Misty River, page 18
“Your Honor, I certainly didn’t mean to imply any such thing. I am satisfied with the explanation.”
“Very well. Do you have any other questions of this witness?”
“Yes, Your Honor”
“Proceed.”
“Mr. Stewart, isn’t it true that you were seen outside the bakery the morning Mr. Amoia was murdered, and that you fled the scene when the police arrived?”
“You can say that.”
“I did say that. Isn’t it also true that you are the only person who could be positively identified as having been outside the bakery within seconds of the Amoia murder? You may answer that question with a yes or a no.”
“Yes.”
“Last question Mr. Stewart. Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yes. Of course, I have.”
“No further questions.”
“Anything more from the state?” the Judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Chris, Mr. Sweeney has explicitly called you deceitful and implicitly attempted to label you as a murderer when he asked you if you’d ever killed anyone. Mr. Sweeney didn’t allow you to explain your answer. So, I will ask you to explain. Who have you killed and under what circumstances?”
“Mr. Moretti, the only people I had to kill were enemy soldiers in Vietnam during war.”
“I noticed that Mr. Sweeney never asked you if you murdered Frank Amoia, or for that matter, anyone else? Have you ever murdered anyone?”
“No sir, I didn’t murder Frank Amoia or anyone else.
Chris continued, “Mr. Sweeney is a lawyer and knows the distinction. That’s why he asked the question the way he did. Mr. Sweeney has an obligation to zealously defend his client, which I guess includes attempting to distort the character of a witness in a court of law. I fought for his right to do that. What I didn’t fight for is his right to distort the truth.”
Blake paused for a moment. “Mr. Stewart, thank you for your service to our country and for performing your public duty today by coming forward to testify.”
A sense of sympathy spread in the courtroom, and Blake could see Sweeney stepping back.
Sweeney said, “No further questions.”
Blake continued to present his case in chief methodically. Trial lawyers often second-guess their strategies and alter their presentations during the proceedings. Sometimes plans go awry, and they must adjust on the fly. But everything was going as he expected.
“Ms. Fleming, tell us what happened on March 2, 1985, when your boyfriend, Billy “Buck” Owens, arrived home after Mr. Amoia was murdered.”
“It was about ten a.m. I woke up when I heard sirens coming from the direction of Mr. Amoia’s bakery a couple of blocks away. Then I heard a noise in my bathroom. I went to check and saw Buck removing his clothes. I noticed fresh blood all over him. Before he took off his bloody jeans, he reached into one of the front pockets and pulled out a wad of blood-stained cash.
“When I asked him where he got the money, he said he’d gotten it from a guy who tried to rob him at knifepoint. He said he got the drop on the guy, grabbed the knife, and wrestled it out of his hand, and that he was so pissed off, he stabbed the guy with his own knife and took his money.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Hell no. Buck tells more lies than the devil.”
Sweeney was on his feet.
The judge raised a hand in his direction. “I know, Mr. Sweeney, you object. Objection sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard the witness’s last comment that the defendant ‘lies more than the devil.’”
“What happened next?” Blake asked.
“The next morning, Buck turned on the local TV news, which I thought was strange because he never showed any interest in watching the news. That’s when I learned Amoia had been found dead the day before. They didn’t say how he died, but they said the sheriff’s office was investigating a homicide, and I realized that Buck didn’t stab some stranger. He killed Mr. Amoia.”
Sweeney jumped out of his chair like a ground-to-air missile. “Objection! And I move for a mistrial.”
Blake could see that Judge Croghan was becoming concerned with Valerie’s off-the-cuff responses and asked for a sidebar.
“Permission to approach the bench?”
Blake asked her to overrule Sweeney’s objection and motion for a mistrial. “This witness is prepared to testify that not only does she think Owens murdered Amoia, but he admitted to her that he killed him and forced her to help him dispose of the bloody clothing and the murder weapon.”
Sweeney argued, “Your Honor, this witness told the sheriff that story, then recanted and said it was a lie.”
The Judge fingered her pearls for a moment, considering. “Mr. Sweeney, you may cross-examine the witness regarding her recantation. Mr. Owens’s alleged statements to this witness are incriminating and may be admitted. The fact that she concluded he was the murderer caused her to question him, and he admitted as much. Therefore, I will allow her testimony. In addition, your motion for a mistrial is overruled. Let’s keep going here. I want this jury to get the case sometime this year.”
“Ms. Fleming, what happened next?” Blake asked.
“He wrapped the blood-stained Buck knife and sheath in his bloody clothes and coerced me to go with him to bury them in a secluded area near the Misty River. He told me that if I didn’t do what he said, he’d tell the sheriff my eighteen-year-old son killed Amoia for his money and that I assisted my son in concealing the evidence. I didn’t have a choice. I took his threats seriously, so I did what he said. After we buried the evidence, he told me to stop at a local carryout where he purchased soda pop, cigarettes, and gas. When he returned to the car, he poured soda pop on the blood-stained money.
“When I asked him what he was doing, he said, ‘What’s it look like I am doing? The acid in the soda pop will wash away the blood.’”
“Ms. Fleming, why do you call the defendant “Buck?”
“Because he always carries a knife.”
“The knife you referred to with the blood on it, what kind of knife was it?”
“It was a large Buck hunting knife. The same one Buck always carried.”
“One last question: did you provide Detective Massey with this information?”
“Yes. Shortly after the murder, I told him.”
Blake didn’t ask Valerie why she recanted. He knew Sweeney wouldn’t be able to stop himself from asking the “why” question, and her answer would be more devastating when he asked it.
“Isn’t it true you lied to Detective Massey when you told him Mr. Owens killed Mr. Amoia so you could get your greedy hands on the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of Mr. Amoia’s killer?”
“No sir, that’s not true. I inquired about the reward, but I never pursued it. I have not received any reward money.
“I lied to Detective Massey when I recanted Buck killed Mr. Amoia because I was frightened that Buck would kill me. I was also concerned Buck would frame my son Joey for the murder.
“I am here to tell this jury that your client killed Mr. Amoia with his Buck hunting knife, stole his money, buried the murder weapon with his bloody clothes, and purchased cocaine with the stolen money. That’s the truth. It’s time for Buck to be punished. I know that coming here and finally telling the truth won’t fix what I did, but it’s the right thing to do. What I have to say today may not be what you want to hear, but it’s the gospel truth. That’s why I initially told Massey Buck killed Mr. Amoia.”
“Ms. Fleming, isn’t it true you lied to Detective Massey when you told him Billy murdered Mr. Amoia in order to protect the real murderer, your son, Joey Fleming?”
It pissed Valerie off that Owens told Sweeney that bullshit story as he threatened to do. She bit her tongue, sipped water, and took a deep breath before responding.
“No, sir, that is a lie. If you didn’t hear anything I said today, hear me now. Had my son butchered Mr. Amoia in cold blood, I would have no use for him and would have turned him in to the sheriff myself. I have known Mr. Amoia for my entire life. When I was a kid, I often stopped by the bakery after school because he knew I didn’t have money and let me choose whatever cookie I wanted for free. Then he’d say, ‘We’ll just put it on the tab.’ I’m sure he did the same for other kids. He was a great guy. When Buck admitted what he did to Mr. Amoia, I threw up. I’m ashamed to say he bought cocaine with the blood money. Buck Owens killed Mr. Amoia.”
“That’s a heartwarming story, but the fact remains your son worked for Mr. Amoia, and you didn’t tell Detective Massey about that until after he confronted you, having learned from Mr. Owens that was indeed the case. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it also true that you told Detective Massey your son saw Mr. Amoia hide thousands of dollars in the bakery?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it also true your son was addicted to painkillers and spent his earnings purchasing painkillers on the black market to feed his addiction?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true Mr. Owens sought counseling for your son’s addiction to painkillers, but your son refused to go?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mrs. Fleming, your son stole the money hidden in the bakery to feed his drug habit. Isn’t that true?”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Of course not. You’re Joey’s mother.”
“Ms. Fleming, what we do know is when you took Detective Massey to the alleged burial spot, you say Mr. Owens buried his blood-covered clothes and murder weapon; none of those items were recovered, despite a massive effort by the sheriff. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes”
“Ms. Fleming, that is because your son, with your assistance, buried the murder weapon and clothes; God only knows where to protect him from being apprehended and punished for killing Mr. Amoia. Isn’t that true?”
“No. That’s a lie.”
“Finally, Ms. Fleming, did you know that two hundred thousand dollars was laundered by mobster Sonny Calo, who, with the help of Frank Amoia, hid the dirty money in a ventilation duct?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Isn’t it true your son observed Mr. Amoia hide the money in the ductwork, which the sheriff’s investigators never found?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Would you be surprised to learn your son told Mr. Moretti about the money hidden in the vent ducts?”
‘I am not surprised about anything in this case. Why don’t you ask Joey?”
“I plan to.”
“Your Honor, I don’t have any other questions of this witness.”
“Very well, Mr. Moretti, do you have any more questions of this witness?” Asked Judge Croghan.
“No, Your Honor.”
At the counsel table, Detective Massey whispered to Blake, “Blake, why didn’t you clean that up? ”
There was no reaction from Blake.
“Your Honor, the state calls Mary Amoia,” Blake announced.
The nightmare of her husband’s murder had never left her. How could it? She’d told Blake that wherever she went around town, she could hear people whisper, “Is that her? Is that the baker’s wife?” She’d felt as though she were trapped in a revolving door, and her sorrow never lessened.
She was sworn in, and Blake asked if she was ready to proceed.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti, as much as I ever will be.”
“Tell the jury your name and how you know Frank Amoia.”
“My name is Mary Amoia. Frank Amoia was my husband. We were married for thirty-five years before he was murdered on March 2, 1985. Frank and I moved here from Brooklyn, New York in 1950 to open Amoia’s Italian bakery. We were so proud of the shop.”
“Mrs. Amoia, please tell the jury about the last day you saw Mr. Amoia alive.”
She sat still for a moment, clutching her hands in her lap, collecting herself. “The bakery business is tough. The shop was open six days a week between the hours of seven a.m. and four p.m. So, Frank had to be at the shop by five a.m. to get ready for business.
“That morning started like it always did. We were up by two. I put on the coffee and made Frank breakfast. We talked about everything from family to national politics. Every morning, Frank kissed me on the way out of the house. He never said goodbye. He felt that was too permanent. He’d say see you later, love you and off he went. Funny. That morning, he didn’t say see you later. He said goodbye. I thought it was odd at the time, but I never saw him alive again. When I tell people that story, some respond that maybe it was a premonition. I don’t know. Perhaps God works in mysterious ways.”
Blake had grown up a devoted Catholic, but in high school, an event caused him to question whether there was a God. Some of his friends thought he was an atheist, but he wasn’t. As far as he was concerned, the verdict was still out. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God, but that he didn’t need to rely on a priest to make that determination.
“Mrs. Amoia, would you share with us when you were first notified of your husband’s murder?”
“Yes, I’ll never forget that morning. The doorbell rang at ten, and when I opened the front door, Detectives Massey and Wilson were standing on my front porch. After they identified themselves, Detective Massey asked me if we could go inside. I could tell from the looks on their faces and the sadness in Detective Massey’s voice that something terrible had happened to Frank. I had no idea it was more horrible than I could have ever imagined.
“Detective Wilson suggested I sit down, so I sat beside her on the sofa, waiting for them to tell me the news.
“Detective Massey told me he’d received a call to report to the bakery. He had been murdered that morning. His body was found in the restroom.
“I fell to my knees. Those words wouldn’t stop ringing in my head. I felt like I’d been struck by a freight train. I was paralyzed with emptiness and pain. That’s what I can recall. It’s more than I care to remember.”
“Mrs. Amoia, I’m so sorry to ask you to relive this tragic event. If you don’t mind, I have only two more questions.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can you tell us whether you or Frank were aware of anyone who wanted to cause him harm?”
“No, sir. Frank didn’t have an enemy in the world. Everyone in the community who knew him, loved him. He would give you the shirt off his back. If the defendant had just asked Frank for the money, he would have given it to him.”
Sweeney jumped up. “Your Honor, I object to this line of questioning regarding Mr. Amoia’s character. It’s irrelevant. The only purpose it serves is to invoke the jury’s sympathy.”
Blake began to counter Sweeney’s masquerade objection, but Judge Croghan raised her hand like a traffic officer. “Overruled. Mrs. Amoia, you may finish your answer.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I was about to say Frank was a good and generous man. There was no need to kill him for his money. Frank worked hard all his life. He tried his best to talk me into retiring and selling the business. Maybe if I had listened to him, he’d still be alive today.”
Blake had the last photograph of Frank Amoia, a thumbnail shot enlarged to eight by ten inches and mounted in an acrylate standing frame. He marked it as State’s exhibit thirty-nine. He intended to ask Mrs. Amoia to identify it and introduce it into evidence to publish to the jury. The rules of procedure required him first to show it to Sweeney. When Sweeney saw it, he objected and asked the court for a sidebar conference.
“Your Honor,” Sweeney said, “I object to Moretti parading around the photo of Mr. Amoia. His only purpose is to arouse the sympathy of the jury. This bush league move is uncalled for.”
“Mr. Moretti, may I see the exhibit?” asked the Judge.
“Your Honor,” Blake countered, “first, everything is admissible at trial unless a rule precludes the use of the offered evidence. No evidence rule prevents me from introducing the victim’s identification photograph, and who better than Mrs. Amoia to attest to its veracity?
“Secondly, since you asked, Sweeney, everyone in this courtroom, including myself and this jury, has had to look at your client’s mug every day for the past week. So, since we’ve been forced to see the defendant daily, at the very least, let the jury see that Mr. Amoia was a real person, not some TV character. With the court’s permission, I will introduce Mr. Amoia’s photograph and stand it on my table for the remainder of this trial, so you and your cold-hearted client will have to look at the victim every day.”
“Well, Robert, I believe Blake is right,” the Judge said. “The photo is admissible. Therefore, your objection is overruled.”
Blake resumed his questioning. “Mrs. Amoia, do you recognize State’s exhibit thirty-nine?”
“Yes, that is a photo of my husband, Frank. It was taken one week before he was murdered, on our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
She stared at the photograph for what felt like an eternity. No one in the courtroom moved a muscle. No one made a sound.
Blake stepped closer to her, as if that would somehow give her the strength to continue.
“You know, Mr. Moretti,” she said softly, “it used to be that a photograph of Frank like this one would bring back so many memories. I haven’t browsed through our old photos since he was murdered. Now, as I sit here looking at this photograph, I know why. It used to be that as I flipped from one photo to another, each one recalled a favorable memory and made me smile. I realize now that ended the morning Frank was murdered. There will be no more happy memories for me. Old photographs don’t make me feel good anymore. They remind me that my best friend and lover was stolen from me.”
Sweeney began to stand to object, but the Judge gave him a warning glare and he sat back in his chair.
