The Rosecross, page 26
“I’ll explain later.”
Elisha didn’t prod me.
“Can the Italian government ask a federal court to ship me to Italy?” I asked.
“Probably,” she answered. “I’d venture a guess that the United States and the Republic of Italy are parties to an extradition treaty.”
I hesitated, reluctant to expose Elisha to an accessory charge.
“Don’t become an accomplice, Elisha,” I said, warning her. “We should end our conversation now. Thanks for telling me.”
“Wait,” she shouted. “I’ll take that chance. You’ll need some time to think.”
“It’s risky,” I cautioned.
“Like I said, Francesco. I’ll take that chance.”
“Where can we meet?”
“My place.”
“What’s your address?”
“1301 U Street, N.W. The Ellington. Apartment 301.”
Because of the weather, I was unable to grab a cab. While I stood in the rain getting soaked, a jitney driver recognized my plight and offered me a ride at a slightly elevated fee in his circa 1980 Lincoln Town Car. Shivering, I climbed into the back seat. My clothes were drenched. We rode past the Four Seasons. After rubbing fog from a grimy window, I saw at least four federal agents stationed around the hotel’s circular front drive. Two nondescript cars were parked in an adjoining driveway. A white van with the words “United States Marshal” prominently marked on its side panel occupied a spot under the canopy immediately in front of the hotel’s revolving front door. I asked my chauffeur to drive faster. It was time to put distance between the Four Seasons and Francesco Micco.
The ride to Elisha’s apartment on U Street took about fifteen minutes. The fare was steep—forty dollars. There was no reason to add a tip. I walked into the vestibule of the lobby. To the left was a bank of mailboxes. Beyond the mailboxes was a telephone. A sign instructed visitors to dial the tenant’s apartment number for admission. I dialed apartment 301.
“Hello.”
“Elisha, it’s me, Francesco.”
“I’ll buzz you in.”
I took the elevator to the third floor, found my way to her apartment, and rang the buzzer. She unlatched the safety lock and opened the door.
“My God, Francesco, your clothes are soaked. You look terrible.”
She extended her hand and led me into her apartment while closing the door.
“Go into the bathroom and get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia. I’ll get you some sweats.”
Her apartment was spacious and decorated impeccably. It was also toasty warm, cozy, and comfortable. At least for the moment, I felt safe and sound.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Not really. Just scared and confused.”
“I’ll make you some tea. It’ll warm you up a bit.”
I couldn’t get too comfortable here. Elisha’s apartment would serve as a temporary sanctuary. As I relaxed on her couch, Elisha, balancing two steaming cups of water on saucers, walked into the living area and placed them on a table set against a wall near the kitchen. While the bags steeped, and as we drank tea, I related the events that unfolded in Taormina the night an assassin killed Anna Angelisanti.
“Tomorrow, I’ll surrender,” I said as I placed my empty teacup on its saucer.
She agreed. We both knew I couldn’t evade the clutches of the U.S. Marshal forever.
“You have no other choice,” she said as she gathered the cups and saucers and placed them in the sink. “But you’ll need an attorney who’s acquainted with extradition law. I’ll call Mr. Mendici. I’m sure that someone in the firm will represent you.”
Elisha innocently offered to help me, but she knew nothing about the secret life of Leonardo Mendici and his plan to forever erase all traces of the Micco family. Perhaps I should be candid with her. But why complicate her life? At least for the present, I decided to tell her little about Mendici Melrose.
“Please trust me on this one, Elisha. Nino will represent me.”
“That’s a big-time mistake, Francesco,” she shot back. “Leonardo Mendici is well connected in Washington.”
True enough, I thought, but his ‘connections’ are conspiring to ship me off to Italy where the Sicilian police will exile me forever in a rat-infested cell. Fatigue eventually set in. Elisha dozed off on the chair. I stretched out on the sofa and fell asleep. In a couple of hours, the siren and the blasting horn of a passing fire truck startled me. I looked at my watch. It was seven in the morning. Sometime during the night, Elisha had propped my head on a pillow and placed a blanket on me. I removed my clothes from the dryer, tossed Elisha’s sweats in the washer and dressed. I quietly approached her bedroom, turned the knob on the door, opened it, and peeked inside. She was asleep. Whispering, I thanked her for harboring a suspected felon. She didn’t hear me. Not wanting to wake her, I quietly closed the door, left her apartment, rode the elevator to the ground floor, stood on the sidewalk and hailed a passing cab. The clouds had passed, and a chilly September morning greeted me. It was time for me to engage the enemy. Later in the day, I planned to surrender to the U.S. Marshall.
CHAPTER 67
ANOTHER TRIP TO ITALY
After leaving Elisha’s apartment, I met Nino at his Georgetown walk-up. I informed him that our relationship had taken on a new dimension. Besides being my Rosicrucian scholar, he now represented me in an extradition proceeding filed in Washington’s federal district court. A U.S. Magistrate Judge detained me in a holding cell after I surrendered to the U.S. Marshal late in the morning. The Judge scheduled my initial court appearance and arraignment for later in the afternoon. Rather than being detained as a flight risk, as suggested by the assistant U.S Attorney, I was released on a $10,000 unsecured bond after the Judge agreed with the federal public defender’s argument.
“All rise, please. Anyone having business before the United States District Court for the District of Columbia, come forward and you will be heard. God save this Honorable Court,” the clerk bellowed.
Two days had passed since my initial appearance. I now stood before United States District Judge G. Hawthorne Henderson, a newly minted federal jurist. Probably a conservative Republican who had passed the litmus test subtly fashioned by his political sponsor. The assistant U.S. Attorney assigned to represent the government was B. Stanley Puttmen. His aloof demeanor suggested he was an ambitious prosecutor. Puttmen wore a three-button navy-blue suit and a stark white shirt with a button-down collar complemented by a solid red tie. A pin parading the American flag was fastened to his lapel. His shiny hair was jet black and slicked straight back—probably held in place by a generous smothering of styling gel. I turned toward Nino and whispered.
“Hey, Nino. He resembles Don Corleone.”
Nino stared at me, smirking.
“If you could only be so lucky.”
There was a sparse gathering of people seated in the courtroom including a smattering of media types. The hearing had generated some public interest because the Italian government had charged Judge Giovanni Micco’s son with murder, and Italy sought his extradition. Gianna was seated in the front row beside Elisha. I had told Gianna most everything about Elisha, centering on our relationship when we were law students. I added that she represented my father’s estate and arranged for Nino and me to stay at the Four Seasons. I thought it best not to tell her that Elisha had sheltered me in her apartment the night before I was arrested. Gianna would only shrug. She trusted me. Alexandria Arnold sat in the last row, hiding in a shadowy corner seat. Leonardo Mendici was conspicuously absent. Elisha said he had a meeting with a client somewhere out West. Now comfortably perched on the bench, Judge Henderson sat behind a stack of Federal Reporters and a laptop computer. He asked Puttmen if the Government was ready to proceed.
“Yes, Your Honor. We will have two witnesses,” he announced. “One is from Italy. He will be first.”
“Do you have a translator?”
“No, Your Honor. He speaks fluent English.”
“And you, Mr. Viola? Are you ready to proceed?”
“Ready to proceed on behalf of Mr. Micco, Your Honor.”
“Call your first witness, Mr. Puttmen.”
A man of slight build and medium height with a squared jaw, a broad mustache, and flinty eyes walked briskly toward the witness stand. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a blue shirt with a buttoned-down collar, and a red striped tie. A pair of fashionable titanium glasses complimented his gimlet eyes.
“State your name, please,” Puttmen asked.
“Vittorio Lagnese.”
“What’s your occupation?”
“I’m a police officer.”
“From where?”
“Catania, in Sicily.”
He was an Italian policeman—a carabinieri. I expected him to be decorated in his full official regalia rather than garb that placed him in the same conservative mold as the Government’s two players—G. Hawthorne Henderson and B. Stanley Puttmen. Tucked under his right arm was a thin manila folder. While sitting, he unbuttoned his suit coat, exposing a pair of wide, black suspenders.
“What department do you work in?” Puttmen asked.
“Here in the States, you would call it the homicide department. I investigate murders.”
I glanced back at Gianna sitting on the edge of her seat, eyes teary, the anxious wife listening as Puttmen began to present the Government’s evidence. Once again, I regretted not heeding Alex’s advice. As she suggested, it wasn’t a fair match-up. I had little resources to defend myself—except the disc given to me by H. Victor VonBronstrup.
“Were you assigned to investigate the murder of a victim initially known as Anna Angelisanti?” Puttmen asked.
“I was,” Lagnese answered.
“How was she identified?”
“We checked all transportation records, rail, bus, air.”
“Did you have any success?”
“Eventually. We identified the victim through a photograph. I showed it to a taxi driver who drove her to Taormina from the airport in Catania.”
“How did you locate the taxi driver?”
“We didn’t. The driver contacted us after reading about the murder in the newspaper.”
“How did you learn her name?”
“Through a credit card. The victim gave it to the driver to pay for the ride.”
Puttmen was beginning to unfold a well-orchestrated plot. Vittorio Lagnese’s story was a fabrication, probably an innocent one, but testimony supported by manufactured facts. The cabal housed in the Pentagon had to find a way to place Anna Angelisanti in our Taormina home the night of the murder. Enhancing the bank account of a taxi driver was the most convenient way. When we spoke after my arrest, I had informed Nino that Anna had rented a car at the airport and parked it somewhere on the Corso Umberto because of the storm. I now surmise she wasn’t alone, her companion using the pedestrian walkway up the steep mountainside showing her the way to our home—and then lingering outside looking for the right moment to pull the trigger before jumping into a waiting car that slowly wove down the steep mountainside.
“It’s all a fabrication, Nino.”
Nino wasn’t an experienced litigator, but he was well acquainted with the law. He explained that Judge Henderson’s role was to determine if a treaty exists and if the complaint was supported by probable cause—does the evidence show that I committed a crime. Credibility wasn’t an issue for the judge to decide, so my testimony would be meaningless—my word against his. At this stage of the extradition process, the scales weighed heavily in favor of the government.
“Was the cause of her death determined?” Puttmen asked.
“Yes. A bullet wound that severed an artery in the victim’s neck.”
“Where was the victim’s body found, Mr. Lagnese?”
“In Taormina—near Mazzaro Bay.”
“Was anything found on her person?”
“A piece of paper was in her blouse pocket.”
“Was something written on the paper?”
“Yes. The name of Francesco Micco.”
“Anything else?”
“His phone number and address in Italy.”
The perfect ploy, well thought out. Francesco Micco shot Anna Angelisanti at his Taormina home and then dragged her body to Mazzaro Bay. The carabinieri then found my name, address, and telephone number on a note found in her blouse pocket—planted evidence, the handiwork of an assassin who was in the business of killing people, part of the deal struck with his employer.
“Does Mr. Micco maintain a residence in Taormina?” Puttmen asked.
“As I understand it, his grandfather purchased a home there many years ago. The family uses it as a retreat.”
“Do you know whether Anna Angelisanti was at the Micco home the day she was murdered?”
“Yes, she was.”
“How did you establish that fact?”
“Through the taxi driver.”
Nino stood.
“Objection, Your Honor. This testimony is hearsay, and I move that it be stricken from the record.”
“Allow me to remind Mr. Viola that this is a preliminary examination. Hearsay is permitted,” Puttmen lectured.
His response was condescending as he shot a patronizing glance at Nino, the glib look of a teacher mentoring his student. Puttmen’s lecture continued.
“The purpose of this hearing is to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to surrender Mr. Micco to the demanding country,” Puttmen said, his stare still fixed on Nino before he approached the bench. “As Your Honor knows, in this instance, the demanding nation is the Republic of Italy.”
Judge Henderson appeared unwilling to accept the bald testimony of Vittorio Lagnese.
“That may be so, Mr. Puttmen, but this is a serious matter. Mr. Micco’s liberty is at stake here,” Judge Henderson said somberly. “Does the government have anything to bolster Mr. Lagnese’s testimony?”
As Judge Henderson was speaking, Vittorio Lagnese unraveled the string securing the manila envelope he had carried to the witness stand and removed a sheet of paper.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Puttmen responded. “Mr. Lagnese has a verified written statement from the taxi driver that will support his testimony.”
“May I see it?”
“Yes, of course, Your Honor.”
Lagnese gave the paper he had removed from the manila folder to Puttmen who passed it onto the Judge’s deputy. She marked it as government Exhibit A. Judge Henderson took a moment to read the affidavit before returning it.
“Show the exhibit to Mr. Viola and Mr. Micco.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Puttmen hovered behind us.
Nino fired a salvo at him.
“Your Honor, I can’t confer privately with my client,” he said roughly.
“Move away, Mr. Puttmen,” Judge Henderson barked.
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
Together, Nino and I read the affidavit of the taxi driver. A paid perjurer had based it on a lie we couldn’t explore—and there was no one present to cross-examine. Nino returned the affidavit to Judge Henderson’s clerk. Puttmen, now more contrite, stood and addressed the court.
“The government offers Exhibit A into evidence.”
“Any objections, Mr. Viola?”
“None, Your Honor,” Nino said reluctantly.
Puttmen had just paid the first installment on my one-way ticket to Italy through a fake document—he had established that Anna Angelisanti was at our home in Taormina the night she was murdered.
“Mr. Lagnese, did you ever gain access to the Micco house in Taormina?”
“Yes. On the day a passer-by found the victim’s body, we searched the house.”
“What did you find?”
“We were able to lift microscopic samples of blood from the kitchen floor.”
“Were the samples analyzed?”
“Yes. We compared the blood found at the Micco home with the blood of Anna Angelisanti. We used DNA identification technology.”
“Was there a match?”
“Yes. Through a genetic pattern-matching process, we were able to identify the blood found on the floor in the Micco home as being the blood type of Anna Angelisanti.”
Putnam had the court reporter mark the lab report as Exhibit B. Nino reviewed it and had no objection. It was admitted into evidence.
“Was Francesco Micco home when you lifted the blood samples?”
“No. On the day after the murder, he had fled Sicily.”
“How do you know that?”
Again, Lagnese reached into his bag of evidence and pulled out another document. Puttmen had it marked as government Exhibit C and offered it into evidence. Nino reviewed it and had no objection. It was the statement of Caporale Rossi, the Italian Polizia whom Guerino confronted at the Taormina-Giardini train station. Caporale Rossi detailed the events that had unfolded as the train rolled from Taormina toward the Messina Strait.
“Was Corporal Rossi able to identify the passenger he questioned on the train?” Puttmen asked.
“Yes. I showed Rossi a photograph of Francesco Micco,” Lagnese answered.
“And he was able to identify Mr. Micco as the passenger?”
“Yes.”
“After reviewing the same photograph, can you identify Mr. Micco?”
With a gauntlet stare, Lagnese’s eyes pierced mine.
“Yes. Francesco Micco is sitting at counsel table with his attorney.”
The government had now paid the next installment. Puttmen had established that I traveled from Taormina the day after Anna Angelisanti had been murdered—the prime suspect fleeing the crime scene.
“The government has no further questions of this witness, Your Honor.”
Judge Henderson turned to Nino.
“Cross-examine, Mr. Viola?”
Nino asked some superfluous questions. It was difficult to effectively cross-examine Vittorio Lagnese because his testimony had been based on hearsay. When he completed his examination, Nino returned to counsel table, but before he surrendered the witness, he asked me whether there were any other questions he should ask Lagnese.
