Tragic (21 page)

Glancing nervously back at the amused media seated in the first two rows of the gallery, Clooney asked, “Well, did Mr. Karp ask you about someone smoking cigarettes in your car?”

“Yeah. I told him Bebnev was smoking.”

“And did he suggest that, perhaps, Mr. Bebnev casually tossed these cigarette butts on the ground where they could be found?”

“No. He asked what Bebnev did with the cigarette butts. That’s when I told him about the one he crushed out on my floorboard.”

“Yes, I remember, you were angry,” Clooney replied drolly. He walked over near the witness box with his head down as if deep in thought. “So, Mr. Miller, let me get this straight: you parked up the street near the school, and then drove over to the Carlotta house, where the defendants got out of the car, knocked on the door, and when the Carlottas answered, your friends asked for jobs?”

“That’s what Bebnev told Mr. Carlotta.”

“So then we’re to believe that here’s a perfect opportunity to do the job and get paid thousands of dollars, but instead he asked for work on the dock?”

“He just made that up, Mr. Clooney,” Miller said matter-of-factly. “He said he didn’t want to shoot a woman and her baby.”

“You think he chickened out?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“But three nights later, he’s a cold-blooded killer who walks up to a man and shoots him in the chest and then in the head. Quite the change.”

“Yeah, there was no wife, no baby there. You still don’t get it, do ya?” Miller said, shaking his head.

“No, I don’t, Mr. Miller,” Clooney retorted. “But since you’ve assured us that we can take the word of a career criminal, we have to believe it’s true.”

Miller didn’t bother responding other than to just stare at the attorney and shake his head again.

“Mr. Miller, did the defendants wear masks when they went to the door of the Carlotta residence?”

“No.”

“Was the front porch well lit or dark?”

“Uh, there was a porch light and light from inside the house when the door was opened.”

“So the Carlottas would have seen their faces easily?”

“Yeah, I mean, I could see them and I was sitting in the car.”

“So was the alley well lit, too? Was there a streetlight right there?”

Miller looked at Karp, who sat expressionless. “No, it was pretty dark.”

“So why wear masks at the alley but not at the house?”

“Because they were going to kill Mr. Carlotta but were pretending to be robbers. Man, you just don’t get it!”

“Objection! I ask that be stricken from the record.”

“What part exactly, Mr. Clooney?” Judge See inquired.

“Well, all of it.”

Judge See sighed. “Mr. Clooney, be careful of the questions you ask, because you may not like the answers. Your objection is overruled.”

Clooney stood staring at the judge for a moment, obviously flustered. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. Trying to get back on solid footing, he returned to the old cross-examination ploy of questioning the crime partner’s true motive: the deal.

Clooney returned to his position in front of the witness stand. “Mr. Miller, you testified that you received a plea bargain from the district attorney?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve pleaded guilty to manslaughter?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been sentenced yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“That won’t happen until after this trial, correct?”

“That’s right.”

Clooney turned toward the jurors. “Then how, pray tell, are we supposed to know that you will not be given a deal between now and your testimony on that stand,” he said, pointing back at Miller, “and your sentencing?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Karp said “The record will reflect that Mr. Miller has pleaded guilty to manslaughter in the first degree and may be facing a sentence of twenty-five years in prison with a mandatory minimum of eight years, four months. Now, if Mr. Clooney is suggesting that I, as the district attorney, would alter that disposition in an attempt to deceive the jury and this court, let him come forward with his evidence . . . NOW!”

Clooney stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at the ceiling as if waiting for divine intervention. Finally, Judge See broke the silence. “Mr. Clooney, do you have any good faith offering substantiating the serious charge of prosecutorial misconduct you intimated?”

At first speechless, Clooney stammered before finally saying, “Well, Your Honor, these things do happen, you know?”

“Is that the best you can do, Mr. Clooney?” the judge responded. He turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a very slow, dispassionate voice, “please do not accept as evidence counsels’ questions alone. The evidence you consider is the question coupled with the answer. Now, I’m going to ask you to please disregard Mr. Clooney’s last question, because I’m going to strike it from the record.”

Licking his lips, Clooney grimaced before turning back to the witness stand. “Mr. Miller, are you a criminal?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a liar?”

“Sometimes, but not now.”

“How are these jurors supposed to know that?”

Miller looked over at the jurors. “I guess they’ll have to look at everything and decide.”

Clooney did look somewhat surprised by the answer. But he just sneered one last time at the witness and said, “No more questions.”

“Care to redirect, Mr. Karp?” Judge See asked after Clooney took his seat.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Karp said, rising but remaining behind the table. “Mr. Miller, have you answered all these questions—mine and Mr. Clooney’s—truthfully and completely?”

“Yes. As best I could.”

“And that includes confessing to taking part in the murder of Vince Carlotta?”

“Yes. I knew we were going to kill the man, and I drove the getaway car.”

“What will be the consequence of you telling the truth and confessing to murder, Mr. Miller?”

“I’ll be going to prison for a very long time,” Miller replied.

“Mr. Miller, do you have a family?”

The young man’s head fell and he covered his face with his hands as he nodded.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, but you’ll have to answer so that the court reporter can hear you,” Karp said not unkindly.

A sob escaped from Miller, but then he wiped at his nose with his sleeve and looked up at Karp. “The only family I got is my girlfriend, Nicoli, and our baby, Billy Junior.”

“So the price you’ll pay for your confession and testimony is that you’ll be going to prison for many years,” Karp said. “And the only way you’ll get to see your son grow up is if his mother agrees to bring him to see you in the prison visiting room.”

“Yes,” Miller said, choking on the word. “That’s all I’ll have.”

As the witness started to cry again, Karp gave him a few moments to gather himself. He walked over to the witness chair, picked up a pitcher of water, and poured it into a cup for Miller.
He then looked out at the gallery and saw Nicoli with her face buried in her father’s chest. The man had his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, trying to hold her as her body shook in grief.

Karp walked a few feet closer to the jury box and looked at the witness. “Mr. Miller, why did you confess to this crime and agree to testify at this trial?”

Miller looked up with tears streaming down his face. “Because I did what I said I did. I helped kill a man for money.”

“But why not take your chances at trial? Why aren’t you sitting at that table with the other two defendants?”

Miller now looked over at Frank DiMarzo. “Because I couldn’t live with it anymore. Mr. Carlotta was a new dad, too, and because of me, his son will grow up without him.” He wiped at his eyes. “Just like my son will be growing up without me.”

Speaking gently in a quiet courtroom, Karp asked his last question. “Mr. Miller, what motivated you to come forward and testify?”

Miller sat silently just staring at Karp, and then said, “I’m afraid to think about what I’ve done, because I believe in heaven and hell.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller. Your Honor, I have no further questions.”

Judge See glanced at Clooney. “Defense counsel care to recross?”

Without looking up, Clooney waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve heard enough.”

Nodding to the court clerk, the judge said, “Very well, Mr. Miller, you may step down from the witness stand, and Mr. Karp you may—”

The judge was interrupted by a loud scream in the gallery. Everyone in the courtroom instantly turned in that direction. An old woman dressed in black, DiMarzo’s mother, stood pointing a bony finger at Miller, who stood transfixed in the witness box. “He lies!” the old woman shrieked. “My Frankie would never do such a thing!”

The elderly man next to her, DiMarzo’s father, placed a hand on her arm, as a younger women embraced her. “Please, Momma, don’t make a scene,” she said, trying to comfort Mrs. DiMarzo. But the old woman just wailed.

Judge See banged his gavel several times, but when Mrs. DiMarzo continued to cry out, he had court security remove her. The courtroom was shocked into silence, but then a single loud sob ripped the dead air.

All eyes turned to Frank DiMarzo, who sat with his elbows on the defense table and his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Momma,” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”

The courtroom drama caught everyone by surprise. Judge See was the first to recover. He peered over at the jurors, several of whom looked to be on the verge of crying as well, and smiled benevolently. “I think this is a good time to take a break. As you are aware, a trial can be a very emotional event. Much is at stake here for the defendants and for the People. I just ask you to remember that it is your sworn duty to rely solely on the evidence as you hear it from the witness stand, and from whatever exhibits are admitted into evidence. Please keep an open mind until you’ve heard all the evidence, as well as the summations from counsel, and then I will charge you with the law. We’ll resume in about fifteen minutes.”

J
OEY
B
ARROS CLOSED THE DOOR
of Vitteli’s office at union headquarters across from the Hudson River docks and turned to face the other three men in the room. “Sorry I’m late, boss,” he said, addressing Vitteli. “I was just talking to a couple of my boys, and they said that there’s starting to be some grumbling with the membership about this stuff in court about somebody paying to have Vince killed. Some of Vince’s guys, including T. J. Martindale, are watching the trial and reporting back to the others.”

“The Malcheks are getting nervous, too,” Syd Kowalski added. He was standing near the window looking out at the docks. “They got a lot of money invested in this project. They need docks where they can count on everybody looking the other way. That was the deal.”

“Tell them to relax, we’ll handle it, as long as they do their part,” Vitteli growled.

“You tell them to relax,” Kowalski countered. “The Russians aren’t good at relaxing when there’s money involved; in fact, they’re fuckin’ uptight. They ain’t going to like it if this trial screws things up.”

Vitteli sat back and studied the other three—Kowalski, Barros,
and Jackie Corcione—as he pulled out a cigar and lit it. “What about our other problem children?”

“I wouldn’t worry about Bebnev,” Barros answered. “He’s a few cards short of a full deck and that idiot Lvov should have never used him, but the Malcheks have reached out to him in the Tombs. They got him thinking that if he gets convicted, they’ll get him out and then he’ll be a big man with the organization. He’s probably dreaming up his prison tattoos right now; they’re the same thing as bragging rights with the Russian mob.”

“Yeah, well, if he gets convicted and then realizes that he’s going to be in the can for a long fucking time, his attitude could change,” Vitteli pointed out.

“Syd and I already had this discussion with the Malcheks,” Barros said. “They’re willing to play the game for now and then take care of the problem later. Soon as he gets in general population, he’s done.”

“What about this DiMarzo punk?” Kowalski said. “My girl in the courtroom says he don’t look so good, like he’s falling apart or something. His mom made quite the scene today.”

“Yeah, well, he’s got his family to worry about,” Barros said. “Apparently he got some mail from an unknown source awhile back with a photograph of his mom outside the house in Red Hook; I guess some real a-hole drew a black line across her. So he’s kept his mouth shut and doesn’t dare open it. The same thing happens to him when he gets in general population.”

“But what if he talks first?” Vitteli asked. “Wouldn’t be the first time some punk gave up his own mother to save his ass.”

Barros shrugged. “He can’t know much anyway,” he said. “Me and Jackie only met Bebnev, and even he didn’t know our last names or who we work for. He might have known that Lvov was involved, but that fat fuck ain’t talking no more. And this kid, Gnat Miller, he knows even less than DiMarzo. He’s never even heard of you or Karp would have used it by now.”

“You should have killed them before they got caught,”
Corcione, who’d been sitting in a chair in the corner, blurted out.

Barros looked at him and laughed. “See who’s turned all bloodthirsty. The little faggot’s suddenly a stone-cold killer. Tell you what, Jackie, you wet your pants when the going gets rough, that’s why your old man sent you off to college. So leave the bloody stuff to real men.”

Vitteli rapped his knuckles on the table. “Knock it off. The last thing we need is to be at each other’s throats. Joey’s got this under control, Jackie, just stay cool.”

Barros said nothing and looked up at the ceiling. Corcione nodded and got out of his chair, holding out his hand to Barros. “I’m sorry, Joey,” he apologized. “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

Glancing at the proffered hand, Barros sneered. “No way you’re touching me,” he said. “I have no idea where that hand’s been. Just remember to keep your mouth shut around your little boyfriends.”

Corcione dropped his hand and turned to Vitteli. “We know Karp thinks we’re guilty,” he said. “Otherwise he would have called us as witnesses. He’s not going to let it go.”