Sempre: Redemption, page 28
Corrado laughed dryly. The D.A. wouldn’t waste his time. He had beat four trumped-up murder charges, seven assault charges, three counts of extortion, and a dozen weapons violations, give or take a few. A punch was nothing, no more than a speeding ticket.
The officer shook his head as he released Corrado from his restraints, annoyed by his refusal to react. “You’re not as infallible as you think you are. If you were, you wouldn’t be in prison right now.”
“It’s only temporary,” Corrado said, rubbing his hand. His knuckles were already swelling from the force of the punch.
“That’s probably true,” the officer muttered. “I’ll never understand.”
“I’m not surprised,” Corrado quipped. “Comprehension doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”
The officer ignored the jab as he locked the cell and walked away. Finally alone, Corrado lay on the hard, thin mattress and once again draped his arm over his eyes. Silence surrounded him, blanketing him in peace as sleep took him away.
When he resurfaced, the pounding in his head had dulled. He sat up and glanced toward the door at the same time the slot in it opened, an officer’s voice carrying through. “Mail call.”
He slid in two envelopes that fell to the floor, both already opened. He wasn’t surprised. His mail was routinely checked, confiscated for days and read countless times in an attempt to find some hidden message they would never find.
Not because there wasn’t one . . . because they weren’t smart enough to decipher their code.
“Heard it’s your birthday,” the officer said. “That true?”
“Yes.”
The officer laughed. “Solitary confinement—hell of a birthday present.”
Corrado stood and grabbed the mail when the slot closed. The first was a simple birthday card from his wife, plain blue with no sappy message inside. He eyed the second envelope curiously before pulling out the sheet of paper. It was short, the message scribbled in messy pen.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I went to work,
How ‘bout you?
P.S.—I thought violets were purple, not blue. Color me surprised. Thinking I need some tutoring—the hands-on type.
He read it twice, surprised the message made it through security. The note wasn’t signed, the return address sketchy, but he knew exactly who it had come from.
Corrado had no pen and paper, so he couldn’t reply yet, but he knew exactly what he’d say:
Flowers come in every color, but some aren’t meant to be picked. Enjoy the view, but don’t try to plant any of your seeds in my garden. I’d hate to see you piled high with fertilizer.
31
On the first day of spring, March 20, trucks and vans packed the streets surrounding the Dirksen Federal Building in downtown Chicago. The sun shone brightly, the afternoon warm as trees grew lush and flowers bloomed. The way it felt on the twelfth floor of the building, though, you wouldn’t know things flourished outside.
Under the dim lighting of the courtroom, Corrado sat behind the long defendant’s table, hands clasped in front of him, tie hanging sloppily around his neck. His wife hadn’t been there that morning to fix it as he dressed in a room not far from where he sat. The air was frigid in temperature and feeling. Despite having lived in Chicago for decades, he still wasn’t used to the cold.
He didn’t shiver, though. He refused to appear weak.
UNITED STATES V. CORRADO MORETTI
DAY ONE
The courtroom was packed, not an empty seat anywhere to be found. Corrado had surveyed the spectators when he was ushered in, spotting Celia in the back with her nephew, Dominic. Besides them, he saw little in the way of friendly faces. No family, no friends, no La Cosa Nostra . . . victims and their relatives crammed the frozen room, sucking up all of the oxygen.
Corrado could feel their hostility ghosting across his skin.
He didn’t care what they thought, though. The only opinions that mattered to him belonged to the twelve people stuffed into the secluded box along the side. Eight men and four women, housed in a dingy hotel for the duration of the trial, guarded twenty-four hours a day.
It was the first time Corrado had been given a sequestered jury. The judge was afraid he would bribe his way out of trouble or ultimately hurt someone to get his way. If it didn’t annoy him so much, having to rely on a genuine outcome, he might have been flattered by their fear.
Sitting back in his chair, Corrado leaned toward his lawyer. “Doesn’t the fact that they’re locking the jury away with armed guards prejudice them against me?”
“Not any more prejudiced than they already were,” he replied. “They came into this believing you’re a monster. Our job is to humanize you.”
“And how do you do that?”
“Watch and see.”
Mr. Borza stood, straightening his tie as he approached the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, during the next few weeks you’re going to hear some terrible stories, some so horrific they’ll turn your stomach. That’s a guarantee. As the prosecution lays out its case, they’re going to tell you about a violent man, a man without morals, a man without a conscience, who wreaks havoc on this great city day in and day out. But I’m here to tell you right now, if that man exists, I haven’t met him, and I certainly wouldn’t represent him.”
The jury was attentive, hanging on to the lawyer’s every word. Mr. Borza strolled along the carpet in front of them, looking each and every one in the eyes.
“Let me tell you about the real man on trial here,” he said, motioning toward the defendant’s table. “Corrado Moretti never went to college. He didn’t even graduate high school, but that didn’t stop him from following his dreams. He’s a God-fearing man, a man who loves his family . . . especially his wife, Celia. They’ve been happily married for twenty-seven years.”
It took everything in Corrado not to seek out his wife right then. He remained still, watching the jury, looking for signs of compassion.
He found none.
“The prosecution’s case is based on half-truths from known liars who will get on that stand and tell you whatever the prosecution wants you to hear. They’ll tell you these things, these fabrications, because the government cut them deals. You pat me on the back, I’ll pat you. Why are they doing that? Because they have a personal vendetta against my client.
“Mr. Moretti built his business from the ground up, brick-by-brick, investing every penny he had into Luna Rossa. He’s a small business owner, employing more than a dozen people and providing them with full benefits. He pays his taxes dutifully. He’s living the American dream. Despite his lack of education, he made something out of himself. Does that sound like a man without morals? Does that sound like he lacks a conscience? In my opinion, it sounds like he’s just like you and me.”
Mr. Borza went on and on, twisting the facts, so by the time he finished he made Corrado seem like a bona fide boy scout. Corrado scanned the faces of the jurors as his lawyer took his seat, relaxing a smidgen when he finally saw it. There, in the eyes of a lone female—juror number six—a gleam of hope for humanity stared back at him. Naïve and foolish, maybe, but that woman wanted to believe the best in him.
It was all he needed: a foot in the proverbial door, the first step toward walking free.
DAY NINE
Wiretaps.
The sound of Corrado’s voice resonated through the courtroom from a set of speakers in the front. Stacks of transcripts were piled high on the tables, completely untouched. His voice was clear and concise. They didn’t need to read his words when they could plainly hear them.
“Do it,” he barked on the tape. “When I wake up tomorrow, I better not hear about him still breathing, or you might not be by the time I go back to bed.”
Corrado ran his hands down his face in frustration. How would his lawyer explain that one away?
Tape after tape, threat after threat. Little in the way of proof but a whole lot of damning insinuation.
They were all restless when the prosecution put on the last recording of the day. Corrado sat back in his chair, tensing when a familiar voice spoke through the speakers.
“It’s done,” Vincent said. “Happened tonight. Finally.”
Corrado pinpointed the conversation immediately. He had been sitting at home when his brother-in-law called from Blackburn to say he had gotten Haven.
“About time,” Corrado said. “How much did you pay?”
“A quarter mil, cash,” he replied. “I’ve given more than that, though.”
“I know,” Corrado said. “You’ve paid a lot for that girl.”
“Yeah.” Vincent sighed loudly on the line. “We all have.”
When those words hit him, Corrado shook his head. Trafficking in persons for servitude. Those words on his indictment made sense. Intentions hadn’t mattered, and often never do.
DAY SEVENTEEN
Expert witnesses.
Corrado’s attention wavered as the prosecutor questioned an accountant on the stand. They were going through his financial records one transaction at a time, trying to find a large sum of money they could prove was acquired illegally. Corrado was quite bored, knowing they would find nothing substantial. As far as he was concerned, a few dollars here and there didn’t count.
“Objection!” his lawyer interrupted the line of questioning. “I fail to see why it’s important to note how much Mr. Moretti spent for bathroom supplies in July.”
“Overruled.” The judge motioned for the prosecutor to continue.
More questions. More prying. More desperation. Corrado glanced at the jury, who appeared just as bored. Juror number six turned to him at that moment. He caught her eye, expecting her to look back away, but she didn’t. She stared, studying him, a look of curiosity in her eyes.
“Objection,” his lawyer said again. “I fail to see the relevance in any of this.”
The judge sighed. “Overruled.”
It went on for two excruciating hours before the prosecution finished. Mr. Borza stood then. “Based on your calculations, what’s the total amount of money that went unreported at Luna Rossa last year?”
“Uh, $15,776.49.”
Corrado cringed. More than a few dollars.
“Seems like a lot,” Mr. Borza said, verbalizing his thoughts. “But we’re talking about a club that made more than three million dollars last year, correct?”
“Yes.”
“This unaccounted for money equals what, half of one percent?”
“Fractionally more than that, but yes.”
“So more than ninety-nine percent of Luna Rossa’s revenue is right there in black and white. That half of one percent is the equivalent of blaming a man for losing a few pennies when he broke a dollar at the store. That’s hardly what I’d call an elaborate money laundering scheme.”
“Objection!” the prosecution declared. “He’s trying to distort the math.”
“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Borza.”
The ruling didn’t put off the lawyer. He had gotten his point across. “Could this half of one percent merely be a mathematical error?”
“It’s possible.”
“So there may not be any missing money at all.”
“Objection!”
“Overruled.”
“It’s possible,” the accountant said. “It’s usually why taxes are audited during a series of years for consistency and accuracy, since mistakes happen.”
Mr. Borza smiled as he sat back down. “Mistakes happen. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
DAY TWENTY-TWO
Testimony.
Witness after witness took the stand, answering questions being fired at them. Former associates, a few La Cosa Nostra, testified to tales of mayhem, while shop owners and unlucky bystanders swore to what they knew. Not a single one of them would finger Corrado directly, but there was enough to loosely link him to the crimes.
“Mr. Gallo,” Corrado’s lawyer started, addressing a former street soldier on the stand, “you testified that you, along with three others, were involved in a string of robberies in March of ninety-eight. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what role do you assert Corrado Moretti played in all of it?”
“He ordered us to do it.”
“Personally?”
“Through text message.”
“So there would be record of these messages, correct?”
“No, it was on a prepaid phone, a disposable.”
“And the messages came from my client’s number?”
“No, it came from a private number.”
“Do you still have that disposable phone?”
“No, it was destroyed. You know, uh, disposed of.”
“So, let me get this straight . . . you robbed these places because you received anonymous text messages telling you to, which you have no evidence of, and you expect us to just take your word that it came from Corrado Moretti?”
“It was him.”
“What if I told you the three others you named in these robberies claim to not even know who Corrado Moretti is? They say it was a scheme the four of you cooked up on your own.”
“I’d say they were lying.”
“It’s possible all three are lying,” Mr. Borza said. “But isn’t it more likely it’s just you?”
* * *
A pin drop could be heard through the strained silence of the courtroom. The prosecutor stood beside his table, shifting through paperwork while everyone waited for him to speak. Nerves frazzled, the spectators were on the edge of their seats, eyes darting toward the big set of double doors every time there was a noise.
A month into the trial, the prosecution was down to the last name on their witness list.
Carmine held his breath, as did what seemed like half of Chicago crowded into the stifling room. He had avoided most of the proceedings—out of respect or selfishness, he wasn’t sure—but today was one day he couldn’t miss. He had to be there, had to see with his own eyes, face reality and learn the truth.
He needed to know if his father was still alive.
Had Vincent been located and taken into witness protection, nobody would know until he walked in, escorted by armed U.S. Marshals. But if he didn’t show, well . . . Carmine didn’t like to think about what that meant.
He glanced around, his eyes drifting to his uncle. Corrado seemed relaxed, borderline bored as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on the restless jury. Had he been like that the whole trial, confident and calm, or did he know something the rest of them didn’t?
Carmine shifted his attention to the other side of the room where his aunt sat with Dominic. Neither had seen him come in, and he appreciated that. The last thing he wanted was forced family time.
Mr. Markson cleared his throat. “Your honor, the prosecution . . .”
Carmine closed his eyes . . . Calls Vincenzo DeMarco to the stand . . .
“. . . Rests its case. We have no more witnesses.”
Carmine reopened his eyes as the silence was abruptly shattered by a wave of murmurs. The judge banged his gavel for silence as Carmine stood, slipping out of the courtroom before they could continue.
32
Gavin became a regular fixture outside the art building on the west side of Manhattan. It was rare that he wasn’t standing there when Haven got out of her painting class, casually leaning against the wall as if there were nowhere else he needed to be.
Haven spoke to him on the days she saw him, and he would occasionally walk with her to the library on his way to the construction site a few blocks away, but he didn’t push his luck by asking for anything more.
It was comfortable and easy, and she grew used to their strange arrangement after a while, enjoying their short conversations before they went their separate ways. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was a connection, a blossoming friendship she found herself looking forward to those three days a week he infiltrated her life.
Haven smiled to herself one Friday afternoon when they were strolling down the sidewalk, the crowd moving briskly around them, but they were in no hurry to get anywhere. Gavin filled the time by telling a joke he had heard at work, a vulgar one Haven didn’t quite understand, but she laughed at what she figured were all the right places. “You know, you kind of remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Really?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “A boyfriend, maybe?”
“No, not at all. He was just a friend. He liked to tell jokes.”
Gavin’s expression fell. “Am I being friend-zoned already?”
Haven looked at him. “I don’t know what that means.”
He waved her off. “This friend of yours . . . was he anywhere near as handsome as me?”
She laughed. “Not quite, but few are.”
“Shit, is that a compliment?” He stopped walking, dramatically blinking his eyes. “Are you flirting with me?”
Haven rolled her eyes and refused to respond, continuing to walk. He had no choice but to move again to catch up with her.
“Seriously, was that a compliment?” he asked. “I can’t tell when you’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m never sarcastic.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Wait, was that sarcasm?”
Haven shook her head. “It was a compliment. I meant it.”
“Wow, I’m shocked,” he replied, grinning widely. “I honestly thought you were still entertaining the idea of a restraining order. Good to know I’ve worn you down enough that you like me a little bit.”
She laughed. “I never said I liked you. I just said you were handsome. That says nothing about your personality.”
“Now I know that was sarcasm,” he declared.
