The Vendetta Defense (51 page)

Judy checked her watch. It was 6:31. Pigeon Tony looked down at his lap, silent but not dozing. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, because Frank, sitting next to him, had an arm around him and was rubbing his back, jiggling Pigeon Tony with each stroke. They had been doing this for so long, Judy wondered if Frank would wear a hole in Pigeon Tony’s new jacket, but she didn’t say anything. Nobody acted normal when a jury was out, least of all the client, whose life, or money, was at stake. And for the lawyers it was a limbo of the worst sort. Because whatever happened, they would be responsible for it, and the words of that closing would be a refrain of sleepless nights to come, causing a cringe of regret, or even a tear, in a dark bedroom.

Judy sighed inwardly. Looked nowhere and everywhere. Tried not to think about it but failed. Every profession had its moments, moments only insiders experienced, and lawyering was no different. But for all the highs and lows of being a trial lawyer, Judy thought this was the most incredible moment the law had to offer. A moment that turned a job into a profession, and a profession into a love. A moment when life hung in the balance. A moment when human beings struggled together to govern themselves, to make sense of conflicting facts, and to discover and determine the most elusive of ideals. Justice. Truth. Fairness. Law. Morality. A moment to fix and define ideas that refused to be charted, that defied definition.

Judy marveled at it, truly, anytime any jury went out, but in this case realized something for the first time. The law really wasn’t found in the green casebooks that contained the Pennsylvania Statutes or the pebbled maroon books that spelled out the United States Code. It lived in this moment, in the hearts and minds of the jurors who decided it day by day, in courtrooms big and small, everywhere across the country, under a system of law that had become a model for nations around the world. And even though it dealt with such lofty ideals, it always came down to one thing—

A knock at a conference room door, a startled lawyer jumping up to open it, and a solemn bailiff standing at the threshold.

“They’re back,” he said simply.

In the courtroom the jurors filed from the pocket door into the jury box. Judy struggled to read each face, but they were all looking down as they found their seats. Courtroom lore held that it was bad news when the jury didn’t look happy, but Judy never got that. All verdicts were bad news for one side. She prayed it wasn’t her side, this time. Pigeon Tony’s side.

She watched, almost breathless while the foreperson, a reserved older man in the front row that nobody had bet on, handed the verdict sheet to the bailiff, who delivered it folded to Judge Vaughn.

Judge Vaughn was collecting himself behind the dais, his features falling into somber lines and his dark robes drawn about him. He reached over and accepted the verdict sheet, opened it slowly, then closed it and handed it back to the bailiff without reaction. Judy almost burst with frustration. Didn’t these people have any emotions? Wasn’t there an Italian among them? Pigeon Tony fidgeted in his seat. She didn’t dare look at Frank, in the gallery. Or Bennie, The Tonys, and Mr. DiNunzio. The bailiff gave the verdict sheet back to the foreperson, who nodded as he took it, seated.

The bailiff addressed the jury. “Mr. Foreperson, would you please rise?”

It was time for the verdict to be read. Judy found herself reaching for Pigeon Tony’s hand. He would need the support. She would need the support. They would get through this together.

The bailiff spoke again. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on the charge of murder in the first degree in the matter of Commonwealth versus Lucia, how do you find?”

The foreperson cleared his throat. “We find the defendant not guilty.”

Judy thought she’d heard it wrong. Pigeon Tony closed his eyes in thankful prayer.

An outraged Santoro jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, please poll the jury!” he demanded, and Judge Vaughn stoically complied, asking each juror what was his verdict, guilty or not guilty.

Judy remained stunned as each juror repeated “not guilty,” and it took twelve “not guilty”s for her to believe it was really true, and that they had really won, and that Pigeon Tony had finally gotten justice for all he had suffered, and that nobody could take it away from him.

And then her tears came.

Once Judy and Pigeon Tony were outside the bulletproof barrier, courtroom security took over and ushered the Coluzzis out, but nobody could easily restrain the Lucias. Bennie, Frank, The Tonys, and Mr. DiNunzio surged joyously toward Judy and Pigeon Tony, enveloping them both in their embrace and crowding with them out the courthouse doors, clapping and shouting.

Judy was almost out the door when she caught sight of a woman in the back of the gallery. She did a double-take when she recognized her. Strawberry-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a big Irish grin. It was Theresa McRea, sitting next to her husband Kevin, the subcontractor. If they were here, it must mean he would testify against the Coluzzis.

Judy saluted them, with karma to spare.

50

I
t would have been nice to take off for Bermuda after the trial, but Chester County was looking good to Judy right now, as she zipped under the cool oak trees covering the wooded country road, in the cutest lime-green VW Bug ever made. Penny occupied the passenger seat, characteristically erect, her brown eyes focused out the windshield. A girl, her dog, and her car. It was good to be reunited.

Judy drove with the windows open, and the wind fluttered through her hair, levitated Penny’s raggy ears, and ruffled the newspapers on the backseat of the car. Judy turned right and downshifted as she pulled onto the property, headed for Frank’s construction site, and parked near his tool bag, of worn sailcloth. She cut the ignition and opened the door, and Penny bounded onto her lap and jumped out of the car into the mud. Judy retrieved the newspapers and got out of the car. Good thing one of them could retrieve.

Penny sprinted for Frank, who looked up from the wall-in-progress and caught the golden as she plastered muddy paws on his khaki shorts. Rocks lay in piles around his Timberlands, which were fringed with orangey mud, and Penny deserted Frank to sniff each one, her tail wagging. Moths fluttered from her in confusion, disturbed in their wandering from one dirty puddle to the next, where the topsoil lay soaking from last night’s rain. This morning had dawned muggy and hot, atypical for spring, and Judy had gotten out of the office as soon as she could, to bring the news in person.

Penny darted off to get into trouble, and Judy walked over to the wall, watching a shirtless Frank pick up a large tan stone, brace it against the thick cotton of his shorts, then strike it with the long tip of a rock hammer, making an almost musical
chink
. The impact sent fine dust blowing into the air, setting the breeze aglitter in the summer sun.

Judy was in no hurry to rush the moment. She sat down on a rock with the newspaper. “How do you know where to hit it?” she asked, curious.

“Rock has a grain, like wood. Particularly sandstone does. Look for the cleft, find the grain, and smack it so it breaks with the grain.”

“Of course.” Judy had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter. She liked the sound of his deep voice and the movement of his shoulder muscles under a thin veneer of perspiration. She tried not to leer, so Frank didn’t think he had become a sex object, which would have been a completely reasonable assumption given the last few days.

“The old guys, like my father, they could tell you exactly how the rock would pop. He could even send the chip where he wanted it to go.” A chunk of the rock fell to the ground, and then Frank holstered the hammer and wedged the smaller piece under the end of the rock, filling in a space Judy hadn’t seen.

“Why do you do that?”

“Shim it? Supports the foundation. The little ones do most of the work. It’s just that the big ones get all the credit.” Frank grinned and wiped his brow, leaving dark streaks on his forehead. “As in life.”

Judy scanned the wall, which curved sinuously across the top of the gentle hill. It was almost seventy-five feet long and made only of tan, gray, and iron-streaked fieldstones. No mortar at all, in the rural style of a dry retaining wall. “It looks wonderful.”

“Thanks.” Frank paused. “I own it now, you know. Settlement is next month, before it gets too cold to break ground.”

Judy didn’t get it. “Wait. What do you own? The wall?”

Frank nodded, with a grin. “I bought this property as of yesterday, from my client. Ten acres, most of it uncleared, but it’s still land.”

“You’re kidding!”

“So now it’s my wall.” Frank turned and pointed behind him, to lower ground. “The house will be there.”

“House?”

“I can build it.”

“By yourself?”

“Nah.” Frank turned and pointed toward the oak grove, where Pigeon Tony began the long trek toward them. “I got the little stones to help, like that one.”

Judy smiled. “Jeez! And I thought I had news.”

Frank cocked his head. “What’s your news?”

Judy opened the newspaper, held it up, and showed him the headline. She knew what it said. JOHN COLUZZI ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF BROTHER MARCO.

“They announced today, huh?” Frank set down his hammer and accepted the paper.

“The proverbial good news and bad news.” Judy winced. “Jimmy Bello turns on John Coluzzi in return for a lighter sentence on your parents’ murder. Bello even produced the ski masks and bloody clothes, which he was supposed to stash after they killed Marco. The D.A. said he has John nailed.”

Frank’s lips parted as he read the story, and Judy waited for his reaction. In the background she could see Pigeon Tony getting closer, in his baggy pants and blousy white shirt. After a minute Frank looked up from the paper. “They don’t say how light the sentence will be,” he said, dry-mouthed.

“It won’t be that light, they told me, and it’ll run consecutively, so he’s locked up for a good, long time.”

“I can meet with the judge when the time comes, as victims’ family, right?”

“Right. I’ll go with you.”

“Good.” Frank squinted against the sun. His broad chest heaved up and down with a deep sigh. “Not the worst thing in the world. Justice, in a way.”

“In a way. And Dan Roser’s lawsuit goes forward, against John and the company. With Kevin McRea’s testimony, Coluzzi Construction is out of business.”

Frank handed her back the newspaper. “Sometimes that’s the best the law can do,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s time to end all this, huh?”

“You mean the hate part? The hostility and the war?”

Frank smiled. “The vendetta.”

“So the vendetta ends. Excellent. From now on there will be only peace, stone walls, and houses in the country.”

“And love,” Frank said. He leaned over and kissed Judy gently, without her even asking.

“Judy!” came a shout, and Judy managed to unlock her lips. Behind Frank, Pigeon Tony was walking, with Penny dancing circles at his side. He carried a Hefty bag, and Judy knew it had to be full of lunch and laundry. But Pigeon Tony’s straw hat was tilted at an unusual angle, and something she couldn’t see clearly was on his shoulder.

“How do you think he’ll take the news?” she asked, shielding her eyes to see Pigeon Tony better. Something appeared to be sitting on his shoulder, and Penny kept jumping up to get it.

“I told him we’d have to make the deal, and he’s okay with it. He’s stronger than both of us and this wall put together.” Frank turned and waved at his grandfather. “He’s already talking about rebuilding his loft, at home, so he can get ready for race season this summer. He loves you forever for saving his birds.”

“I didn’t do it. The Tonys did.” Judy stood up and waved as Pigeon Tony approached, swinging his Hefty bag, and when he got close enough she could see what was driving the dog nuts. Perched on Pigeon Tony’s shoulder, riding happily under the brim of his hat, perched a slate-gray pigeon. Judy burst into laughter. “Is that a
pigeon
on his shoulder?”

“That’s no ordinary pigeon. That’s The Old Man.”

“He came back?”

“Naturally, to South Philly. Where else can he get fresh mozzarella?”

Judy laughed. “So what’s he doing here?”

“Tony-From-Down-The-Block brought him, and my grandfather won’t let the bird out of his sight. They’re both single, and they go everywhere together now.”

“Judy!” Pigeon Tony was pumping his hand with a familiar vigor. “Thank you, Judy. Thank you! Look! See! He come back!” The motion unsettled the bird, which began fluttering its wings, and suddenly Penny leaped into the air at the pigeon.

Judy was about to shout in warning, but the aged pigeon, who had survived dangers greater than mere puppies, took easy flight, flapping its wings in a gentle rhythm, swooping in unhurried spirals into the cloudless blue sky. The bird climbed higher and higher as they all watched from the meadow, until finally it soared into the light of the sun, safe and free.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
know something about the law and about golden retrievers, but that’s about it. For this novel I had to understand homing pigeons and prewar Italy, so I was, in at least two areas, flat out of luck. Also the writing part never comes easy, but that’s another story. This is where I say thank you for the help, and kindly forgive my length. I’m a big fan of thank you. People should say it more often. Only goldens are exempt.

First thanks to my agent Molly Friedrich and my editor Carolyn Marino, for their guidance, support, and good humor during the writing and editing process. Thank you to HarperCollins CEO Jane Friedman, who watches over me, my books, and even their covers, and to Cathy Hemming, who is the best publisher in town. Thank you to Michael Morrison, for his expertise and kindness, and to Richard Rohrer, for all of the above, plus great taste in wine. Thank you to the Amazing Paul Cirone and to Erica Johanson, for everything. Special thanks to Laura Leonard and Tara Brown, for putting up with me.

Thank you to my wonderful family, The Flying Scottolines, here and in Italy, who let me mine them and their memories relentlessly. Thank you to my
compare
Rinaldo Celli and his family, who helped me understand something about life under Mussolini. Also helpful in this regard were several excellent works: Mussolini,
My Rise and Fall
(Da Capo, 1998); Moseley,
Mussolini’s Shadow
(Yale University Press, 1995); Whittam,
Fascist Italy
(Manchester University Press, 1995). For background, see Juliani,
Building Little Italy; Philadelphia’s Italians Before Migration
(Penn State University Press, 1998), and Mangione,
Mount Allegro
(Syracuse University Press, 1998). Like most Italian-Americans, I grew up in a proverb-spouting household, but I hear that not everybody learns
what goes around, comes around
or the ever-cryptic
I cry, or you cry
at age three. Those of you who escaped childhood without this experience, or even those of you who survived it, may want to read Mertvago, ed.,
Dictionary of Italian Proverbs
(Hippocrene, 1997). Thanks to my friend, Carolyn Romano.