is you’re talking about?” Kaskel asked, obviously confused.
“Your client knows precisely what I’m talking about, Mr. Kaskel,” the judge replied, her gaze never wavering from Cavello’s chuckling eyes.
She reached into a drawer, pulled out the copy of the
Daily News,
and threw it down on her desk. Facing up was a sketch of Cavello’s courtroom look at Ralphie yesterday.
GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.
“This was in my bed last night.
In my bed,
Mr. Cavello! Under my covers. The evening edition broke around seven. My house was completely locked up and alarmed. No one had been inside since four that afternoon. You have an educated guess as to how this got there, Mr. Cavello?”
“I’m not an expert on these things, Your Honor.” Dominic Cavello shrugged smugly. “But maybe that’s something you ought to take up with your alarm company. Or your husband. Me, I got a pretty good excuse. I was in that prison over there.”
“I told you”—Miriam Seiderman removed her glasses—“these proceedings will not be disrupted by intimidation.”
I had to give her credit. The judge was going toe to toe with Cavello. She wasn’t backing down. “This court has given you every opportunity to have this trial conducted in the open, Mr. Cavello.”
“This court is making assumptions that it cannot possibly back up, Your Honor,” Hy Kaskel said. “Mr. Cavello has conducted himself by every rule and stipulation both sides agreed to in the pretrial hearings. You can’t point the finger at him.”
“I am pointing the finger, Mr. Kaskel. And if it’s shown in any way that this is tied back to your client . . .”
“It’s okay, Hy.” Dominic Cavello restrained his lawyer. “I understand how the judge must feel. She has to do what she has to do. It’s just that I have friends who feel a certain way as well, and the problem is, they have to do what they think is right, too.”
“
What did I just hear?
” The judge’s gaze was electric, drilling in on Cavello’s eyes.
“I tried to tell you from the beginning, Your Honor,” Cavello said, “we’re never going to see the end of this trial. What can I tell you? That’s just the way it is.”
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Even for a bull like Cavello, to direct such a bold threat at the court was extraordinary.
“Agent in Charge Pellisante,” the judge said, never flinching.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I’m calling a recess for the day. I want the jury sent home. In the meantime, I’ll decide how this proceeding is conducted from here on in.”
I felt I had to voice my opinion. “The jury should be sequestered, Your Honor. We can no longer take responsibility for their safety. Or even your own. We’ve mapped out various locations. I can have protective custody in motion as soon as you give the word.”
“Nick,” Cavello clucked, turning my way, “it’s a big city. Hey, maybe you ought to be watching your back, too.”
I stepped forward to take a slug at him—but someone behind me, this big, burly marshal, held me back.
“Do it, Agent Pellisante.” The judge nodded. “Set the wheels in motion. Sequester the jury.”
AROUND NINE THIRTY that night, Andie was folding towels in Jarrod’s bathroom. Her darling son was in his pj’s, sitting up in bed with a schoolbook open on his lap, but he was staring off into space.
“Mom, what’s a promontory?” he called to her.
Andie came out and sat on the edge of his bed.
“It’s like a piece of land that juts out into the ocean.”
“Then what’s a peninsula?” he asked next, flipping the textbook page.
Andie shrugged. “I guess it’s a larger piece of land that juts out into the ocean.”
That day, for the first time in a week, she had picked him up from school. The judge had excused them all before noon, and the rumor mills were buzzing. The newspapers and TV commentators were saying threats had been made. Maybe against some of the jurors.