Judge & Jury (7 page)
Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
“So your boss, Ralph Denunziatta, contacted you?”
“He said the family needed this thing done. For the Boss.”
“And by ‘this thing done,’ it was understood he meant a job, a hit? It meant you had to kill someone?”
“It was understood what he meant, Mr. Goldenberger.”
“And by the Boss”—the prosecutor faced the witness again—“you took that to mean . . . ?”
“Dominic Cavello.” He pointed in the direction of the defendant. “They said a favor had to be done. There was this guy in New Jersey who was causing problems. Not a protected guy, just a regular civilian.”
“And how did you feel about taking care of this, Mr. Machia? You knew that it meant killing somebody.”
“I knew what it entailed, Mr. Goldenberger.” Machia glanced over toward the jury. For a second, Andie’s blood ran cold. She felt his eyes were fixed on her. “Ralphie told me how they had it all planned out. It would be a cinch. So I mean, I got this friend of mine to steal a car.”
“By your friend, you’re referring to Steven Mannarino?” asked the prosecutor. He stepped back to his table and held up a large picture of a chubby, grinning kid with bushy hair in a Giants football jersey, maybe eighteen.
“Yeah, Stevie.” Machia nodded. “We’d known each other since we were kids.”
“So Mr. Mannarino was to steal the car?”
“And some plates. It was decided the easiest place to hit the guy would be at his house when he came out for work in the morning. What do they call that kind of street that ends in a circle?”
“A cul-de-sac,” the prosecutor said.
“Yeah, cul-de-sac. We had several cars around, patrolling the area. Checking for cops. Tommy Moose was in one—Tommy Mussina. Ralphie reported directly to him. We did a dry run two days before. We tailed the mark. This Jewish guy. He kissed his wife good-bye at the door. Seemed like an all-right guy.”
“But you were willing to go through with it anyway?” the prosecutor asked.
Machia shrugged, taking a long sip from his water bottle. “Not like you have a lot of choice, Mr. Goldenberger. I seen guys put away for turning down a job. You don’t go through with it, you could be next. Besides . . .”
“Besides
what,
Mr. Machia?” the prosecutor urged him on.
“It was a favor for the Boss, Mr. Goldenberger. You don’t turn that down.”
“And how did you know this, sir?”
“Ralphie said it was for the Electrician.”
“And by ‘the Electrician,’ he meant
who,
Mr. Machia?”
“Objection!” Cavello’s attorney stood up with a scowl. Andie looked at O’Flynn; they already had a name for the lawyer in the jury room.
The Eyebrow.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” the prosecutor apologized. “So by ‘the Electrician,’ Mr. Machia, you
understood
that Ralphie D. meant
who?
”
“Dominic Cavello. The Electrician, that was his name. Ralphie worked for Tommy. Tommy worked for the Boss.”
The prosecutor nodded, clearly pleased. “So you knew this hit was for the Boss, meaning Mr. Cavello, wholly because Ralphie D.
said
this to you?”
“
That,
and the other thing.” Machia shrugged.
“What other thing, Mr. Machia?” The prosecutor turned, his voice rising.
There was a pause. Louis Machia settled back in his chair. For the first time, Cavello’s eyes lifted toward the witness. Machia took a couple gulps of water. Then he put the bottle down.
“Those cars I spoke of, Mr. Goldenberger, driving around. Dominic Cavello was in one, too.”
THEY BROKE FOR LUNCH, and Andie spent it outside in Foley Square. It was cold, but still pretty nice for November. She ate a tuna wrap on a ledge, going over some proofreading for the neighborhood newspaper she worked for part-time. She made an entry in her trial notebook, too—and underlined it:
Cavello was there!
At two o’clock, they all filed back in. Louis Machia was still on the stand.
“I want to pick up where we left off, Mr. Machia.” The prosecutor stepped back up to the stand. “What happened after Samuel Greenblatt’s murder?”
“After the murder?” The witness thought a moment. “I was promoted, Mr. Goldenberger. I was made a soldier, like you said.”
“I think that was several weeks afterward,” the prosecutor corrected him. “Maybe a month?”
“Twenty-seven days.” Machia smiled. “To be exact.”
There were a few more chuckles from the gallery. From Goldenberger, too. “Clearly, that was an important day in your life, Mr. Machia. But I was referring more to the days
immediately
after Sam Greenblatt’s murder.”
“Oh, that.” Machia shook his head as if he’d been thwacked in the face. He took a sip from his water bottle again. “We ditched the car. We were all supposed to meet up at Ralphie D.’s diner later, in Brooklyn.”
“And did that go smoothly, Mr. Machia?”
“
That
part, Mr. Goldenberger, yeah. We left the car at Newark Airport. Stevie tossed the plates into a marsh off of I-95. We were all high fives and celebrating. Good things were going to happen.”
“But that wasn’t the case, was it? What did happen?”
The dark-haired mobster chortled disgustedly, shaking his head. “I guess after we shot Mr. Greenblatt and pulled away from his house, someone, one of his neighbors maybe, must’ve got a glimpse at the plates.”
“Someone spotted you? And how did you end up realizing that?” the young prosecutor pressed.
“’Cause later that night, around seven, the cops came to my house. I wasn’t there, but my wife and kids were. They asked to see her car.”
“
Her
car?” The prosecutor looked confused. “Why would they ask to see your wife’s car, Mr. Machia?” It was clear Goldenberger knew the answer but was adroitly leading the whole courtroom there.
“Apparently, the plates the neighbor had picked up as we drove away were registered to
her.
”
There was an audible gasp throughout the courtroom.
“
Your wife,
Mr. Machia? You previously told us Steven Mannarino was supposed to steal plates for the hit.”
“I guess he did.” Machia scratched his head. “From my house.”
Andie glanced toward O’Flynn, down the row. They both double-blinked, as if making sure they had heard right.
JOEL GOLDENBERGER’S EYES were wide. “This is your best pal, Mr. Machia. You’re telling me he stole the plates for this hit from
you?
”
“I said we had known each other since we were kids, Mr. Goldenberger. He was my oldest, not my best, friend, and he wasn’t the smartest guy.”
Snickers of disbelief erupted. Andie glanced up and could see Judge Seiderman hiding a smile again. Finally, when the courtroom calmed down, the prosecutor shook his head. “So, Mr. Machia, go on.”
“After my wife called me, I called Stevie up and said, ‘Stevie, what are you, fucking nuts?’
Sorry,
Your Honor. Anyway, what he told me was that his mom had found the stolen plates and threw them out and he’d panicked. He only lived down the block, so he knew our place like his own. I guess he found my wife’s plates in a box on the side of our house and figured, who would ever know?”
There was a stunned silence for a few seconds—the sound of total disbelief. Then the prosecutor continued. “So what happened when the cops came to your house?”
“My wife told them someone must’ve jumped the fence and stolen them.”
“Your wife’s a pretty quick thinker, Mr. Machia.”
“Yeah, and she was pretty damn pissed, too.” He shook his head and smiled.
This time, no one could hold back. Andie figured everyone had the same image: the gangster’s wife coming after him with a frying pan. She put a hand over her face and averted her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Cavello. He was smiling, too.
“And so the cops were satisfied with that explanation? That someone else must’ve taken the plates?”
“I don’t know if you would call it
satisfied.
I had a record. It wasn’t exactly hard to pin me as someone who hung around the family.”
“This couldn’t have gone over very well with Ralphie D.”
“I would call that an understatement, Mr. Goldenberger. Everybody was pissed as hell. I met up with Stevie later that night, and he was saying stuff like ‘I know I screwed up, but if something comes from this, I’m not going alone.’ Crazy stuff. Stuff he knew better than to say. He was just worked up.”
“And how did you respond?” the prosecutor asked.
“I kept saying, ‘Christ, Stevie, you can’t say things like that. People are gonna hear.’ But he was nervous. He knew he screwed up. I never saw Stevie act like that.”
“So what did you do?”
“
Me?
Truth was, Mr. Goldenberger, I had my own situation to worry about. I told Ralphie, don’t listen to the guy. He won’t do anything stupid. He’s just freaked out, that’s all.”
“You told Ralphie about Stevie?”
“I had to, Mr. Goldenberger. If he got nabbed and started to talk, he could bring us all down. But I needed to get myself an alibi, too. I had this knee thing in those days. I needed surgery. So I went right into Kings County Hospital up to this doctor I knew, that
we
knew—he owed us some money—and I told him, you cut me open right now and the tab is clean. But I need the records to say I’ve been in here since this morning.”
“Let me get this straight, Mr. Machia. You got a doctor to falsely admit you into a hospital to provide an alibi for killing Samuel Greenblatt?”
“Yes.”
“And he agreed?”
“Well, I had a gun to his head, Mr. Goldenberger.”
Andie couldn’t believe it. The laughter got wild.
“So, getting back to Stevie Mannarino, Mr. Machia, your lifelong pal.” The prosecutor took a few steps toward the witness. “You told Ralphie D. you would cover for him. What’d Ralphie say?”
“He said not to worry. He’d talk it over with the Boss. He said they’d get him somewhere where he could lie low for a while, ’til it all blew over. He told me just to focus on myself, get better. I was in this leg brace. Truth was, I was a little nervous I was never coming out of that hospital myself, if you know what I mean.”
“So what happened?” Goldenberger went over and picked up Steven Mannarino’s picture. He held it there for the jury to fix on. “Tell the court, Mr. Machia, what became of your pal?”
“I don’t know.” Louis Machia shrugged. He reached for the water bottle and cleared his throat. “I never saw Stevie again.”
IT WAS ALMOST FOUR. Judge Seiderman looked around the courtroom. She stopped the questioning. “Mr. Goldenberger, I think that’s a good spot to leave off for today.”
She cautioned the jury not to discuss the case or read the papers. Then they all filed back into the jury room. A few of them hurried off for trains, saying hasty good-byes.
Andie packed up her bag and put on her sweater. “See you tomorrow, everyone. I have to pick up my kid. Anyone taking the IRT?”
A woman named Jennifer said she was, and together they hurried over to Chambers Street and hopped the Broadway number 1 uptown. Jennifer, who sold advertising in the city, got off at 79th, and Andie continued on uptown, to the walk-up brownstone on West 183rd Street overlooking the George Washington Bridge, where she and Jarrod had lived for the past four years.
Andie got out at the 181st Street station and walked down a couple of blocks to 178th to pick up Jarrod at Sandra’s. Sandra’s son, Eddie, was in Jarrod’s fourth-grade class at Elementary School 115.
“Hey, Ms.
Law and Order,
” Sandra said, laughing as she opened the door. “You get a part?”
“I got a sentence.” Andie rolled her eyes. “Eight weeks.”
“Yikes!” Sandra exclaimed. “I got ’em to do their homework, at least part of it. They’re in Edward’s room. Playing
Desert Ambush.
” The two women stuck their heads in.
“Mom,” Jarrod crowed, “check it out. We’re on level six.”
“Well, I’m afraid we’re going to have to level six it out of here. Mom’s beat.”
Out on Broadway, she and Jarrod headed back to their apartment. Dinner was in their future, and she didn’t feel like cooking.
“So, what are we up for, mister? Nachos? Deli? I got forty bucks from the U.S. government that says dinner’s on me.”
“They gave you forty bucks?” Jarrod seemed impressed. “So, what’s the trial about, Mom? Anything cool?”
“I shouldn’t say, but it’s about this Mafia guy. We heard these lawyers talk. Just like on
Law and Order.
And I got to meet the judge. In her office.”
Jarrod came to a stop just in front of their building. He cried out, “Mom!”
Their car was parked on the street, a ten-year-old orange Volvo wagon. Sluggo, they called it, because it didn’t go very fast and looked like it had taken quite a few punches. They kept it on the street. The local cops always cut them slack.
Someone had smashed the entire front windshield in.
“Oh my God,” Andie gasped. She hurried up to the station wagon in disbelief.
Shards of splintered glass were all over the pavement. Who would do such a thing? She’d kept it on the street for years. Everyone on the block knew it. Nothing like this had ever happened. She placed a hand on Jarrod’s shoulder.
Then Andie felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach. She thought of Cavello sitting there in the courtroom with his calm, indifferent stare. Like he had it all under control. And the stories Louis Machia had told. He had murdered for Cavello. Something like this was child’s play to the mob, wasn’t it?
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Jarrod.” She pulled him close.
But he didn’t believe her any more than she believed herself. All they would have to do is follow you home.
Maybe they had.
RICHARD NORDESHENKO HAD a very good plan, which was why he was sitting in a fashionable bistro on the upper East Side, watching an attractive, middle-aged woman from the relative safety of the bar.
