"You mean, repeat his statements?"
"No, I mean, tell the truth as I know it."
He turned and scrutinized her. He wondered how much she really knew. "These facts, signora, would you be prepared to discuss them with me now? Or would you require access to your husband's taped interviews first?"
"Are you asking me if I would perjure myself?"
He blushed and returned to his desk. "I am in the middle of the case. The time required to discuss everything with you would mean my asking for a stay of at least one week. If I were to ask this of the judge and be awarded it, only to discover that your evidence was not-could not be used against Paul Carolla, then my time would have been wasted, and my time, right now, is my primary consideration. These men have been held in jail for almost ten months. We cannot afford further delays-·"
"The murder of my entire family is just a delay? How long did my grandchildren's deaths delay the court proceedings, sig-nor? One day? One hour?"
"Please, I mean no insult, but we have already discussed the fact that to date the police have discovered no connection-"
"No connection? My husband was the main witness against Carolla; is that not a connection?"
Emanuel was angry but very controlled. "I am unaware, as are the authorities, who it was who organized, arranged, whatever term you wish to use, the terrible tragedy that occurred. I am prepared to accept you as a witness if, and only if, you have evidence that stands up by itself without your husband's tapes."
"I know Paul Carolla instigated the death of my son. I know he, and only he, benefited from the death of my family-"
"But forgive me, signora, without proof-"
"The proof is in the graveyard."
He sighed. "Trust me, I give you my word-"
"Your word means little to me. My husband trusted you, trusted your word that there would be protection for himself and for his sons…"
Emanuel took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. There was no denying that the leak had come from this very office, his office. After a moment he asked if she would be prepared there and then to answer certain questions in front of a witness. If he believed she had valuable evidence, he would accept her for the prosecution.
Hesitantly Graziella agreed. A secretary brought them coffee while they waited for a stenographer. Emanuel sifted through his notes, preparing questions. Graziella slowly approached his desk.
"Would it be so wrong to allow me to listen to my husband's tapes? Would it be so wrong to allow me to say the words he died for? In the end what we both want, what you want, is justice."
"I cannot, signora, no matter how much I want, no matter how much I believe in the man's guilt, go against the law. I cannot do this for you-or for the animal Paul Carolla."
Graziella remained with Emanuel and the stenographer for an hour. Emanuel was as tough on her within the confines of his office as he knew the defense would be with her in court.
"Would you state your relationship with Paul Carolla?"
"I have no relationship with him."
"How well did you know the defendant?"
"He came to my home, to visit my husband."
She could not recollect the exact date but knew that the first time she had met Carolla was in the late fifties. She explained that there had always been friction between Carolla and her late husband.
"What exactly do you mean by friction?"
"When Paul Carolla's father died, his will did not name his son as head of the family. Instead, he chose my husband. Paul Carolla always bore a grudge against my husband because he felt usurped."
Emanuel tapped the side of his desk with his foot. "So you were aware of ill feeling between the two men as far back as the early fifties?"
"Yes. Paul Carolla came to my home wanting my husband to release him; he no longer wished to work for him. He wanted to start his own business."
"And what business did Paul Carolla wish to begin?"
"I believe it was narcotics."
"You believe? Do you have any evidence to substantiate this statement?"
"No."
"I see. So let us move on to the ill feeling between your husband and the defendant…"
"The second time Paul Carolla came to my home, he wanted my husband to assist him, to use the Luciano export companies as a cover for shipping narcotics. He had become very wealthy, and he threatened my husband."
"Were you a witness to any of these threats?"
She hesitated, and he knew before she spoke that she was lying. "I heard them shouting at each other. I heard Paul Carolla say that he would make my husband pay for abusing his friendship. My husband refused to assist him in any way. He had always maintained his companies legally, had spent years building up a good name. My husband was a man of honor, and he hated drugs of any kind."
"Signora Luciano, when you say a man of honor, do you accept the fact that your husband was, up until the time of his death, a known Mafia-"
She interrupted angrily. "My husband was a man of honor, a war hero, decorated for bravery, a man who despised the trade in drugs, despised Paul Carolla."
Emanuel was already certain that it would not work, but he had to continue. He changed the subject, asking gently, "Tell me about Michael Luciano."
She seemed grateful, giving him a half-smile. "He was my firstborn son."
Emanuel listened patiently as she described Michael's academic history, his acceptance into Harvard. Eventually he interrupted her. "Would you tell me what happened to this young man, a boy with such a tremendous future ahead of him?"
"He came home, in the summer of sixty-three, halfway through the second year at Harvard. He was very sick; my second son collected him at the airport, and Michael could hardly walk unaided. His hair was matted, and his clothes…" Her eyes filled with tears.
"He was ill, you said?"
"Yes. He collapsed, and my husband took him to the hospital. He remained in the hospital for a few weeks. Then he was taken to the mountains to recuperate. He came home once, looking well and fit, full of life. He was a very handsome boy, his blond hair bleached silver by the sun. He was better, but my husband felt he should stay in the mountains a few more days until he was completely recovered."
"What happened to your son, Signora Luciano?"
She tried to say it matter-of-factly but could not. "My son was… murdered."
"Did you witness his death?"
"No, I did not. My son was shot, killed as a warning to my husband not to stand against Paul Carolla. My son's return, signor, coincided with Carolla's threats, and my husband took my son into the mountains in the belief that he would be safe there."
Emanuel was kicking the side of his desk with small, light taps of his shoe. "These threats, signora-did you actually hear Paul Carolla say that he would…" He paused, knowing that Michael Luciano had not been shot, and chose his words carefully. The stenographer waited, the persistent, soft clicking silenced for a moment.
"What was the development of this tragedy? Was anyone ever charged with this brutal killing?"
Slowly Graziella shook her head. "No, but it was Paul Carolla."
"Was he ever arrested? Was he ever charged? Did anyone, signora, have any evidence to prove that Paul Carolla had anything to do with this tragic death?"
There was a helplessness to her. She shook her head. "No… but there was a witness."
"Do you know the name of this witness?"
Her eyes filled with tears, and she gave a pleading look to the stenographer, as if she could help. In the end she lowered her head and whispered, "No, I do not know, signor."
Sophia sat in the cool, empty church. She had been sitting there for almost two hours. She wore a lace veil over her face and clutched her rosary.
She had tried to pray, but her mind had blurred. She could do nothing but listen, her face cupped in her hands as she knelt. Footsteps came and went; voices echoed; there were whispers from the confessional. Twice she had risen and moved closer, only to stop and kneel down again. She had no tears left, and the small yellow pills Graziella had given her wrapped everything in a distant haze.