The Juror Read online

  Let him do this? What do you mean, let him? Vincent does what he pleases.

  Always has. Since St. Xavier’s. Fourth grade. Never gave a shit what the nuns told him. Had his own mind, kept his own counsel. Like the time they were studying that big computer UNIVAC. Vincent raised his hand and said that soon there would be a computer that’d do nothing except try to figure out what God was like.

  This was in Sister Francesca’s class.

  Said Vincent, “We’ll feed it everything we know, right? And it’ll find the pattern.”

  Said Sister Francesca, “What pattern?”

  “The pattern behind the Creation. The pattern of God.”

  Said Sister Francesca, “I think, young man, that the Bible tells us what we need to know about God.”

  Vincent ignored her. “But if a computer wants to understand God? It’ll have to become God. It’ll have to create its own universe. And maybe that one will replace ours. Sort of, part of a cycle. Don’t you think, Sister Francesca?”

  In the hubbub of the cafeteria, or homeroom, in the wild free-for-all of recess, Vincent was always stiff and ill at ease. You had to see him in some situation where he felt completely in control—then he’d scare the hell out of you, the way he could draw you in.

  Though there was always some question, Eddie recalls, as to Vincent’s sanity.

  There was, for example, the time he sent a rocket up from his backyard and his mom and dad were drunk, and nobody but Vincent and Eddie knew that Vincent’s cat was riding in the nose cone.

  Some three or four days after the rocket and its cargo disappeared into the sky over Bay Ridge, Eddie came by and caught Vincent crying.

  “What are you crying for?”

  “Madame Butterfly.”

  “Your cat? You’re sad about your cat?”

  “I miss her.”

  “Well then why did you blast her up to the fuckin sky?”

  “They stepped on her all the time. They kicked her. They never cleaned her shitbox. My dad put whiskey in her bowl. I had to do something.”

  Eddie remembers how Vincent always wanted to hear stories about Eddie’s father and uncles and cousins in La Cosa Nostra. Didn’t care too much about the crimes. What he got off on was what he called the hierarchy. He always wanted Eddie to introduce him to his relatives but Eddie didn’t think that was such a good idea.

  By the time Vincent was a senior in high school his geekiness was gone. This lovely girl, this strange brainy hippie-girl, fell for him, and at first everyone laughed at her. But then one by one other girls fell under his spell. He’d talk to them about his Eastern religions, he’d talk and you could see them getting relaxed, curling their legs up under them and saying, “Mm, omigod, it’s amazing, I had a thought exactly like that the other day,” and pretty soon you could score another one for Vincent.

  He won a scholarship to Fordham. By then Eddie had dropped out and was running in the gang headed by his second cousin Louie Boffano. Lifting auto parts mostly. Liberating cartridge players, jerk-off stuff. They kept getting fucked around by this Gambino cocksucker who figured Louie was so young, still so wet from his mama’s pussy that he’d be no trouble to lean on.

  That summer Louie said if he knew how to make a bomb he’d put one under the Gambino’s car.

  Eddie said, “I got a guy I bet can make a bomb for you, Louie. Make it right.”

  So he got Vincent to make a bomb. The Gambino’s car started out in the northbound lane of the BQE, and when it came back to earth much of it came down in the southbound lane. The chassis, the drive shaft, the radiator, and the spare tire. Also, separately, the steering wheel with the Gambino’s hands holding on for dear life. But the rest of the Gambino was never recovered. The rest of the Gambino had joined Madame Butterfly in the ozone.

  Louie held a barbecue to celebrate the death of the Gambino. Of course Vincent came, and Louie drank a toast to him. He said, “You know, this kid is like a young, a young, what the fuck’s his name?”

  “Who?” said somebody.

  “I don’t know. Some inventor or something. But give him, give him a round of applause.”

  Everybody put their paws together except cousin Tony Speza, who hadn’t taken a shine to Vincent. He said to him, “Hey, you’re not Sicilian, right?”

  “I’m northern,” said Vincent.

  “You’re not even that, you scumbag. Come on, you got the complexion of a ghost. Your mother’s a mick, isn’t she? And your father, he don’t count. He’s that crazy asshole who sings opera, isn’t he?”

  Couple of months later, Vincent had a secret meeting with Louie Boffano. Eddie set it up. At this meeting Vincent claimed that Tony Speza was pulling some shit behind Louie’s back. He produced Tony Speza’s telephone bill as evidence. He explained patiently the pattern of treason it revealed, how several of the calls had been made to law enforcement agencies. Louie laughed and said he was jumping to conclusions. But a few weeks later when Tony Speza vanished, Louie didn’t boo-hoo much.

  And from then on there was something between Vincent and Louie that nobody could get a handle on, that nobody could touch. Vincent pursued his own life—college and an MBA and work on Wall Street and his art and his women and his religions—but any time Louie was in a jam, or needed to thread his way through the eye of a needle, he’d tell Eddie, “Go find your friend. I gotta talk to him,” and Vincent would always show up. With his eyes glowing. Always glad to help. Glad to scheme out a disappearance or a frame-up, glad to assay the loyalty of an ally, glad to strategize the fancy heroin deal with the Ndrangheta and the Jamaicans.

  And whatever Vincent does, he does flawlessly.

  Flawlessly.

  And Louie stays out of jail, or at least he did till he tripped up on his own wagging tongue.

  Very few of our people get killed.

  Louie gets stinking rich.

  All of us get stinking rich.

  And Annie, I mean you really wonder why we let him him do this?

  JULIET says, “Come in before the bugs do.”

  But Annie doesn’t budge. She stands at the door.

  She says, “He showed me what he can do. You said he could be reasoned with?”

  “I said—”

  “No. He can’t.”

  “Now wait a minute, Annie. I said if we were strong, we could reason with him. But first we have to get strong. We have to hide Oliver, we—”

  “He’ll find him. No.”

  “Look, why don’t you sit for a while? Have some tea, OK, Annie? So we can talk?”

  “Promise me you won’t tell anybody.”

  “Wait.”

  “You’ve got to leave us alone now.”

  “Wait. What does Oliver think?”

  “Oliver’s twelve, what does it matter what he thinks? I guess he thinks we should be heroes. I just took him over to Mrs. Kolodny’s. Jury’s going to be sequestered tomorrow. Mrs. Kolodny’s going to keep him till we get a verdict. He was upset, he was pissed at me. But he promised to keep his mouth shut, and that’s all I care about. You’ve got to promise too, Juliet.”

  “Promise what? That I’ll abandon you?”

  “That you won’t tell anyone. It’s my life, Juliet. What you said, remember? He’s my child.”

  So. Put it that way, what can Juliet do? A slight cocking of her head and showing of her palm, and she’s surrendered.

  And Annie turns to go.

  Juliet calls to her. “Hey listen, girl, I’m going to Nightbone’s tomorrow night, me and Henri, why don’t you come with?” She means Nightbone’s Poetry Cafe in the East Village, in Manhattan. She knows Annie won’t come, but she asks anyway, maybe just to remind her that there’s still a world outside of the one the bastard’s made for her.

  Or maybe it’s just to keep her here for another moment.

  “I mean why not?” Juliet says. “You’re not his prisoner. Get out, relax a little, I swear I won’t talk about the trial—”

  “Juliet, you don’t understa
nd. I’m going to be sequestered, I’m going to be in some hotel somewhere. I couldn’t see you if I wanted to. Which I don’t, I can’t. Which you know. Anyway. So why do you ask?”

  Then she doesn’t say goodbye. She simply turns and walks back to her car.

  10

  Conquistador, rather

  ANNIE, in the jury room early the next morning, folds her yellow sheet of legal paper and passes it up.

  One slice of daylight gets in through a casement window. One mottled sliver of the rainy day—that’s as much as she can see.

  The Forewoman uses her wrists to scoop all the votes into a pile. Then she starts reading.

  “Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Not guilty.”

  A stirring among the jurors. There I am, thinks Annie. That’s mine. They think I’m nuts.

  “Guilty,” says the Forewoman. “Guilty. And here someone’s voted ‘Yes’? I’m not sure what ‘Yes’ means.”

  “It means guilty,” says Maureen, a grandmother in a lilac suit.

  The Forewoman keeps reading.

  “Guilty. Not guilty.”

  The news stuns Annie. My God, someone else? How is that possible?

  “Guilty. Guilty.”

  The Forewoman unfolds the last ballot.

  “Not guilty.”

  Three!

  Annie thinks it’s a miracle.

  “All right, wait a minute.” This from a little wiry guy, Pete, who works for OSHA. He wears a cheap suit and snake hairs grow from his ears. “I mean, I’m sorry. Can I, can I say this?”

  “Sure,” says the Forewoman.

  “I just, I mean, how can anybody think the guy’s not guilty? I just—who voted not guilty? Can I ask that?”

  Says the Forewoman, “You can ask. But nobody has to say if they don’t want. I don’t think.”

  “Well, I voted not guilty,” says an Ann Taylorish housewife from Mount Kisco.

  Says OSHA Pete, “You telling me you think Boffano didn’t order the killing?”

  She shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess maybe he did. But don’t we have to discuss it? We don’t want to—”

  “We’re gonna discuss it!” says OSHA. Raising his voice. Already. “We just, I mean, Christ. Who else? Who else voted not guilty?”

  “Me.” This from a retired postal clerk.

  “You? Roland? Why?”

  The Clerk shrugs. It takes him a long time to get started, and when he does he speaks slowly:

  “I don’t. Think the government. Made. Its case. Necessarily. That’s all.”

  The Clerk jams his tongue into his cheek. His skin looks liverish and his eyes are bloodshot and pulpy. He peers up at the acoustic tiles, and Annie tries to read him. Is he working for the Teacher? She wishes he’d look at her. Maybe she could figure him out if he’d meet her gaze.

  “Proved?” says OSHA. “It’s open and shut.”

  “So you say,” says the Clerk.

  “I mean there’s a tape, right? There’s a tape! Did you hear the tape?”

  “So you say.”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m asking you.”

  “So you say.”

  “What do you mean, so I say? Stop saying that, Roland, you’re driving me nuts.” He looks around. He sighs and folds his arms. “Jesus.”

  Says the Forewoman, “Anybody else?”

  Annie draws a breath. That’s all it takes—all eyes swing to look at her.

  Says the Forewoman, “And your, what’s your reasoning, Annie?”

  But Annie finds she can’t speak. Her vocal cords are stitched tight.

  “Well—” she says. Some of the eyes drop away compassionately. She tries again. “Well, I just—”

  A new voice breaks in. “Maybe it’s not fair to pick on the not guiltys. Maybe, maybe we should have to explain our case. You know?”

  Big and slouchy, an easygoing guy. His name is Will and he’s got blue jeans and a black jacket and long blond hair. He plays clarinet for a jazz combo in Briarcliff. Weddings and conventions.

  He says, “Why don’t we put up on the blackboard what we think the evidence is? OK? Then we’ll take it point by point.” He shambles over to the portable blackboard on its easel. “OK? So what do we got? How many witnesses for the prosecution were there?”

  “Three,” says OSHA Pete. “First that big guy, that, uh, ‘captain’? What’s his name?”

  “DeCicco,” says the Mt. Kisco matron. “Paulie DeCicco.”

  “Right,” says Clarinet Will. He writes “DeCicco” on the blackboard. “So what do we think about him? Do we trust him?”

  Says OSHA, “I wouldn’t trust him to feed my pet rat. But about this? Yeah, he sounded like, I thought he was more or less—”

  “But he was trying to get a lighter sentence.” This from a baker, a black man from New Rochelle.

  “Yeah, but that’s the only way to get them to testify,” says Clarinet Will. “It’s the only way they ever get anyone in the Mafia. That and tapes.”

  “Tapes!” OSHA Pete pounces on this. “Put down ‘tapes.’ Write that down!”

  “Well, right now we’re discussing—”

  “Put tapes in red,” OSHA insists.

  “Do we have red chalk?” someone asks.

  Says the old Postal Clerk, “This is how we should do it. We should keep red. For important evidence. Green, for evidence that’s comme ci comme ça—” He waggles his fingers.

  Says OSHA: “Comme ci comme ça?”

  “It’s French. It’s French my friend.”

  “Just hold it,” says OSHA. “Just wait, just listen.”

  He looks directly at Annie. “Suppose,” he says, “suppose they were all lying. DeCicco, that ‘mule,’ that cop. Suppose they don’t know Louie Boffano from Adam. But we still got that tape. Right?”

  Says Clarinet Will, sweet and placid, “You know, we’re sort of trying to do this in order.”

  “Forget the order!” says OSHA. Again he addresses Annie. “Lady, when you hear that tape, when you hear him say—what is it?—about the tunnel?”

  Three voices at once, reciting by rote—for they’ve all heard these words dozens of times:

  “‘I tell the Teacher, okay, you want, you want to dig a tunnel…’”

  Three more join in: “‘Dig a tunnel! Kill that motherfucker! Jesus!’”

  Smattering of laughter. OSHA Pete asks Annie: “So when you hear that, what in God’s name do you think? You think he’s talking about the Tunnel of Love?”

  Annie knows she’s blushing, and she knows they all see that.

  Come on now, answer him. I can speak, I know how. What am I so scared of?

  What I’m scared of is that they’ll see right off what a fraud I am, that I don’t believe a shred of what I’m saying.

  But she has to try. “I don’t… I don’t think that tape proves anything. He could be, maybe, I don’t know, it wasn’t a direct order.”

  “‘Kill that motherfucker’? That’s not a direct order?”

  “But… he was telling a story, right? Maybe he was boasting. He was boasting that he gave the order to kill Riggio, but he really didn’t…”

  She fades out. She’s looking to Clarinet Will. He’s got such a sweet face, such a friendly slouch, and she feels weak, and she might be getting ready to cry. She wants protection, she wants someone to take care of this thing for her….

  Says OSHA, “You kidding me, lady? You think he’s really innocent? He was just bragging on how he sent a hit man to kill Riggio?”

  There are a lot of smiles around the table.

  But so what? Let them smile. It really doesn’t matter, she thinks, because all she has to do is hold fast. Hold fast no matter how they come at her. Be a stone wall, that’s all. Don’t even listen to them. A week of this torture. Maybe ten days. Maybe two weeks, even—but they will give up on her, eventually they’ll have to call this jury hung….

  SLAVKO at AA. Awaiting his turn to speak. He listens to one tale of pallid death-in-life after another,
and he wonders, How in the world can this ritual help anyone? This singsong, what good is it? The lovers who dump us, the kids who disdain us, the TV that proposes and disposes, the hotshots who fuck with our heads: that the complaints are universal, how the hell does that make them any easier to bear?

  Jesus he hates these meetings.

  Though he thinks they might not be so bad if they’d only serve cocktails.

  When his turn finally comes around, he says, “My name is Slavko and I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hello Slavko,” they all harmonize.

  “I’m an alcoholic, and I’m also what you call a love-addict and a nicotine freak and a fuck-up in my former career of private investigator, which I never much liked anyway. My new career of poet is going OK. This is one bright spot. In fact I’ve just finished my first poem, but right now this new line of endeavor isn’t earning me any royalties, you know what I mean? Takes a while to get established, to start making the big bucks. I’ve been living out of my office but today I was evicted, so now I’ll be living out of my car. What else? Smoking, Jesus, smoking is just chewing up my lungs. Vague achiness in my lower back, so I guess pretty soon another kidney stone’s gonna make its move. And my heart? My heart isn’t just broken but shattered. I mean pulverized, I’m telling you it’s sown with salt so nothing can ever grow there again. I’m a hopeless dawdler, I feel sorry for myself with a capital S, and I’m sick and tired of dancing the twelve-step in these fuckin honky-tonks of yours. Is that enough for one sitting or not?”

  He shuts up.

  He waits through a few more sob stories, a few more slowwww deaths, and then he gets the hell out of there.

  He gets in the Buzzard and drives.

  Soon he finds himself driving by Gillespie’s Tavern in North Tarrytown. There are three cars out front. One belongs to Gillespie himself and one to an obnoxious rummy who frequents the place. The third car Slavko doesn’t recognize but it must belong to someone so vile that he can stand even the company of Gillespie and that rummy.