“Ask me, I tell Silvana. Ask baby Frank. Ask tomato. Ask how Silvana die, inna stable. I tell. Like before, yesterday. I tell.”
Judy remembered. She had been transported by his stories. But she wasn’t a jury. And nothing had been at stake, least of all Pigeon Tony’s life. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she let go of his hand to brush it away.
“Everything okay, you see, Judy. Judge see. Jury see. Alla people see. Say me, how you see Silvana, Pigeon Tony?”
Judy’s lips trembled and she couldn’t speak. Bennie had fallen silent.
Frank sighed audibly. “Juries can do whatever they want, can’t they, Judy?” he asked.
Judy wasn’t holding any false hope. “At least they can’t kill him twice.”
Bennie shot her a disapproving look. “Yes, Frank. Your counsel should be telling you that there is something called jury nullification, which means the jury simply ignores the law and does what it thinks is just. It happened first a long time ago in the Old South, where white juries wouldn’t convict white men who lynched black men. Since then it has occurred, only rarely, in mercy killing and domestic abuse cases. But it is very rare.”
“Very rare,” Judy echoed. “Like winning-the-lottery rare.”
“Andiamo!” cried Pigeon Tony abruptly, clapping his hands together in excitement. His eyes were shining and his face was bright, and for a minute he looked positively victorious.
Judy knew it couldn’t last.
Chapter 47
“Pardon me, Ms. Carrier?” Judge Vaughn asked, trying to hide his astonishment as court resumed after the recess. Even the judge’s eyebrows curled like question marks. Tugging at his robes, he leaned over the dais, as if he had heard Judy wrong. “What did you say, counsel?”
“The defense calls Anthony Lucia to the stand, Your Honor,” Judy repeated, and Judge Vaughn blinked in surprise. Judicial decorum prevented his commenting, That’s what I thought you said, bozo.
Santoro wasn’t half as polite. At the prosecutor’s table he didn’t bother to hide his glee. He was smiling and alert, rejuvenated after the melee with Jimmy Bello. Santoro had gone from the nadir to the zenith faster than you can say vocabulary words. If he took fake notes he could write, WHAT ARE YOU, STUPID?
Pigeon Tony rose next to Judy at counsel table, and she helped him to the witness stand, where he sat down behind the Bible and was sworn in by a rather startled clerk. Judy returned to the podium, holding her head high and trying to regain her professionalism after the waterworks in the conference room. If Pigeon Tony was determined to do this, she was determined to mitigate the damage, even if this murder trial had become an assisted suicide.
Judy took the podium, gripped the edges, and found herself face-to-face with the tiny man who looked like a bird, in the cage that was the witness box. Her throat caught at the sight and she remembered the day she had first met him. How cute he was.
How little. She prayed the jury would see him that way. It was almost all he had going for him, and she started feeling emotional again.
“Judy?” Pigeon Tony whispered from the witness stand, and the jury reacted with soft laughter. Even the court personnel were smiling.
Only Judy was on the verge of tears, looking at him. Nobody would tell him it was against the rules to talk to your lawyer from the box. He was on his own now. His fate was his own, and his karma. Judy believed in it, and it gave her heart. If anybody’s past could redeem his future, it was Pigeon Tony’s. But his lawyer still couldn’t chase the tears from her eyes.
“Ms. Carrier?” Judge Vaughn said, moving his hand from underneath his chin.
“Sorry, Your Honor.” Judy wiped her eyes and bit her lips to control their tremor. God! What an idiot! She was a lawyer! In a courtroom! Ask a question, dufus! “Mr. Lucia, please tell the jury where you are from, originally,” she blurted out, then realized it was only the stupidest question in the world.
Pigeon Tony turned slightly toward the jury, as relaxed as if he were conversing over Cynar in a piazza café. “I am from Italy,” he said. “Abruzzo, Italy. You know, Italy?” He pronounced it Eeetaly, his accent flavoring his words as strongly as sweet basil, and the front row of the jury smiled collectively. One juror, an older schoolteacher in the front, even nodded. Judy remembered she was Italian and had family that were Abruzzese. Most of the Italians in South Philly were Abruzzese.
Judy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She had to get it together. “And Pigeon Tony—wait, can I call him Pigeon Tony?” Judy wondered aloud, but didn’t wait for the judge to rule. Why the hell not? Her motto had always been, Don’t ask permission, apologize later. She was making up her own rules as she went along. After all, she had already called an expert witness whose conclusion she disagreed with. It was a slippery slope.
“Sure,” Pigeon Tony answered with a grin. “Alla people, alla people here calla me Pigeon Tony.” He looked up at Judge Vaughn, who had been peering at him from behind his knuckles with a mixture of bewilderment and delight, neither of which Pigeon Tony noticed. “I have pigeons. Birds, you know, birds?
They race, my birds. The Old Man, he come back. Soon. This, I know.”
“That’s nice,” Judge Vaughn said politely, then hunched toward Pigeon Tony. “Mr. Lucia—”
“Calla me Pigeon Tony! Alla people calla me Pigeon Tony! Even judge!”
Judge Vaughn laughed. “Okay, Pigeon Tony, I heard you say that you are from Italy. Do you feel the need for a translator? We can have one brought in here very quickly.”
“No, Judge. I no need. I know. I hear. I unnerstand.” Pigeon Tony pointed to his temple. Judy wanted to cover her face with her hands, but the jury burst into laughter.
“Uh, Pigeon Tony,” Judy said, but when she had his attention, was too upset to think of a question. Talk about a slow start. She tried to remember her client’s coaching in the conference room. Every lawyer needs a smart client, to give them advice. Everything okay, you see, Judy. Alla people see. Say me, how you see Silvana, Pigeon Tony? Judy translated. “Pigeon Tony, please tell the jury how you met your wife, Silvana.”
Pigeon Tony swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving like an elevator. “I was young, but a man, I go to race. In Mascoli, with birds. You know, Mascoli?” He paused, and only when one of the jurors shook his head no, did he respond. “Is city, near Veramo, where Pigeon Tony live. Mascoli big city.” He spread his arms wide, which for his wingspan meant three feet. “Rich city. Not like Veramo. Veramo small, very small city. Alla farmer, in Veramo. You know, farmer?”
The front row nodded and smiled. Yes, they knew farmer. Santoro was frowning. Judy made a real note on her legal pad, trying to recall the stories Pigeon Tony had told her the other day, and at other times. FIRST KISS, WITH TOMATOES. PICNIC IN THE WOODS. FIRST REAL KISS. THE DAY AT THE TORNADO.
On the stand, Pigeon Tony was saying, “I see Silvana, onna cart, and her hair, it shines. Shines in the sun! Only dark, brown. Soft. Like earth. Rich.” He rubbed his fingers together, crumbling imaginary soil in his hands. “So beautiful. A woman, like earth she is beautiful!”
Judy noticed that the front row of the jury, five of them older women, were engrossed in what Pigeon Tony was saying. Santoro’s frown had grown deeper. It got Judy thinking. If Santoro was hating it, maybe it was good. Maybe there was hope. She made another note. THE DAY PIGEON TONY KILLED ANGELO COLUZZI.