Then again, maybe not.
After three hours of direct testimony of Pigeon Tony, Judy was down to her least favorite story. The others had gone in beautifully, but this one couldn’t. She straightened at the podium and let it rip. “Pigeon Tony, let’s begin with you walking into the back room of the pigeon-racing club on the morning of April seventeenth. Where was Angelo Coluzzi when you came into the room?”
“Near shelf.”
Judy didn’t bother to fetch the exhibit. They were beyond exhibits now. Beyond laws. “Did you know Mr. Coluzzi was in the room when you opened the door?”
“No.”
“So you were surprised to see him?”
“Si, si.”
“You mean, yes?”
“Yes.” The word sounded strange coming from Pigeon Tony’s mouth, and he managed to stretch it to two syllables, like Yays-a.
Judy thought about the best way to couch the story. “You opened the door, and Mr. Coluzzi said something to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“What did Mr. Coluzzi say to you?”
“He laugh. He say, ‘Look who come in! A buffoon! A weakling! A coward!’”
On the dais, Judge Vaughn was listening alertly. The court personnel, who usually did paperwork while court was in session, were listening, too. Santoro was taking rapid notes. Judy didn’t have to see the gallery to know what it looked like. She kept her focus on Pigeon Tony.
“Please explain to the jury why he said that, Pigeon Tony.”
His face flushed. “I no avenge Silvana. I go to America. I no make vendetta.”
Judy thought it might be time for the short course. Vendettas 101. “What was wrong with that?” “Man must honor vendetta, must take eye for eye.” The schoolteacher on the jury gave a slight nod, and Judy knew she had at least one vote. Maybe the schoolteacher would be foreperson, please God. Judy kept an eye on the jury as she asked the next question. “Pigeon Tony, why didn’t you honor the vendetta? Why didn’t you take an eye for an eye?”
“I no want to kill,” he answered, after a moment. “I no want to kill nobody, never.” He turned to jury. “I grow olives, in Italy. Tomatoes. Zucchini. I no want to kill. I grow.”
Judy breathed a relieved sigh. “What did you do next, after Mr. Coluzzi called you a coward?”
“I say to Coluzzi, you pig. You scum. You worse coward than me, for you kill defenseless woman.” Pigeon Tony turned to the jury. “My wife, Silvana,” he said, needlessly. Judy knew the jurors would never forget his account of the day he found Silvana in the stable, with his little son standing behind him. Two in the front row had wept openly.
“Then what did Mr. Coluzzi say to you?”
“He say, ‘You are a stupid, you are too dumb to see I destroy you. I kill your son and his wife, too. I kill them in truck and soon I kill Frank and you will have nothing.’” Pigeon Tony trembled, newly anguished, and several of the jurors gasped. The schoolteacher’s eyes narrowed with Abruzzese anger. Even Judge Vaughn shifted in his leather chair.
“Then what happened?”
“My heart is so full, and I say, ‘I kill you,’and I run and I push him. I run at him, fast. I no think, I run, and I push, I shove. I no can believe how hard! He falls and shelf fall, and I make noise, and alla things offa shelves.”
Judy focused on something she hadn’t before. “So, the scream was you, and not Mr. Coluzzi?”
“Si, si. Yes, and alla people come in—Tony, Feet, Fat Jimmy. They say, ‘You break his neck,’and I see, é vero, I break his neck!”
Judy paused. It was death, after all, and it deserved its moment. It wouldn’t serve Pigeon Tony to gloss over it, and he looked stricken on the stand. The jurors’faces were uniformly grave and several of them were looking toward the gallery. Nobody had to tell Judy that Coluzzi’s widow and family would be crying. She had to deal with it.
“Pigeon Tony, are you saying, in open court, that you broke Mr. Coluzzi’s neck?”
“Yes.”
“In your opinion, was that murder?”
Santoro was on his feet. “Objection! Your Honor, the witness is not a lawyer. His opinion about whether his act constitutes murder is a conclusion of law, irrelevant and prejudicial!”
Judy shook her head. “Your Honor, the defendant is entitled to state his own personal belief about his own actions. His state of mind is always at issue in a criminal case.”
Judge Vaughn mulled it over, looking from one lawyer to the next, then returning to Judy. “You may proceed. Objection overruled.”
“Pigeon Tony,” Judy said, facing him directly. “Is it murder?”
“No! Is killing, no is murder. Is no murder because Coluzzi kill my wife, Silvana. And my son and his wife, Gemma.”
Judy watched the jury, but they didn’t react one way or the other. There was nothing left to tell. That was it. Pigeon Tony had told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. She hoped to God it didn’t kill him. But a detail was nagging at her.
“Pigeon Tony, I have one last question. In the back room, after you pushed Mr. Coluzzi, why did you scream?”
Pigeon Tony blinked. “I no know,” he answered quietly.
But Judy did. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
Judy let it go, for now. “I have no further questions. Thank you, Pigeon Tony.”
“Prego, Judy,” he said with a polite nod, but this time the jury remained unsmiling.
She left the podium only reluctantly, aching inside as she took her seat at counsel table. She had done the best she could, and so had Pigeon Tony. There was no way she could predict what the jury would do. It would depend on how Pigeon Tony held up on cross-examination. Santoro was already on his feet with his notes and stalking to the podium, filled with the righteous anger that was regulation-issue to prosecutors. But this time, even Judy thought it was justified.
She tried to relax in her chair. The only thing harder than assisting a suicide was watching one.
In slow motion.
Santoro glared from the podium at Pigeon Tony. “Mr. Lucia, is it your testimony that you believe Angelo Coluzzi killed your wife?”
“Si, si.” Pigeon Tony straightened in his chair, which still brought him only six inches over the microphone. “Yes.”
“Did you report this to the Italian authorities?”
“Yes.”
“Did they bring charges against Angelo Coluzzi for this alleged murder?”
“No. No do nothing.”
Santoro raised a warning finger. “Confine your answers to yes or a no, Mr. Lucia, do you understand?”
“Sure.” Pigeon Tony nodded, and Santoro clenched his teeth.
“So the Italian police brought no charges against Angelo Coluzzi?”
“Coluzzi the police.”
“Mr. Lucia!” Santoro shouted so loudly that Pigeon Tony startled at the witness stand. “Only yes or no is proper! Do you understand me?”
Pigeon Tony fell silent.
“Do you understand me? Answer the question!”
“Yes.”
“Do you want a translator? Yes or no, Mr. Lucia!”
“No.”
On the dais Judge Vaughn shifted in his leather chair, and Judy considered objecting but made herself stop when she saw the jury’s reaction. A few eased back in their seats, which she read— she hoped correctly—as distancing themselves from the scene. If Santoro was going to yell at Pigeon Tony, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing for the jury to see. For the jurors who liked him, it would increase their sympathy. For the jurors who hated him, at least they see him get some comeuppance. It was in Pigeon
Tony’s interests for Judy to shut up, so she did.
“I’ll ask again, Mr. Lucia, you do understand me, don’t you!”