Jennifer had done her homework. She knew there were four different bureaus under the District Attorney—Trials, Appeals, Rackets and Frauds—and she wondered to which one she would be assigned. There were over two hundred assistant district attorneys in New York City and five district attorneys, one for each borough. But the most important borough, of course, was Manhattan: Robert Di Silva.
Jennifer sat in the courtroom now, at the prosecutor’s table, watching Robert Di Silva at work, a powerful, relentless inquisitor.
Jennifer glanced over at the defendant, Michael Moretti. Even with everything Jennifer had read about him, she could not convince herself that Michael Moretti was a murderer. He looks like a young movie star in a courtroom set, Jennifer thought. He sat there motionless, only his deep, black eyes giving away whatever inner turmoil he might have felt. They moved ceaselessly, examining every corner of the room as though trying to calculate a means of escape. There was no escape. Di Silva had seen to that.
Camillo Stela was on the witness stand. If Stela had been an animal, he would have been a weasel. He had a narrow, pinched face, with thin lips and yellow buckteeth. His eyes were darting and furtive and you disbelieved him before he even opened his mouth. Robert Di Silva was aware of his witness’s shortcomings, but they did not matter. What mattered was what Stela had to say. He had horror stories to tell that had never been told before, and they had the unmistakable ring of truth.
The District Attorney walked over to the witness box where Camillo Stela had been sworn in.
“Mr. Stela, I want this jury to be aware that you are a reluctant witness and that in order to persuade you to testify, the State has agreed to allow you to plead to the lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter in the murder you are charged with. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir.” His right arm was twitching.
“Mr. Stela, are you acquainted with the defendant, Michael Moretti?”
“Yes, sir.” He kept his eyes away from the defendant’s table where Michael Moretti was sitting.
“What was the nature of your relationship?”
“I worked for Mike.”
“How long have you known Michael Moretti?”
“About ten years.” His voice was almost inaudible.
“Would you speak up, please?”
“About ten years.” His neck was twitching now.
“Would you say you were close to the defendant?”
“Objection!” Thomas Colfax rose to his feet. Michael Moretti’s attorney was a tall, silver-haired man in his fifties, the consigliere for the Syndicate, and one of the shrewdest criminal lawyers in the country. “The District Attorney is attempting to lead the witness.”
Judge Lawrence Waldman said, “Sustained.”
“I’ll rephrase the question. In what capacity did you work for Mr. Moretti?”
“I was kind of what you might call a troubleshooter.”
“Would you be a little more explicit?”
“Yeah. If a problem comes up—someone gets out of line, like—Mike would tell me to go straighten this party out.”
“How would you do that?”
“You know—muscle.”
“Could you give the jury an example?”
Thomas Colfax was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. This line of questioning is immaterial.”
“Overruled. The witness may answer.”
“Well, Mike’s into loan-sharkin’, right? A coupla years ago Jimmy Serrano gets behind in his payments, so Mike sends me over to teach Jimmy a lesson.”
“What did that lesson consist of?”
“I broke his legs. You see,” Stela explained earnestly, “if you let one guy get away with it, they’re all gonna try it.”
From the corner of his eye, Robert Di Silva could see the shocked reactions on the faces of the jurors.
“What other business was Michael Moretti involved in besides loan-sharking?”
“Jesus! You name it.”
“I would like you to name it, Mr. Stela.”
“Yeah. Well, like on the waterfront, Mike got a pretty good fix in with the union. Likewise the garment industry. Mike’s into gamblin’, juke boxes, garbage collectin’, linen supplies. Like that.”
“Mr. Stela, Michael Moretti is on trial for the murders of Eddie and Albert Ramos. Did you know them?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Were you present when they were killed?”
“Yeah.” His whole body seemed to twitch.
“Who did the actual killing?”