Blood Money (27 page)

“Mr. Ceratto, you may open to the jury.,” Judge Barnes proclaimed with the same fervor as an announcer at a stock car race:
Gentlemen, you may start your engines
.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Nick rose and slowly walked toward the jury. He rested a yellow legal pad on the narrow edge of the mahogany box and leaned against the partition to get as close to the them as possible, as if he were going to share a secret.

Suddenly the whoosh of a closing door broke the silence and the moment Nick had claimed as his own. All attention was diverted to the back of the room as a bailiff ushered in Silvio and Levin.

The sight of them was not a surprise to Nick, although he lost focus momentarily. Levin quietly followed Silvio as they took seats in the row just outside the bar of the court, and leaning over to Silvio, whispered into his ear, never taking his eyes off Nick. He somberly checked his watch and then shifted nervously in his seat as he checked the jury.

As Nick turned back toward the panel, the door whooshed open again. The bailiff’s body blocked Nick’s view momentarily, but then he turned aside and Nick watched as Shoes and Little Al each shook the bailiff’s hand and then took seats directly behind Silvio and Levin.

Alonzo Hodge’s eyes darted quickly back and forth from Nick to the spectators. It was as if he could read Nick’s mind; that these two guys were not there to lend support, but to watch him carefully.
The room crackled with tension like an electric current arcing and then bouncing from one body to another.

“Mr. Ceratto, please begin your opening.” Barnes glared over his half glasses at Nick, not appreciating the presence of the two thugs his bailiff had allowed in his courtroom. He would see about this during recess.

Nick turned back to the jury and smiled. He ignored Judge Barnes and spoke directly to them.

“Sorry—I was taken off stride by the unexpected presence of our guests.” Some of the jury smiled, some shifted, some were deadpan and did nothing but wait patiently.

Nick paced to and fro for a few seconds, as if in thought, and then reached for his yellow pad. He tore off the first two pages and threw them into the trash bucket next to counsel table. Mrs. Riley stared at him, wondering what he was doing, what was going on as Nick unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” He paused and then chuckled. “I guess you’ve heard that a million times on TV. As a matter of fact, this kind of opening is old—isn’t it? That prepared script is stale. It’s boring, and you didn’t come here to listen to the same old stuff. I’m not going to insult your intelligence either. So, I’ve dumped my opening statement in the can where it belongs.”

Alonzo Hodges leaned forward, his brow creased with puzzlement. Bradley Jones, juror number ten, a mailman glad to be off his feet, opened his eyes for the first time since he had been seated.

“So, during our time together, I plan to be straight with you, to treat as you equals; as I would want to be treated if I was in your position. I won’t blow smoke in your eyes. You’re too intelligent for that. I won’t talk over your heads, because I want you to understand what I’m saying to you. I promise to do this because I respect you for giving up part of your lives to be here—your families, your work, your hobbies, your paychecks in some instances…”

Damn straight
, thought Alonzo, cocking his head and leaning back in his seat.

“I just ask one thing in return from you. I want you to respect me for being out here in this courtroom—in this ring fighting for justice. And no matter if you give me thumbs up or thumbs down, I will accept and respect your decision—along with Mrs. Riley.” Nick walked toward her with his hand out, gesturing toward her along with Judge Barnes. Nick moved his hand up toward the bench and then pointed at the judge, annoying Barnes to no end. He had had enough of this insolent little punk and was about to take him down a peg or two.

John Asher sat upright and leaned forward, prepared to leap to his feet if necessary to object in case Nick overstepped the bounds in his opening by presenting objectionable evidence or making a closing argument, or whatever else he had up his sleeve.

Nick paraded back to the jury box. “I want you to know this before we begin. This is my bond, my word of honor. All I really care about in this case is justice. And that’s all I want you to care about—what I want you to do—to do justice. Can I ask for your bond?”

All heads moved quickly up and down in agreement. Number three’s blond curls shook with excitement as she ogled Nick with wide, limpid eyes.

All but Alonzo Hodge. It would not be cool for him to go along with the rest like some puppet, he thought. He held his head in a locked position, his face expressionless, his arms folded across his chest, and listened intently.

Nick looked squarely at Alonzo. Taking a grave chance, he asked, “May I have your bond, sir?”

The black man stared back, stonily. Seconds went by, and Nick, for the first time, doubted his instincts about Hodge. Nick’s eyes fixed on the juror his as he waited.

The courtroom was unbearably silent. Nick wondered if he had misplaced his trust—if his gamble was a big mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have singled him out, forcing him to do what he obviously didn’t want to do: go along with the rest. He watched
as the jurors shifted in their seats waiting for juror number one’s answer. All eyes, including the judge’s, were on Alonzo Hodge.

Finally in his own good time, when he was ready to release the tension he had created, the black man’s face broke into a wide grin as if to say:
Gotcha!
And with one nod, he coolly signaled his assent.

John Asher had risen to his feet to object to this bizarre tactic— this inappropriate opening statement. Simultaneously Judge Barnes was ready to jump down Nick Ceratto’s throat and put the wop
and
the nigger juror in their respective places. But it was too late. Nick had gotten what he wanted. He had won the first round.

Grace Monahan rushed across Penn Square dodging the slush and the cars jockeying for position around the crowded four-lane circle that wound around City Hall. The cold wind pelted her coat against the fresh wounds on her legs, which she had gotten the night before at the airport. But she ignored the stinging and moved on. Her heart pounded as she made her way through the huge stone arch marked “South Broad Street” and into the courtyard of City Hall. The lions’ heads peering down at her from the tops of the columns and the posed classical female figures carved in high relief in the thick, gray granite didn’t make the smell of urine any more bearable. The cops had rounded up the homeless a month before, but they had left their indelible territorial mark inside the dark courtyard.

The message had been relayed to her by Little Al that Nick had begun the trial, that Barnes had forced him to try the case. She was pissed at Nick for not waking her. She wanted to be there with him when he made his pitch to Barnes to postpone the trial. But Nick had wanted her to rest, or so she was told by Little Al. But Grace didn’t want to rest. She wanted to be there, to support Nick when Barnes pulled his usual No-Excuses-the-Case-Must-Go-On stunt. This would be no surprise to Grace. Everyone in the legal system knew Barnes. “No-break Barnes,” “Bastard Barnes,” “Prick on a Stick”; you name it. If it was unflattering, it was attached to his name. A man only a mother could love—and only a Republican mother at that.

Grace pushed her way through the press outside the courtroom: men and women in packs with still and video cameras, microphones, writing pads, tape recorders, waiting for any sign of movement, for any news.

“Are you involved in this case, miss?”

“Are you a witness? Will you be testifying?” asked a chubby TV news reporter dressed in a bright red suit.

Grace practically stomped on the middle-aged woman’s foot who was blocking her path while shoving a microphone in her face. Grace towered over the short woman and pushed the mike down with the palm of her hand away from her face. “Move aside or you’ll be testifying against me.”

The reporter pulled the microphone back, getting Grace’s clear message. Grace ignored the cacophony of sounds coming from the others as they rattled inquiries at her. She stepped into the room and focused on the bailiff, hearing only Nick’s voice as he was finishing his opening statement.

“I’m Grace Monahan, Mr. Ceratto’s assistant,” she whispered firmly to the bailiff. “I’ll be helping him throughout the trial.”

“OK, miss. Let’s see if I have your name on my list here.” He held a clipboard at arm’s length so his old, farsighted eyes could focus. “Take a seat up front behind counsel table,” the silver-haired man whispered, motioning to the table where Mrs. Riley sat, dabbing at her eyes.

Grace walked slowly past Shoes and Little Al. Shoes silently chewed his gum while Little Al gave her a nod of recognition. She felt comfort in their presence, especially as she passed Silvio, who smirked at her. Harry Levin didn’t look her way at all. He was concentrating on Nick and the jury’s reaction to him. Two women in the rear of the box, Mrs. Claire Kimball, a supermarket clerk, and Ms. Anna Jones, a teacher’s aide, dabbed at their eyes as Nick recited how Sean Riley had won the Silver Star in Viet Nam for single-handedly holding off an attack on a helicopter that was loading wounded soldiers. And how, just two weeks before his death, Officer Riley had received a distinguished service award from the City of Philadelphia for rushing into a burning building with a weakened floor to rescue two children before the fire department could get to the scene. It had been on a virtually abandoned block where he had been patrolling. He had seen smoke and two tiny
heads peering out of a second story window. No one had even noticed the fire. The mother had left the toddlers unattended.

How his wife still set a place for him at dinner because she couldn’t bear to think of him as gone forever. And how Doctor Manin, exhausted from performing two four-hour surgeries back to back just before Sean Riley was brought into the emergency room, should never have touched him.

“You will hear testimony, ladies and gentlemen, that the defendant, Victor Manin, was in a hurry to get to a social engagement, a black-tie party, and that he was in a hurry to put that tuxedo on. You will hear how Dr. Manin’s eyes were so strained from the previous surgeries that he kept wiping them, and blinking and squinting as he operated on the decedent, Officer Riley. And you will hear how members of his staff asked him if he wished someone else to close. And, folks, there were other qualified surgeons on hand at the time. But Dr. Manin steadfastly refused this offer of help. You will hear testimony that one of the operating room nurses…”

Nick paused and looked hard and straight at Alonzo Hodge, staring into his coal black eyes as if to say:
Don’t believe any of this bullshit. Justice demands that you keep your mind open and question everything you see and hear. Can’t you see that I’m lying? Please see that this is a phony case, a set up.

Silvio shifted nervously in his seat, fingering a fresh cigar in his jacket pocket. Levin frowned, rubbing his unkempt, fuzzy gray hair, badly in need of a cut.

Judge Barnes’s hand was already on the gavel as he glanced first at Ceratto and then Asher, back and forth, back and forth, as if to say:
Asher, what’s wrong with you? On your feet man. Object or this little punk is going to drop a bomb and kill us all.

“…found Officer Riley bleeding to death and yelled for Dr. Manin, who was taking a shower in the physician’s lounge before dressing in his tux, and how Doctor Manin refused to answer an emergency call because he was late for this social engagement.
How he showered and dressed and primped while Sean Riley’s life was draining away.”

Maureen Riley quietly sobbed, while fumbling desperately in her purse for tissues she couldn’t see because her eyes were so clouded with tears. This was the way her beloved husband had died, needlessly died, alone with no one there to help him. And after he had helped so many.

“Mr. Ceratto,” Judge Barnes leaned authoritatively over the bench. “Perhaps the plaintiff would like a short recess to compose herself?” His suggestion was more of a command.

Nick turned and looked quizzically at Mrs. Riley, hoping all the while she would say no.

And she did. She waved him on with quivering lips and a wet hankie.

“Judge, I think we can just move ahead.”

Barnes hated being called “Judge.” It was demeaning compared with “Your Honor.”

“Mr. Ceratto, this court is nonetheless ordering a short recess in order to permit Mrs. Riley to compose herself. And during that time I want to see counsel in my chambers.”
You little prick, he thought, this is
my
courtroom, not yours.

Marty Silvio’s phone vibrated in his inside coat pocket, and he motioned to Harry that he was stepping out into the hall. Both men made their way through the members of the press, the tangle of cameras and microphones, and the myriad questions about what was happening inside. Silvio found a pre–World War II phone booth tucked darkly into a corner of the corridor that ran the length of the second floor of City Hall. The 1940s pay phone hadn’t worked in years, but the booth was a good place to conduct business. If the booth could only talk! It would tell of the countless deals made with witnesses, city officials, criminal defendants, and hit men.