Judge & Jury Page 8

  “What kinds of things are you speaking of, Mr. Denunziatta?”

  “This guy that was involved in the hit, Stevie . . .”

  “Steven Mannarino,” Joel Goldenberger explained.

  “Yeah. The kid screwed up. It seemed he didn’t find clean plates for the getaway car like he was instructed. So he had to scramble.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently he located a set in Louis Machia’s yard.”

  “In the yard of his friend, who had just participated in the killing, right?”

  “Yes.” Denunziatta rolled his eyes.

  “So how would you describe Stevie?” the prosecutor asked. “Was he an experienced guy in this sort of stuff?”

  The witness shrugged. “He was a good kid from the neighborhood. I think he had asthma or something. He just wanted to be around.”

  “Be around?”

  “He just wanted to be in the club. He wasn’t the smartest kid, but Louie liked him. So we let him run errands. The kid would’ve done anything to get on the inside.”

  “And this was his chance, wasn’t it? His big audition?”

  “If it had gone well, who knows?”

  “So what happened to Stevie, Mr. Denunziatta? After it came out how he had messed up?”

  “At first, Louis wanted to handle it himself. The cops came to his house that night, after someone spotted the plates. But Louie had his own issues to worry about, and Stevie was going around making a lot of noise, like he wanted us to take care of him and get him out of the area. Away from the cops. No one had actually seen him at the scene, but he was scared.”

  “So what did you do for Stevie, Mr. Denunziatta?”

  “I told him I would work it out. I met with Tommy Moose. And Mr. Cavello. We took a walk at the Kings County Mall. I said we needed to get this kid out of town. My uncle Richie had a place in the Poconos. He could’ve hid out there. Tommy agreed that it seemed like a reasonable plan.”

  Goldenberger nodded. “So that’s where Stevie went then, after the Greenblatt hit?”

  “Not exactly,” Denunziatta said, and cleared his throat.

  “Why? You were in charge of the hit. The person you reported to agreed. No one could pin that the guy was involved, right? Why didn’t Stevie end up in the Poconos?”

  “Because Dominic Cavello didn’t go along with that,” Ralph Denunziatta said, looking down.

  “He didn’t go along with it?”

  “No.” Denunziatta shrugged. “The Boss said Stevie’s gotta go.”

  “Stevie’s gotta go,” Joel Goldenberger said. He took a step or two toward the witness. “He said it just like that, Mr. Denunziatta? Those words? ‘Stevie’s gotta go’?”

  “No, not those exact words.” Ralphie shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat, twice. “As I recall, his exact words were, ‘Cut the fat fuck up and stuff him in a can for all I care. The kid has got to go.’”

  Chapter 31

  “‘CUT THE FAT FUCK UP and stuff him in a can for all I care. The kid has got to go.’”

  The prosecutor paused to let the effect of the words fall on the jury. Everyone in the courtroom seemed stunned.

  “You heard Dominic Cavello say those words? Give you a direct order to kill Steven Mannarino?”

  The witness swallowed uncomfortably and shot a quick glance toward the defendant. “Yes.”

  A heavy silence settled over the courtroom. All the while, Cavello just sat there with his elbows on the table and his fingers folded together, staring straight ahead as if he hadn’t even heard a word. It was like none of this even mattered.

  “And Thomas Mussina,” the prosecutor prodded, “he agreed with this?”

  “What could he do? The Boss had given a direct order.”

  “So what did you do, Mr. Denunziatta? You promised Stevie you’d take care of him, right?”

  “I did.” The witness reached for some water. “I think he was staying at his sister’s. I had someone get in touch with him and tell him to pack a bag and meet us at Vesuvio’s, this place we all knew in Bay Ridge. I told him he couldn’t say a word to anyone about where he was going. Even to his mother.”

  “Go on.”

  “So we met him there. I got Larry Conigliero and Louis DeMeo. Stevie got out of his car with this dumb little travel bag. He asked how long he’d have to be away, and I told him maybe a couple of weeks or so, until it all died down.”

  “You were lying to him, right? You had no intention of helping him get away?”

  “That’s correct.” Ralphie nodded, taking a swig of water.

  “So what happened, Mr. Denunziatta, after Mr. Mannarino got in that car?”

  “They drove away. They took him to Larry’s garage. They told him they wanted to pick up some tapes there or something, for the drive. Larry told me Stevie never had a clue. He turned around and shot him in the backseat. Then they had to cut him up, like Mr. Cavello said. They wanted to follow his orders just in case. Then they drove him to the Poconos. He’s still there today, for all I know.”

  “So you reported back to Mr. Cavello,” Joel Goldenberger said, “that the murder he ordered was done.”

  “I reported back to Tommy.”

  “And shortly after that, you became a captain yourself?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “After about two months.”

  “And did Mr. Cavello say anything about why you had been made a captain in such a short time?”

  The witness stared across the room. Toward Cavello. “He made a joke that I wouldn’t be buying any property in the Poconos anytime soon.”

  Even now, Cavello seemed to find the line amusing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Denunziatta.” The prosecutor closed his notes and went to his seat. “One more thing.” He turned back. “Did Louis Machia ever find out what became of his buddy?”

  Ralphie lowered his eyes. “No, Mr. Goldenberger, Louie never knew what happened to Stevie.”

  Chapter 32

  ANDIE TRIED TO RELAX in her motel room that night, but it wasn’t happening.

  She found Denunziatta’s testimony that day pretty unsettling. The more she heard, the more she was developing an intense hatred for Dominic Cavello, even though she knew she was supposed to remain objective. She lay on her bed, leafing through a Vanity Fair, but her thoughts went to Stevie, the trusting wannabe, with his toothbrush and a change of shorts in his little travel bag, thinking he was going to the Poconos to lie low. Cut the fat fuck up and stuff him in a can for all I care.

  She was feeling so alone. Some detective show was playing low in the background on the TV. She reached for the phone and dialed Jarrod at her sister’s.

  “Hey, hon,” Andie said, brightening already.

  “Hey, Mom!” Jarrod answered. It was great just to hear his voice. Talking to Jarrod always cheered her up. They were buddies.

  “How’s it going, guy? Auntie Rita treating you okay? She feeding you?”

  “Yeah. Everyone’s real nice here. The food is great.”

  “So it’s not so bad after all, staying with your cousins?”

  “I guess. It’s just that . . .” Jarrod’s voice grew soft. “Why do you have to be there, Mom?”

  “Because they’re making us stay out here so we can really concentrate on the case. So no one will interrupt us.”

  “People at school are saying it’s so this Mafia guy doesn’t come after us. Try to hurt us.”

  Andie sat up and flicked the TV off. “Well the people at school are wrong, Jarrod. No one’s coming after us.” It was one thing if she had to be out here, totally separated and alone. It was another thing for her nine-year-old to be sucked into this.

  She tried to lift his spirits. “Anyway, how many kids get to ride in a police car with a real FBI honcho?”

  “Yeah, I guess. That was cool.”

  There was silence between them for a few seconds.

  “Guess what?” she said. “I spoke with the powers that be. They said you can come down here for the night next Tuesday—for your bi
rthday. I hear there’s some pretty good Italian food out here in Jersey.”

  That did the trick. Jarrod was over the moon. “Can I stay over?”

  “Yep, Jar, I cleared that, too. They even said they’d ride you back to school in a police car in the morning.”

  “That sounds great! I miss you, Mom.”

  “Me too, Jarrod. I miss you more.” Andie moved the phone away a little and covered her mouth. She knew her voice was about to crack, and she didn’t want Jarrod to hear that.

  I miss you more than you’ll ever know.

  Chapter 33

  WE BROUGHT IN three more strong witnesses on Friday and Monday. Each built up the case against Dominic Cavello; each dug the blade in deeper and deeper.

  One was Thomas Mussina, the famous Tommy Moose, Ralphie D.’s boss. He was currently in the Witness Protection Program.

  Mussina backed up everything that Machia and Ralphie had previously testified: that Cavello had given the direct order to murder Sam Greenblatt; that Tommy was actually driving him around, in his gray Lincoln, just blocks from the scene; that after they heard the shots and saw their guys speeding away, all Cavello did was wipe his hands and say, “So that’s done. How ’bout some eggs?”

  Mussina also corroborated Denunziatta’s story about what happened to Stevie. He used the exact same words: “Stevie’s gotta go.”

  Then he told the jury about a dancer, Gloria, who worked at a fancy strip club Cavello owned in Rockland County, New York. Gloria bragged to one of the other girls that she had squirreled away thirty thousand dollars in cash. Her “I-70 fund,” she called it. One day she was going to take her daughter and just drive west, start a new life.

  Tommy Mussina told the jury, “When Mr. Cavello heard this he got mad as hell. He thought this chick was stealing from him. So he sent a couple of guys to her apartment. They screwed her, strangled her, and tossed the body in a Dumpster. Luckily the kid was at school.”

  “They found the money?” Goldenberger asked.

  “Yeah.” Mussina nodded. “Stuffed inside a suitcase in a closet. Thirty grand, just like Gloria had said. They brought it back to Mr. Cavello.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted it.” Mussina shrugged. “He laughed, said, ‘What was once Caesar’s belongs to Caesar.’ I was there.”

  Vintage Cavello. Coldhearted and unnecessary. Over-the-top cruel.

  “So in the end,” the prosecutor said, shaking his head sadly, “did the money turn out to be stolen after all?”

  “Nah. She saved it up just like she’d said. Mr. Cavello ended up giving it back to the family as a fund for Gloria’s kid. He got a good laugh out of that one. It was the girl’s own dough.”

  Chapter 34

  AFTER MUSSINA’S TESTIMONY, the jury members filed into the jury room for lunch. No one seemed particularly hungry. “You see that asshole sitting there?” Hector shook his head angrily. “He barely moves a muscle. Like he’s got the world under control. Even us.”

  “Well, he won’t have it under control much longer if I have anything to do with it.” Rosella crossed herself. “God rest his soul. In hell.”

  Andie sat down. She glanced at Marc. The writer was just leaning on the windowsill, staring out at lower Manhattan.

  “That poor dancer. Some getaway fund, huh? I have a little boy. That could’ve been me at another time in my life,” Andie said.

  Marc nodded sympathetically. “Which club was it you said you danced at?”

  “Very funny.” Andie scrunched up her face. But at least the joke broke the tension. One by one, people began to smile and sit down. They passed out plates.

  “After this is over we should all meet. I know this farm in the Poconos,” John O’Flynn said, piling cold cuts onto his bread.

  Winston, the mechanic, laughed. “Yeah, just watch out for all the large mounds of dirt.”

  Lorraine let one of her loud, high-pitched giggles go. That set everybody off. It was amazing that after all the grisly testimony they could just kick back and laugh.

  “Lorraine,” Andie said, “I have a dare for you. We all put ten bucks into a kitty, and the next time the Eyebrow makes one of those ridiculous statements about Cavello being a good citizen, you let rip one of your laughs.”

  “That would be priceless.” O’Flynn cackled. “I’m in. I think even Judge Seiderman would get a charge out of it.”

  Lorraine must’ve liked the image, because she let another one loose. Shrill and penetrating. Everybody laughed even louder than the first time.

  Andie had to admit that over the past week she had gotten close to these people. Maybe it was the nature of what they were doing. Sharing the same room, hearing the same sick, unsettling testimony.

  She looked around the room. “Listen, it’s my kid’s birthday tomorrow. I arranged for him to come back with us and spend the night. What do you guys say about soda and cake in my room after dinner?”

  “Hey, a party,” O’Flynn said, nodding for all of them.

  “We’ll get party hats and noisemakers!” Rosella exclaimed. “Like New Year’s Eve. Be a birthday he’ll never forget.”

  “Courtesy of the United States government,” Marc said. “They owe us something after all this, right? What’s the little guy’s name?”

  “Jarrod.” Andie smiled. “That’s great. Thank you, guys. There’s just one other thing. I kinda promised you’d all bring presents.”

  Chapter 35

  I WATCHED THE JURY file back in for the afternoon session. Minutes later, another star witness was on the stand. He was an ex-mobster named Joseph Zaro, a former union official in the Local 407. The 407 was the contracting union Cavello controlled in New Jersey.

  Zaro explained how for years contractors were squeezed for payoffs to get building contracts. How it literally took a hundred thousand dollars in a suitcase dropped at union headquarters if you even wanted workers to show up for the job. Or, if a contractor wanted a mix of union and nonunion labor to save money, that cost you 20 percent of the savings up front.

  For years, we knew it was the biggest racket going in New Jersey, and that Cavello was literally skimming millions off the top. We just couldn’t catch him.

  “How many contracts did you rig for Mr. Cavello?” Joel Goldenberger asked Zaro.

  “Dozens. Hundreds?” The witness shrugged. “And there were two other guys like me doing the exact same job.”

  “The exact same job? Meaning extortion?” Joel Goldenberger pressed him.

  The witness shrugged again as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah.”

  “And what would happen,” the prosecutor asked, “if the contractor refused to pay?”

  “Then they wouldn’t get no labor, Mr. Goldenberger.”

  “And if they still refused to pay? Or if they used outside workers?”

  “You mean outside our union?” the witness asked.

  “Yes.”

  Zaro looked around blankly for a second; then he scratched his head. “You understand, we were talking Dominic Cavello here, Mr. Goldenberger. I don’t think I ever recall that happening.”

  A few people around the courtroom laughed.

  Goldenberger smiled, too. “So this was basically a monopoly? Mr. Cavello over there could dictate terms to the entire construction business?”

  “There wasn’t a building went up in north Jersey, and parts of New York, that Dominic Cavello didn’t get a piece of.” The witness laughed out loud.

  Even Cavello seemed to curl a smile at that one. As if he was proud of his business acumen. We had him dead to rights. Murder. Union tampering. Fraud. You could read it on every face in the courtroom. You could even read it on Cavello’s face, beneath the cold stare that seemed to say, This doesn’t bother me at all.

  Now the prosecution had one final witness, one who could testify about an even uglier side of Cavello. One who could drive the nail into his coffin for good.

  Me.

  Chapter 36

  I TOO
K THE STAND the next afternoon.

  “Please state your name.” Joel Goldenberger stood up and faced me. “And what your association is with this trial.”

  “Nicholas Pellisante,” I said. “I’m an SAC in the New York office of the FBI. I’m the head of a unit known as C-10. We oversee organized crime.”

  “Thank you. And in your role as head of this unit, Agent Pellisante, you are the senior law enforcement agent on the investigation into Dominic Cavello, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.” I nodded. “Other than the assistant director and the director.”

  “The assistant director and the director?” Goldenberger cocked his head. “You mean of the New York office?”

  “No, Mr. Goldenberger.” I paused, then moistened my lips with a sip of water. “Of the entire FBI.”

  Goldenberger looked impressed. “Those are pretty good credentials, Special Agent Pellisante. Now, you haven’t always held this position, have you, sir?”

  “No. Before that I was an agent on the task force for five years. Prior to that I taught a class in criminal anthropology at Columbia. I also worked at the Justice Department in DC for three years. And before that I was in law school.”

  “And you hold a law degree from where, Mr. Pellisante?”

  I played along because this was designed to set me up as even more impressive to the jury. I took another sip of water. “Columbia.”

  “So you’ve been investigating organized crime for how many years?”

  “Eleven. Five as a special agent. Six as the special agent in charge.”

  “So it’s fair to say, in the course of your experience, you’ve come across some pretty bad people, isn’t that right?”

  “The absolute worst. The Colombian drug cartels, Cosa Nostra, the Russian mob. I think I’ve looked into some of the most corrupt and violent organizations on the planet. My specialty, I guess.”

  Goldenberger smiled politely. “And in the course of these investigations, how would the defendant, Dominic Cavello, rank in terms of your experience?”