“Thank you.” Judy nodded at the jury, then made her way to her seat. She didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead as Santoro hurried to the podium and slapped his legal pad on it with a resounding thwap.
“I cannot believe what I just heard,” Santoro said angrily, eyeing the jury. “I had expected that the defense would play on your sympathy, but I never thought I would hear her call upon justice.
Is it justice to kill an innocent man, in cold blood, while he is doing nothing but practicing his hobby? How can that possibly, by any stretch of the imagination, be called justice?”
Santoro held up a finger. “Ms. Carrier told you that the point of the law is justice. She is correct. But the law that governs this matter has already been decided and the law on this subject is clear. Please listen while I read it to you.” He picked up his pad. “‘A criminal homicide constitutes murder of the first degree when it is committed by an intentional killing.’” Santoro slapped the pad down again, startling the jurors in the front row. “That is the law of this Commonwealth. And if you follow the law, as you must, you can only find defendant Lucia guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Santoro didn’t break stride. “The defendant admitted he killed Angelo Coluzzi. The defendant admitted he intended to kill Angelo Coluzzi. The defendant admitted he hoped he could kill Angelo Coluzzi. And semantics aside, the defendant isn’t sorry that he killed Angelo Coluzzi. Which means to me, he’d do it again if he had the chance. Ms. Carrier wants you to imagine yourselves as Mr. Lucia, but on the contrary, please imagine yourselves as Angelo Coluzzi. Because that’s who you would be if we permitted people to kill each other for reasons they think are valid but that have no basis in reality. To kill for imagined slights. To kill for unsubstantiated revenge. To kill because they think they have the right to. To kill because of an ancient grudge. To kill for their cultural beliefs.”
Santoro paused. “Ms. Carrier spoke personally, and so will I. I am an Italian-American, and I must tell you, I am absolutely offended by this defendant. Because this is not prewar Italy; this is America. This is not a time of war and disorder; this is a time of peace, and order. We in America are not about tyranny, we are about democracy and the law. We Americans all must abide by the law, for the safety and good of the whole. When the defendant came to this country from Italy, as did my own grandfather, he took on the responsibility to accept our laws. Just as he accepts our benefits and our riches.”
Santoro eyed the jury, the front row and then the back. “In the beginning of this case, I told you that every murder case is a story. Now we are at the end of this one. All of us are here to hear it and witness it, except for one man. Angelo Coluzzi. The law will guide you, and Judge Vaughn will charge you on it. And when you follow it, you will be doing justice, not only for all of us, but for Angelo Coluzzi.
“Thank you,” he said, and left the podium.
Judy couldn’t ease the tightness in her stomach as Judge Vaughn began reading the law to the jury, taking them through the early paragraphs of the charge, regarding the jury as the ultimate fact finder. Though the boilerplate had always sounded like a bar-review course before, it took on a special significance now. Pigeon Tony listened to every word, sitting upright in his chair, and Judy was sure that Judge Vaughn was reading more slowly so he could understand it. Until the judge had heard Pigeon Tony’s admission on the stand, he had liked him. Judy hoped the jury wouldn’t feel the same way.
She stole a glance at them as the judge read. Each face was grave, and from time to time many of them glanced over at Pigeon Tony and Judy, then at Santoro and back again, as if trying to reach a decision visually. Judy took a mental head count. The Abruzzese schoolteacher would vote for Pigeon Tony, and maybe the older woman next to her. Everyone else was against, and the back row wanted him drawn and quartered—with his lawyer. Judy stopped counting. It was a guessing game anyway.
Her head began to throb, as the judge segued into reading the jury the definition of first-degree murder. It would be the only degree of guilt that went to the jury, on Pigeon Tony’s insistence, even though Judge Vaughn had raised a question about it during their earlier conference. Judy had told him this was her client’s wish, and he’d acceded to it. Legally the judge couldn’t add a lesser degree of guilt to the charge without a request from the defense or the Commonwealth. It had been obvious at the conference that Santoro was too confident of victory on murder one to do so. The case would go to the jury as all or nothing.
It set Judy’s teeth on edge. She blamed herself, she blamed Pigeon Tony, then she blamed Italy and Mussolini, and then came back to herself again. She glanced over at Pigeon Tony, but he was listening to the charge. It was impossible for her to keep a professional mask for the jury, so she looked away.
In the front row of the gallery, beyond the bulletproof divider, sat Frank, his eyes as worried as Judy’s. He caught her glance and forced a tense smile, but Judy couldn’t find one. She could only imagine how Frank would react when his grandfather was sentenced to death, or life in prison. Or what would happen between them, when Judy became the lawyer who had put him there. She faced the front of the courtroom, where Judge Vaughn was finishing the charge and dismissing the jury to deliberate.
“I am giving the bailiff a verdict sheet for you to take with you into your deliberations,” the judge said, handing several pieces of paper to the bailiff. The bailiff then brought one sheet to the jury, walked to the Commonwealth’s table and handed one to Santoro, and finally carried one to Judy, leaving it on counsel table in front of her. “Thank you in advance for your time and your best efforts. Court is now adjourned.” He banged the gavel as the jury rose and filed out of the pocket door beside the dais.
Only then did Judy’s gaze fall to the verdict sheet, which contained but a single interrogatory:
Murder (1st degree)—Guilty or Not Guilty?
Chapter 49
Judy sat with Bennie in the courthouse conference room. The small room was dead quiet. The lighting was harsh. Nobody was talking. They were all talked out. They had spent the first two hours of the jurors’ deliberations psyching them out, comparing notes on the raise of an eyebrow or a sniff of contempt. Extrapolating from stereotype and anecdote and sheer guesswork which way they would go. Who would be the foreperson? Who the holdout? How long would they be out? Would they come back with a question? Or worse, an answer?
Judy checked her watch. 6:30. The jury had gone out at 3:13, but who was counting? When would they come back? How would they decide? Judy’s anxious gaze roved over a table cluttered with briefcases, papers, newspapers, and a copy of the charge, which she had explained to Pigeon Tony, just for something to do. He hadn’t seemed all that interested, and truth to tell, neither was she. They had rolled the dice and were waiting for them to stop.
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.