The Juror Page 9
Says Bozeman, “Now Mr. DeCicco, you testified on direct that Louie Boffano was having ‘a problem’ with Salvadore Riggio, is that correct?”
Paulie DeCicco has an imposing hairless skull, a craggy mountain of head. This gives him an air of thoughtfulness, even sagacity—at least until he opens his mouth. “Huh?”
Says Bozeman, “Didn’t you testify that Louie Boffano had become a distributor of cocaine and heroin?”
“Yeh.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I was with him when he did it.”
“You were his faithful lieutenant, right?”
“Lieutenant? No.”
“You weren’t—”
“I was a captain.”
“Excuse me. Captain. Now, Captain DeCicco, who was Louie buying the cocaine from? Could you refresh our memories?”
“From Cali.”
“The Cali cartel?”
“Yeh.”
“Out of Colombia, South America?”
“Yeh.”
“And heroin? Who was the connection there?”
“The Ndrangheta.”
“This is a group in Italy, you say?”
“In Calabria, uh-huh.”
“A group that’s associated with the Mafia?”
“Huh?”
“Would you say the Ndrangheta is associated with the Mafia?”
“I’d say it is the Mafia.”
“But now Salvadore Riggio, he was the head of the Carmine fam-ily?”
“That’s right.”
“And the Carmine, this was your family?”
“Yeh.”
“And Louie Boffano is also in the Carmine family?”
“Yeh.”
“OK. But now Salvadore Riggio, he didn’t, he didn’t approve of Mr. Boffano’s connection with the Cali cartel, with the Ndrangheta…?”
“He had a beef.”
“OK. Tell us again, Mr. DeCicco, what was his beef?”
“You weren’t supposed to deal drugs. That was the law.”
“You mean the unwritten law of the family?”
“Correct.”
“Why was that the law, Mr. DeCicco?”
“I dunno.”
Bozeman stands at the rail to the jury box. He twitches his mustache and gives the jurors a playful glance. “It seems like a somewhat strange law, doesn’t it? Mr. DeCicco? For a criminal organization?”
“I dunno.”
“I’m just, I think we’re all trying to picture Salvadore Riggio as this, this crusader against drugs….” Murmur of laughter in the courtroom. “Would you have called Salvadore Riggio an antidrug crusader?”
Tallow, the DA, hops up. “Objection. Salvadore Riggio’s not on trial here.”
Bozeman shrugs. “State is trying to portray Salvadore Riggio as an exemplary citizen, in order to create an emotional bias against my client.”
The judge sustains the objection. Whereupon Louie Boffano mutters, “What the fuck?”
It’s a mutter, but it’s loud enough for everyone to hear.
Judge Wietzel leans forward into his microphone. “I didn’t quite hear that, Mr. Boffano. Would you care to repeat that?”
Louie Boffano gives him a grin. “Not really.”
Says the judge, “I warn you again to keep your opinion of these proceedings to yourself.” He glowers. Then, “You may proceed with the cross, Mr. Bozeman. But please don’t ask Mr. DeCicco to assess Mr. Riggio’s relative morality.”
Bozeman asks Paulie, “OK, then, the fact is that the unwritten code of the Carmine family prohibited large-scale drug dealing?”
“Yeh.”
“Penalty for noncompliance?”
“Death.”
“And you testified that Mr. Boffano had been a member of the Carmine family for as long as you had known him?”
“Yeh.”
“Twenty-three years?”
“Yeh.”
“A good soldier in the family?”
“I dunno. I guess.”
“And yet he was willing to depart from this deeply rooted tradition of no drugs?”
“Yeh.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“A lot of money?”
“Yeh.”
“Somewhere in your testimony you say there was talk of making a billion dollars?”
“I mean, that was just talk.”
“Well sometimes I talk about making money too, Mr. DeCicco. But I don’t talk about making a billion dollars.”
“No? Why, a billion dollars not enough for you? Oh yeh, I forgot, you’re a lawyer.”
Judge Wietzel makes a face. “Gentlemen.”
But Bozeman chuckles amiably, and his yellow teeth glimmer and his walrus mustache does a little dance. He says, “That’s very funny, Mr. DeCicco. You’ve got quite a wit there.”
DeCicco shrugs.
Says Bozeman, “Very sharp. Now would you be sharp enough to recall for us who started all this talk?”
“Huh?”
“Who suggested to Mr. Boffano that he enter the drug business?”
“Oh, I dunno.”
“I think you do know.”
Tallow roars out, “Objection! Argumentative!”
Bozeman cheerfully concedes, “Ah you’re right. My error, my error. Mr. DeCicco, didn’t you testify yesterday that a man known to you only as the Teacher had suggested a strategy for negotiating with the Cali drug cartel?”
“Maybe, but he didn’t—”
“And wasn’t this the very same Teacher who had a few ideas for dealing with the Ndrangheta?”
“Yeh, but he—”
“And wasn’t this the very same Teacher who suggested to Louie Boffano that he could dig a tunnel to Mr. Riggio’s house and kill him?”
“Yeh.”
“Who is this Teacher, Mr. DeCicco?”
“I dunno.”
“Is he in this courtroom?”
“I dunno.”
“What does he look like?”
“I dunno.”
“You never saw him?”
“No.”
“Did you ever speak to him?”
“Yeh. But he wore a mask.”
“Why did he wear a mask?”
Paulie DeCicco shrugs.
Bozeman suggests, “Perhaps he didn’t trust you?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess not?”
“Yeh. Well, one time Louie told me that the Teacher didn’t trust me. That he thought I’d rat out.”
“And this prophecy proved true, didn’t it, Mr. DeCicco?”
“I guess.”
“You did rat out, that’s why—”
“Objection!” says Tallow.
Says Bozeman, “His words, Your Honor. Not mine.”
Wietzel overrules the objection.
“You turned your back on the family, Mr. DiCicco, just as the Teacher said you would, correct?”
“Yeh.”
“In fact, the Teacher was often right, wasn’t he?”
“I guess.”
“These drug dealings, did the family make a lot of money?”
“Yeh.”
“Just as the Teacher predicted?”
“Yeh.”
“Pretty smart guy?”
“Yeh.”
“And yet nobody knows who he is?”
“Louie Boffano knows.”
“Anyone else?”
“I dunno.”
“And one day this Teacher said he could dig a tunnel to the home of Salvadore Riggio, for the purpose of killing him?”
“Right.”
“And Mr. Boffano said, ‘OK, you want, you want to dig a tunnel, dig a tunnel.’ Correct?”
“Correct.”
“After all, the Teacher was the boss, he could do what he wanted, right?”
“Wait a minute—the Teacher wasn’t the boss.”
“Really? Do you know of any case in which the Teacher’s council wasn’t followed?”
“Are you saying that despite his concerns, the Teacher permitted Mr. Boffano to retain your services?”
A feather of laughter sweeps over the courtroom.
Says Paulie DeCicco, “He didn’t permit nothing! Louie was the boss! He gave the orders!”
“I think you mean Louie spoke the orders?”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you know what a puppet is, Mr. DeCicco?”
Tallow’s on his feet instantly. “Objection!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bozeman mumbles as he moves back to his desk. “I’ll rephrase the question.”
He stoops beside his desk and comes up with a paper bag. He reaches his hand into the bag. He turns to the witness. “Mr. DeCicco, do you know what this is?”
When his hand comes out of the bag it’s wearing a cloth puppet. With black hair and a walrus mustache and a scowl. In the very image of its master, Mr. Bozeman.
Bozeman holds it up. He announces: “This is a puppet, isn’t it?”
Gasp from the courtroom.
The puppet wheels and scowls down at Mr. Bozeman and squeaks:
“No I’m not! I’m the boss! You’re the puppet!”
Above the roar of laughter Wietzel tolls his gavel. He’s furious. “Mr. Bozeman! Mr. Bozeman!”
Paulie DeCicco is shouting, “Louie Boffano was no puppet!”
The puppet nods gravely to Paulie, then turns upon its master and huffs, “That’s right! So there!”
Judge Wietzel shouts, “Mr. Bozeman!”
Now Bozeman, mock-sheepish, dunks the puppet back into the paper bag. But the puppet fights its way out and shouts, “Sorry, Your Honor!”
The Judge thunders, “Mr. Bozeman, are you trying to make a circus of these proceedings? You’re in contempt, and if there’s one more—All right! Calm down! Order!”
Cracking the gavel again and again.
“I’m going to initiate disciplinary proceedings against you, Mr. Bozeman, for this comedic display. One more such entertainment and I will bar you from this courtroom, do you understand me?”
But Annie doesn’t see why he’s so upset. She thinks Bozeman put on a good show. She glances to the juror on her left and the juror on her right to see if they’re as pleased as she is.
But they’ve only got the vaguest of smiles.
Oh, let yourself go, she thinks. Laugh a little. This bastard Bozeman just gave us something to work with, didn’t he? Do you have to be so stuffy, can’t you appreciate a little low humor once in a while, when it’s in the service of letting an innocent man go free?
THE TEACHER sits half-lotus on the roof of the BOFFANO family mausoleum, in a light rain, watching them approach. Louie Boffano’s brother Joseph with his bodyguard. He watches them as they wind along the path of marble seraphim.
Joseph keeps checking behind him. He’s nervous. But then he’s always nervous. Particularly anywhere outside his own neighborhood on Staten Island. Although in truth Staten Island is just where he’s most likely to swallow a bullet someday—right in his own driveway, perhaps, or down at the corner deli, or maybe three doors down at his brother Louie’s house.
Or maybe, the Teacher considers, in his very bedroom, like poor Salvadore Riggio.
The Teacher pulls his hood down over his head. It fits snugly, with openings for his eyes and mouth. He waits till his visitors come into the enclosure below him, till Joseph makes a flurried sign of the cross and approaches the steps. Then the Teacher rises and looks down upon them and says, “Hello, Joseph.”
The two of them scrabble under their jackets for their pieces. Their eyes dart left and right, but neither of them think to look up. Joseph hops up the mausoleum steps for the shelter of its entranceway.
Meager shelter, though.
From a branch of the red maple that shades this roof, the Teacher plucks a samara, a double-bladed maple seed. He holds it over the shiny target of Joseph’s bald spot, and lets it go. It whirs, it drops like a tiny smart bomb. But then it veers off at the last moment. Glides in front of Joseph’s eyes. He jumps back and bangs his head against the mausoleum’s marble.
“Fuck.”
Says the Teacher, “Relax, Joseph.”
Joseph wheels and throws his head back. Glares up at the Teacher with his little squirrel eyes. Points his automatic, which trembles in his grip.
The Teacher smiles down at him. He says, “Had it been my intent to kill you I’d have done so instantly. I’d have you locked up in this peaceful house by now. Joseph, when the time does come, would you like the bunk above or below your sainted mother?”
“Get the fuck off my fuckin family’s crypt.”
“I think you mean your family’s fuckin crypt. Not your fuckin family’s crypt. Do you see the distinction?”
The Teacher notes that Joseph’s bodyguard Frankie is clamping down a grin. Good. For a goon he’s an advanced specimen. Smart whippet-faced kid. Imperturbable, graceful of movement, with some sense of humor. Among Boffano’s vast family of mules and goats he stands out.
Says the Teacher, “How are you, Frankie?”
Frankie shrugs. “Ah, I’m OK.”
“You still dating that Irish girl?”
“Molly? Yeah. How do you—?”
“Somebody showed me a picture. She’s gorgeous. Can you catch?”
The Teacher produces a long brown cardboard box. He gently tosses it down.
“Shit,” says Frankie. But he catches it. And opens it, and finds an orchid inside.
Says the Teacher, “Lycaste Virginalis skinneri. Freshly picked. You smell that? Leave it by the pillow tonight when you make love to her. She’ll tear you up, boy.”
“Shit,” says Frankie. “Thank you very much.”
Joseph mutters, “Hey, it’s wonderful, Frankie, now you got your own fuckin florist.” Then, to the Teacher: “Did you hear what I said? I said get the fuck down.”
The Teacher takes hold of the base of a stone angel on the corner of the entablature, and swings easily over the side. He sets his foot into the ironwork of a small window, gets a grip on a ledge and lowers himself to the ground.
Says Joseph, “What were you doing up there anyway?”
The Teacher doesn’t reply.
Says Joseph, “You wanted to check if I’m being followed? Listen to me, fuckface. If I’m being followed, I’ll know it.”
“Joseph. Just tell me why you wanted to see me.”
“Why? ’Cause I hear you fuckin with the jury.”
“Ah. Well thank you for sharing that.”
Joseph raises a finger. “Shut up, dirtbag. I don’t want your smart shit.”
“I hear you.”
“And I don’t want you messin with the jury. It’s too risky.”
“You’d prefer a sure thing, Joseph? Like, say, your brother sitting in Attica for the rest of his life? And you in charge of the family?”
“My brother’s going to walk, asshole.”
“I understand they played a tape the other day.”
“Who gives a shit about that tape! When Bozeman gets done with that tape it’s not gonna sound like no murder talk. It’s gonna sound like the fuckin Muppet Show. I mean forget about this trial. These guys, Tallow, Westchester fucking County—they’re all amateurs. This isn’t even the FBI. This isn’t even a fuckin RICO, this is just asshole locals who think they’re federal cowboys. Ridin their trumped-up piece a shit murder rap.”
“That’s good, Joseph, that’s the spirit. But I’m told that Bozeman himself says we’re going to lose this piece a shit murder rap.”
“He’s covering his ass.”
“And I’m covering your brother’s ass.”
Joseph draws his eyes into thin slashes. “So which juror, fuck-head?”
The Teacher grins at him.
“Hey,” says Joseph. “When I ask, you better answer. When my brother’s in jail, I’m t
he boss of this family.”
“But not my boss.”
“You take money from my family—”
“I take a great deal of money from your family, Joseph, yet still you’re not my boss. Your brother’s aware of what I’m doing.”
“Yeah well you got my brother wrapped around your dick. Your little winkie-dinkie dick. Not me. I don’t like you. I don’t like your fuckin Hallowe’en mask. Why don’t you show your fuckin face?”
“‘The best of all rulers,’ says Lao Tsu, ‘is he whose existence is unknown.’”
“Say what? You stupid shit. I don’t like nothing about you. Teacher, Teacher, fuckin know-it-all. I don’t like what you’re doing to my family. I don’t like all this shit you and my brother are getting us into. This Ndrangheta shit, this Cali shit. And you know what else I don’t like? I don’t like putting the screws on civilians.”
“Oh Joseph, what a tender soul you have. It’s a shame they can’t canonize you till you’re dead—”
Frankie chuckles.
Joseph snaps his eyes at the kid, and the chuckle evaporates.
Then Joseph steps close to the Teacher. “Let me just get one thing straight with you, you fuck.”
“OK, Joseph. One thing. Shoot.”
Joseph’s fluted nostrils are quivering. His breath is foul and the stink of it gets under the Teacher’s mask.
“If they send my brother north you better run like fuckin hell. You better hide in the fuckin ocean, you fuckin faggot.”
OLIVER comes back on his bike from Wednesday afternoon lacrosse practice. As he’s carrying the bike onto the porch he hears the phone ring in the kitchen. Mom answers.
“Hello?… Hi, Juliet…”
Usually when his mother hears from Juliet she starts giggling right away—but not this time. This time her voice stays as flat and as cool as glass.
“No. Tonight? No….
“We did? I’m sorry, I forgot….”
Oliver goes into the kitchen. She puts her hand over the phone and tells him, without a word of greeting, “Get your clothes up. We’re going to the Laundromat.”
He goes through the TV room to the stairs. But he lingers there. He wants to hear.
“No, Juliet, that’s sweet,” Mom says. “But really, tonight I’ve got to wash clothes….
“I’m fine.…