The Rosecross, page 27
“None that I can think of, Nino.”
Nino stood and addressed the court.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Again, it was the government’s turn.
“Call your next witness, Mr. Puttmen.”
As if marching to a drum’s beat, a man sequestered outside the courtroom walked toward the witness stand. He was short and his neatly-cropped crew cut accentuated his muscular physique. His sunken eyes, set far back in their sockets, resembled a pair of twin rockets about to be launched—and he aimed them directly at me. This man was ready to do battle.
“State your name, please,” Puttmen asked.
“Luca Botti.”
His snug, ill-fitting blue blazer contrasted with his pressed and cuffed khaki trousers. A striped blue and brown tie, marginally matching his blazer, fell to his crotch. Fashion was not the forte of the government’s second witness. After the clerk had administered the oath, he sat erect in the witness chair and faced his audience. Luca Botti was one of the conspirators doing business in the Office of Strategic Plans. I applauded the government’s bold decision to put him on public display at my extradition hearing.
“Who is your employer, Mr. Botti?” Puttmen asked.
“I’m employed by the United States government.”
“In what capacity?”
“I’m a Deputy Under Secretary of State at the Defense Department.”
“Do you work at the Pentagon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where were you previously employed?”
“I’m a retired United States Army officer.”
“What are your precise duties as a Deputy Under Secretary of Defense?”
“I’m the liaison between the Secretary of Defense and the Defense Intelligence Agency.”
“Would it be fair to say you work in the area of intelligence as it relates to the Defense Department?”
“Yes, Sir. That would be a fair statement. I report directly to the Secretary of Defense.”
“Did you know Anna Angelisanti?”
Nino bolted from his chair.
“I’m asking for an offer of proof, Your Honor. What evidence does The government intend to introduce from this witness that’s relevant to their case?” Nino asked firmly, standing, his eyes staring Puttmen down.
Judge Henderson glanced at Puttmen.
“Your Honor,” Puttmen began, “the victim was using an assumed name at the time of her murder. We intend to establish her true identity before Mr. Micco is extradited to Italy.”
“You may proceed, Mr. Puttmen,” Judge Henderson ruled quickly.
“Once again, Mr. Botti, did you know Anna Angelisanti?”
“I knew her. But her real name was Lucia Lazzerini.”
“Would you please explain your answer?”
“Ms. Lazzerini worked as an agent for the Defense Intelligence Agency,” Botti explained. “There came a time when I suspected there might have been a security breach.”
“A security breach?”
“Yes. Judge Giovanni Micco, who was on the Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit, was a constant guest at several social events that were attended by officials of the Defense Department.”
Nino snapped to attention.
“I strenuously object to this testimony, Your Honor,” Nino shouted. “You are presiding over an extradition hearing. Not a judicial inquiry into the conduct of a distinguished federal appeals court judge.”
Judge Henderson’s steely eyes fastened on Puttmen, ready to defend his colleague.
“What’s the relevancy of all this, Mr. Puttmen?” Judge Henderson’s question tinged with anger.
“No disrespect to Judge Micco, Your Honor, but The government must explain the reason Ms. Lazzerini was in Italy.”
“Why?” the Judge asked.
“It will establish a motive.”
Nino stood, his eyes riveted on Puttmen.
“Motive may be relevant at his trial in Italy, but it’s not relevant at a preliminary examination,” he said indignantly.
“You’re straying too far, Mr. Puttmen,” Judge Henderson said, his tone firm, chastising Puttmen. “The court grants Mr. Viola’s objection.”
“Any further questions, Mr. Puttmen?”
“None, Your Honor. The government rests.”
“You may present your witnesses, Mr. Viola.”
“We have none, Your Honor.”
Puttmen had tightly packaged the government’s evidence. There was little Nino could do. In the end, Judge J. Hawthorne Henderson would have only one option—to grant the government’s motion to extradite me to Italy. Nino made a passionate closing statement based on the government’s flimsy evidence, an argument even he found to be meritless. Taking his turn, Puttmen summarized the case for Judge Henderson, arguing that the government had easily met its probable cause burden of proof. Judge Henderson agreed.
“I find that there is probable cause to support the complaint,” he announced soberly. “I will therefore issue a certificate of extraditability authorizing Francesco Micco’s return to the Republic of Italy pursuant to Article XII of the Italian-American extradition treaty.”
Even though Judge Henderson had granted the government’s motion to extradite me to Italy, Nino told me that the Secretary of State had the final word. The reality, nevertheless, struck me hard. I was now a detained fugitive, and the Secretary of State would not interfere with my extradition to Italy. The contrary was more likely, I thought. He would probably encourage it.
CHAPTER 68
JUSTICE ITALIAN STYLE
Our flight arrived at Fiumicino Airport in Rome at eight in the morning. We took a connecting flight to Catania and landed at Fontanarossa International in the early evening. Once again, I was in Sicily. This time, I was a guest of the Republic of Italy. Inspector Lagnese was mostly silent throughout our flight, but his still demeanor conveyed a quiet kindness that eased my anxiety. Nevertheless, I was apprehensive when our plane touched down in Catania. The paying passengers exited first. When the aircraft emptied, Lagnese escorted me off the plane in leg irons and handcuffs.
“Required procedure,” he explained apologetically.
As I shuffled down the narrow aisle, sliding one foot in front of the other, a flight attendant sympathized with my plight and offered me luck. Nodding, I returned her smile but said nothing. An Italian prosecutor had safely extradited me to Italian soil. Since we were now in Italy, Inspector Lagnese opted to speak with me in his native tongue.
“Stasera sarai in un carcere a Catania.”
Tonight, he said, The government would house me in a Catania holding cell.
“Domani comparirai davanti a un giudice istruttore.”
Tomorrow morning, I will appear before a judge of preliminary inquiries. Knowing little about the Italian judicial system, I asked Inspector Lagnese to explain the purpose of my initial court appearance. He told me that it was another probable cause hearing—Italian style. The judge would determine whether there is sufficient evidence to hold me for trial and, if so, whether he should jail me during the prosecution of my case. Tonight, I’d lay awake and ponder the possibility of living the remainder of my life warehoused in captivity. Three people would like nothing better—Richard Stone, Luca Botti, and Lester LaRouche, along with several other traitors, including Leonardo Mendici.
A clerk had scheduled my hearing before the Giudici Dellele Indagini Preliminari at ten in the morning. Once again, in leg irons and handcuffs, I was led into the courtroom by un poliziotto—an Italian policeman— who escorted me to the hearing. The judge’s bench was a desk sitting on a platform, raised about twelve inches above the floor. A green, red, and white Italian flag was draped on the courtroom’s back wall. Two tables, facing the judge, were shoved together, one for the prosecutor and one for my lawyer. Five rows of pews, probably confiscated by the Italian government from a closed church, accommodated courtroom visitors. When I entered the courtroom, Giancarlo and Guerino met me. Both sat in a front pew. A third man, seated next to Giancarlo, jumped to his feet and approached me as we walked in.
“Sono il tuo avvocato. Mi chiamo Fernando X. Ramaciotti.”
He introduced himself as Fernando X. Ramaciotti, my lawyer. Before speaking with me, he turned his attention to the policeman who had escorted me to the hearing.
“Sono l avvocato di Francesco Micco. Vorrei qualche minuto solo con lui.”
He asked to speak with me privately while slipping something into un poliziotto’s hands. While Ramaciotti conferred with my escort, I hugged Giancarlo. Before she left for Washington, Gianna had contacted my brother and made him aware of the extradition hearing as well as the murder charge. Giancarlo immediately retained an attorney from Rome to represent me in the Italian courts. I watched as Ramaciotti spoke with my escort. Un poliziotto stood passively, saying nothing, occasionally nodding, grateful for the gratuity Ramaciotti had slipped into his hands.
My avvocato—my Italian lawyer—wore a double-breasted black suit with a black shirt and black tie. His monochromatic furnishings accentuated his imposing continental flare. His long, black hair, lined with scattered strands of gray, was pushed straight back into a ponytail secured by a diamond-studded barrette.
“Siediti e sta zitto. Parlero io,” Ramaciotti instructed.
He told me to sit and say nothing. This lawyer seemed out of his element, appearing before the Giudice Delle Indagini Preliminari—the judge of preliminary inquiries. From what I knew about Italian law, he should have appeared in the Corte d’ Assizes—the Appeals Court of Assizes.
After his conversation with un poliziotto had ended, Ramaciotti led me to counsel table. We sat and patiently waited for the hearing to begin. With Inspector Lagnese lagging, the Chief Public Prosecutor entered the courtroom. Taking even, long strides, he walked briskly toward the counsel table and, ignoring me, muttered an introduction to Fernando X. Ramaciotti. His name was Luciano Iodice. Remaining in his seat, Fernando politely acknowledged Iodice and said nothing more.
For this judicial hearing, Inspector Lagnese appeared in full formal police attire. He wore a dark-blue jacket accentuated by a stark red collar. A red caplet with a black stitched design accentuated his broad shoulders. His matching blue trousers were decorated with wide red stripes. Carrying a manila folder, Lagnese followed the chief prosecutor and sat at the far end of the counsel table, away from me. Space was a premium commodity in this courtroom, but my attorney didn’t appear uncomfortable working in cramped quarters.
Luciano Iodice’s appearance and demeanor personified the prototypical prosecutor. He wore a gray tweed sport coat with black trousers and a muted solid red tie. A square jaw accentuated his burly physique. A barber had cropped his dark, wavy black hair short—a modified crew cut. Appearing smug and rigid, he would not allow a smile to touch his face.
Precisely at ten o’clock, il Giudice—the judge—entered the courtroom from a door off to the side. There was no deputy to announce his appearance. There was, however, immediate silence. Fernando jumped to attention as if the Prime Minister himself had just entered the room. Luciano Iodice lagged. He was slow to acknowledge il Giudice’s appearance. He was also far less flashy than Fernando X. Ramaciotti. The name of the Judge was printed on a placard sitting on the edge of the bench. It read in script: ‘The Honorable Lido Pugliano.’ Judge Pugliano sat, adjusted his robe, and announced the case:
“Questa e l’udienza della Repubblica Italiana contro Francesco Micco.”
His words stung me: “The Republic of Italy against Francesco Micco.”
“Puo chiamare i suoi testimoni,” Judge Pugliano said starkly, his eyes fixed on Iodice—directing the Chief Prosecutor to present his evidence.
Because there was no witness chair, Inspector Vittorio Lagnese remained seated next to Iodice. He was the prosecution’s first witness. Facing Lagnese, his back to Ramaciotti, Iodice began by asking questions that told the same story presented in the courtroom of Judge J. Hawthorne Henderson. Chief Prosecutor Luciano Iodice apparently borrowed the hearing transcript developed by Assistant U.S. Attorney J. Stanley Puttmen.
“Sai se Anna Angelisanti era a casa del Micco il giorno in cui e stata assassinata?”
“Si.”
“Come?”
“Ha assunto un taxi per portarlo qui.”
Iodice’s final two questions related to the taxi cab driver who supposedly drove Anna Angelisanti from the Catania Airport to the Micco home in Taormina. Ramaciotti slid to the edge of his chair, his eyes riveted to Lagnese like two six-shooters, their chambers about to be emptied. Through Lagnese, Iodice had established that Anna Angelisanti had hired a taxi cab driver to bring her from the Catania Airport to the Micco home in Taormina. It was a fabrication Nino was unable to challenge during my hearing before the Honorable G. Hawthorne Henderson in the federal district court.
“Non ho ulteriori domande da porre a questo testimone,” Iodice said.
Having no further questions, Iodice had concluded his examination of Lagnese and surrendered the witness for cross-examination. Like a vulture about to swoop down on his prey, Fernando X. Ramaciotti stood tall over Lagnese, who was seated next to Iodice.
“Sei sicuro che Anna Angelisanti abbia preso un taxi da Catania alla casa di Micco a Taormina?” Ramaciotti asked calmly.
“Si. Leggi l’affidavit del tassista,” Lagnese answered.
After asking if he was sure that Anna Angelisanti had hired a taxi at the airport in Catania, Lagnese had responded ‘yes’ and referred Ramaciotti to the driver’s affidavit. Ramaciotti grinned, backed away from Lagnese, gave a quick smile to Judge Pugliano, reached into his Oleg Cassini briefcase, and pulled out a paper embossed with a notaio—an Italian notary public seal. He approached the bench, clutching the document, eyes bulging, arms whirling, plea impassioned as he handed the document to Judge Pugliano. The affidavit from a rental agent at the Catania Fontanarossa International Airport established that Anna Angelisanti had leased a car from Hertz International the night before she was murdered.
“L ‘agente della Hertz e in aula, pronto per essere interrogato,” Ramaciotti shouted.
Like a boxer delivering his knockout punch, Ramaciotti then punctuated his statement by saying that if Judge Pugliano questioned the validity of his document, the rental agent, who was seated in the back of the courtroom, was available for the court’s examination.
“Non sara necessario.”
Judge Pugliano said it wasn’t necessary. Iodice slouched, caught in a lie, probably unaware that the taxi cab driver’s affidavit was a fabrication, the work of renegades far beyond his reach. But he had additional evidence he knew to be credible—the affidavit of Caporale Rossi, the railroad agent who tried to apprehend me when I fled Taormina the day after an assassin murdered Anna Angelisanti. It was a link in the chain of evidence that pointed to me as the main suspect.
“Chiamo il caporale Rossi come testimone,” Iodice said, summoning Rossi who was seated in the last row of pews. When he heard that Iodice had called Rossi as a witness, Ramaciotti jumped from his chair and stood erect as his steely stare shifted from Iodice to Judge Pugliano, his arms stretched high, his voice reaching a high crescendo.
“La testimonianza di Rossi non e rilevante senza un corpo nella casa di Micco,” Ramaciotti shouted firmly, the calculating words of an experienced trial litigator—pleading passionately that Rossi’s testimony was irrelevant because Iodice could not place Anna Angelisanti in the Micco home on the night of the murder.
His sharp stare drilling through the Italian prosecutor, Judge Pugliano agreed with Ramaciotti’s argument and denied Iodice’s attempt to call Caporale Rossi as a witness. But Iodice had more ammunition in his arsenal—the lab report that matched the blood found on the floor in the Micco home with the blood of the decedent. He marked the report as an exhibit, gave it to Judge Pugliano and a copy to Ramaciotti.
“Offro in evidenza il rapporto di laboratorio che corrisponde al sangue trovato nella casa di Micco con il sangue del defunto.”
Iodice then offered the report into evidence. He labeled it: ‘Analisi del sangue di Lucia Lazzerini’—Blood Analysis of Lucia Lazzerini. Ramaciotti reviewed the report. A smirk crossed his face. After pondering for a moment, he jumped to his feet with even more vigor.
“Questro e un rapporto di sangue di Lucia Lazzerini, non di Anna Angelisanti,” he argued vehemently. The lab report identified the victim as Lucia Lazzerini. Iodice had failed to obtain the affidavit of Luca Botti—showing that Lucia Lazzerini was masquerading as Anna Angelisanti while she was duping my father.
“Lucia Lazzerini e estranea a questo caso,” Ramaciotti said calmly, arguing that Lucia Lazzerini was a stranger to this case—and that the lab report had no relevance to the murder of a victim named Anna Angelisanti.
“E un alta frode in campo,” Ramaciotti said slyly, adding to his argument, his eyes fixed on the judge. He labeled the report as a hoax, another fraud on the court, citing once again the taxi driver’s false affidavit. In response, Iodice vainly attempted to show that Angelisanti and Lazzerini were the same person. Still, he had no evidence to support his argument—other than his bald hearsay claim, and that wasn’t enough.
When Iodice finished, Judge Pugliano’s gimlet eyes once again pierced the prosecutor like an arrow zeroing in on its bullseye. Without further argument from Fernando X. Ramaciotti and any plea from Chief Prosecutor Iodice, Judge Pugliano dismissed the case. Disgruntled, Iodice gathered his papers, hurriedly stuffed them in his briefcase, and bristled from the courtroom with Vittorio Lagnese lagging behind.
I stood and eyed my attorney.
“Grazie, Signor Ramaciotti,” I said.
“Non deve ringraziare me, ma suo fratello Giancarlo,” Ramaciotti answered, acknowledging my gratitude, but suggesting that I speak with Giancarlo who had retained his services early the previous morning. Muttering a good-bye as he grabbed his Oleg Cassini briefcase, Fernando X. Ramaciotti disappeared through a door at the rear of the courtroom, vanishing from my life as fast as he had appeared in it.
