Each of De Sallo's suits cost more than Gray made in a month, and the gangster never wore shoes unless they were made from some endangered species. His only jewelry was a pinkie ring. An NYPD telephoto showed it to be a Harvard class ring, unusual for a man who had left school forever after two and a half years in sixth grade at Brooklyn's P.S. 209.
The NYPD claimed De Sallo had four toupees, each with slightly different length hair. He rotated the wigs once a week so it appeared his hair was getting longer between alleged visits to his hairstylist. A plastic surgeon had strengthened his chin and added a slight cleft. His eyes were feminine, with long lashes. His eyebrows appeared plucked. De Sallo's delicate eyes had occasionally emboldened his underworld enemies to make mistakes, usually fatal.
Chinaman was six feet four and weighed somewhere between three hundred and three fifty pounds. The U.S. Attorney's office had a pool on what his prison weigh-in would be. Gray had paid his five dollars, and if De Sallo flattened the scales at 342 at the penitentiary strip search and medical, Gray would be five hundred dollars to the good.
On the other side of the courtroom aisle were the feds and cops — the operations supervisors of the Drug Enforcement Agency and Customs Service and many of their agents, deputies from the U. S. Marshal's office, the chief of the Southern District Organized Crime Strike Force, and at least two dozen agents from the Manhattan and Queens-Brooklyn FBI offices. Ninety FBI agents had worked on the investigation, fully a quarter of the agents in the Bureau's New York criminal division. Twenty New York City police detectives had joined them, and most were in the courtroom. Also in the spectator section were representatives of the Italian Treasury Police and the Italian Anti-Mafia Commission. Reporters filled every spare corner of the courtroom, ready to lift cellular phones from their pockets to call their newsrooms.
The judge said, "Mr. Foreman, I understand you've reached a verdict."
Gray turned back to the jury. His breath was shallow, and he felt as if he were wearing a jacket three sizes too small. He whispered, "Here we go, Anna."
The foreman, juror number three, replied, "We have, Your Honor."
This criminal trial had been the longest ever in the Southern District of New York. Judge Robert Kennelly had withered and grown smaller as the trial played itself out in front of him. The bags under his eyes had lately come to resemble black oysters. "Please hand your verdict to the clerk."
The clerk stepped toward the jury box.
"Please, God," Anna Renthal breathed, her eyes closed in prayer. "Call my beloved parents to your kingdom today if you must, but convict this bastard. Mom and Dad live at 1441 Harrison Street, East Orange, dear Lord."
All FBI and DEA and NYPD eyes were on De Sallo. The mobster's expression as he realized he'd never again terrorize his beloved Brooklyn streets would be the agents' and officers' reward for their years of work.
The clerk took the slip from the foreman, then stepped to the elevated dais. Judge Kennelly reached across the bench for the paper. With his face professionally impassive he opened the slip to read it.
Count one was conspiracy, the easiest of the prosecution's burdens. If De Sallo walked on the conspiracy count, he'd walk on them all. Everyone in the courtroom knew it.
The accused and his attorneys rose from their chairs. De Sallo stood with his back as rigid as a fireplace poker. His expression was one of sublime confidence, as if he owned the jury, the judge, the building, and all of Foley Square outside. De Sallo's battery of lawyers, arrayed at the table across the courtroom from Gray, each had an impeccably British name and a clock running at three hundred dollars an hour.
"Ah, goddamnit," Coates muttered. "Number ten just winked at that piece of dirt Chinaman."
"Contact lens problems," Gray whispered hopefully. "She's had trouble before."
The judge passed the slip back to the clerk. "You may read the verdict."
Gray glanced at his superior, Frank Luca. The U. S. Attorney dipped his chin. Christ, Gray thought, he's watching me, not De Sallo. Three years' work, and it's come down to this second.
"In the matter of the United States versus Carmine De Sallo," the clerk intoned. "On count one, we the jury find the defendant…"
Frank Luca inhaled sharply, the first sound he had made since arriving at the prosecutors' table.
"…not guilty."
Gasps filled the courtroom. Then dazed silence. Then the room erupted. The wiseguys hooted and whistled and applauded. A defense lawyer raised his arms into the air like a sprinter first to break the finish-line tape. Journalists reached for their phones. Another lawyer hugged De Sallo, carefully. Several spectators began a rhythmic "Chinaman, Chinaman, Chinaman," clapping their hands in time to their chant. Some jurors grinned. Others wept.
Owen Gray's face flushed so rapidly that it felt bloated. He sagged back into his chair.
Boatman Garbanto called out, "Attaway, boss."
Luigi Massarli hollered, "You banged them, boss."
Pots Asperanti blew a particularly juicy kiss at Gray.
That is, half the courtroom erupted. The agents and cops slumped as if in unison. Some leaned forward, arms on the seat back ahead of them, hands limp. Some closed their eyes.
"I'll be go to hell," Pete Coates said. "The puke is going to walk."
The judge pounded his desk with a gavel. After a moment a semblance of order settled on the courtroom.
Next was a related RICO charge. The court clerk read, "On count two, we find the defendant not guilty."
Another smattering of applause. De Sallo brought his arm up to check his wristwatch as if he had other plans, an impressive display of impertinence.
Next was the kidnapping charge. "On count three, we find the defendant not guilty."
A line of sweat formed on Gray's forehead, and a hum of humiliation sounded in his ears, muting the rest of the clerk's recital. Anna Renthal involuntarily leaned into him. Too weak to offer support, he leaned with her.
The clerk's voice seemed far away. "Not guilty… not guilty…"
"Jesus," Anna said miserably. Her face had gained a yellow malarial hue. "I think I'm going to vomit."
Ignoring the clerk, Carmine De Sallo pulled a photo of his daughter from his wallet to show one of his lawyers.
Judge Kennelly angrily twirled his gavel. When the acquittal on the last count was read, the judge said, "I'm going to poll the jury on my own motion. Juror number one, is that your verdict and the verdict of the jury?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
Kennelly went through the list of jurors. Each affirmed the verdict.
One of De Sallo's lawyers then said, "Your Honor, I move to exonerate bail."
"Granted. Mr. De Sallo, you are released." The judge thanked the jury, then asked, "Is there anything else to come before the court today?"
"Yeah, Your Worship," Pots Asperanti said. "I move that the chief prosecutor, Mr. Gray here, take a vacation, maybe to Fantasyland down in Florida."
That passed as high humor in half the courtroom. The laughter raised more color in Gray's face.
The judge dismissed court on his way to the door and disappeared into his chambers before the bailiff could call out, "All rise."
Gray squeezed Anna Renthal's hand. He put his notes into his leather accordion briefcase. He ventured a look sideways at the chair where his boss had been sitting. Frank Luca had already slipped out of the courtroom.
Pete Coates had followed Gray's eyes. "Luca wants to avoid the reporters. Smart guy."
The detective patted one of Gray's shoulders, then joined the other cops and agents as they left the courtroom. Gray and Anna trailed after them. The paper star was left on the prosecutors' table.
The crowd was slowed by reporters who shoved their microphones into De Sallo's face the moment he reached the hallway. Camera flashes came as steadily as a strobe light. De Sallo pushed ahead, his troupe in tow.