“This court is now in session,” he cried. “Judge J. Brainert Parker—that’s me—presiding.”
CHAPTER 18
And the Verdict Is . . .
No, Charlotte, I’m the jury now, and the judge, and I have a promise to keep. Beautiful as you are, as much as I almost loved you, I sentence you to death.
—Detective Mike Hammer in I, the Jury by Mickey Spillane, 1947
“THE NIGHT BEFORE Angel Stark was found dead, you approached her right after the hit-and-run incident. Describe what happened in your own words . . .”
Fiona Finch paced back and forth in front of the accused. Clearly, she’d missed her calling as a hard-line prosecutor.
Seated in a metal chair on the right side of the podium, Johnny Napoli squirmed under the scorching gaze of the assembly. His haunted eyes shot a look at Seymour, who nodded silently, signaling that Johnny should answer the question.
“Well, I was standing in this store, near the front door, when I heard Angel scream,” Johnny began in a halting voice. “I ran outside. Then I saw the car—a black Jag—practically drag her down the street. Angel hit the pavement and I rushed over to see if she was all right.”
“You called her Angel just now. How well did you two know one another prior to that evening?”
Waiting for an answer, Fiona paced back and forth in front of Johnny, who followed her with nervous eyes.
“I knew Angel. From that time I worked for a catering company in Newport.”
“The same time that Bethany Banks was murdered?”
Johnny nodded.
“So at your reunion the other night, what did you talk about?”
“Well, at first Angel was pretty rattled about the accident and all. She kept cursing, calling the driver a bitch and stuff—”
“Not son of a bitch?” Seymour asked.
“I object,” Fiona cried. “We’re pursuing my line of questioning. Mr. Tarnish will have an opportunity to cross-examine.”
“The defendant may answer the question. It may be pertinent to the case,” Judge J. Brainert Parker declared.
Johnny shrugged. “She could have said son of a bitch, I guess. But I thought it was just bitch . . . but guys are called bitches just as much as girls, it doesn’t matter . . .”
“That’s right,” eighteen-year-old Joyce Koh blurted out. “It’s like calling a guy a girlie-man.”
Mr. Koh shifted in his seat, glanced uncomfortably at his daughter. Joyce hardly noticed. The teenager’s full attention was on the drama unfolding on the podium—and on Johnny. Because of the summer heat, the strapping youth had left his denim workshirt in my office. His black T-shirt outlined a muscular chest and bulging biceps. A barb-wire tattoo circled one of his sculpted arms.
“Let’s move past the profanity. Get back to Fiona’s subject,” I suggested.
“Prosecution, please continue with your original line of questioning.”
“After Angel Stark settled down, when you and she were finally alone, what did you discuss?”
“Well, she thanked me for coming to her aid, retrieving her shoe, which she’d lost in the scuffle. Then Angel told me she didn’t know I was out of jail or she would have looked me up. I thanked her for saying the things she said in the reading, about me being innocent of Bethany’s murder and all . . .”
Fiona swooped in on Johnny’s admission like the bird of prey on her lapel. “If you were an innocent victim as you claim, why did you serve time in prison, Mr. Napoli?”
“I don’t like her tone,” huffed Bud.
I leaned toward Bud. “It’s not personal,” I reminded him softly. “Fiona’s just trying to get to the truth.”
Johnny shifted nervously on the folding chair, trying to find the words. “I . . . I went to jail for possession of drugs. Possession. But . . .” His voice faded.
“But, Mr. Napoli?”
“But I was selling them, too. To that rich crowd in Newport. I was catering this party, one of my first ones, and I’d taken a break out back to smoke a joint. One of the rich kids came out to smoke a cigarette and he bought one of my joints off me for ten times what I’d paid. He said I could make a mint supplying his friends.”
“So you started selling drugs for profit?”
“I really needed the money to go to culinary school. And I knew the streets, so I could buy the stuff cheap in Providence or Massachusetts, then turn it around at these parties for ten times what I paid because these kids had tons of cash and really didn’t care how much it cost.”
Johnny hung his head. “I’m not proud of it, but yeah. It wasn’t just the money, though. Having drugs on hand . . . it made me popular with that crowd . . . important, you know? They liked having me around. Pretty soon, after the formal party I catered ended, the real partying began, and I was partying just as hard as they were. In the end I used all the cash I made selling to take care of my own habit.”
I watched Bud’s face completely fall. I knew he believed his nephew had been railroaded from the start, that the drug conviction was just part of an elaborate frame-up. But it was obviously hard for him to hear the truth, right out of Johnny’s own mouth.
“Listen, Bud,” I whispered, leaning close once more. “You said yourself that Johnny got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Being around money can lead you to rationalize all sorts of behavior—believe me, I know. But at least he’s telling the truth now. And it can’t be easy to do that, so hang in there.”
Bud nodded, but he still looked stricken. Then my aunt put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, “I’m here for you, Bud.” He patted it gently and looked at her with something like gratefulness.
“Tell me, Mr. Napoli,” Fiona continued, “was Angel Stark one of your customers?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Angel was already off drugs. She wrote that book of hers and everyone pretty much knew she was clean.”
“How about Bethany Banks? Was she one of your customers?”
Johnny nodded. “Everyone else in that clique was a customer at one time or another—Bethany, Georgette LaPomeret, Donald Easterbrook, Kiki Langdon, they were all regulars. But even if Bethany hadn’t been a customer, I would have noticed her. She was something special. She and Donald Easterbrook were the leaders of that pack, so I guess it made sense that they would hook up.”
Fiona began to pace again. “Let’s get back to that night,” she said, still in prosecutor mode. “You remained outside with Angel Stark while everyone else went back into the bookstore, is that correct?”
“That was because Angel—she just wouldn’t let go of me. Hung on like I was her lifeline or something. I thought maybe she was just scared, later on I found out differently.”
“We’ll get to ‘later on’ in a moment,” Fiona said quickly. “Just tell us what happened next.”
“Well, Angel asked me if I’d give her a ride to your inn. I wasn’t keen on the idea, seeing as I was supposed to meet Mina after she finished work. We were going to have some pizza, go for a drive.”
“But Angel convinced you to accompany her to my inn?”
“I felt sorry for her after what happened and all. And she kinda limped, so I thought she was hurt.”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but, Mr. Napoli. Sounds like you’re holding back . . .”