Sicilian Defense (6 page)

“Don't remind me,” said Gianni.

The reporter smiled. “How about a statement?”

Gianni shook his head, smiled, and moved toward an empty chair against the far wall. He put down his hat and coat, took out his cigarette lighter, looking around the room as he did so. Although he knew many of the other witnesses waiting there, for all recordable purposes he did not recognize or react to anyone in the room. None of the witnesses reacted to him either. They were all aware that mixed in the crowd were local detectives, federal agents, prosecuting officials—some identifiable and others disguised as reporters and cameramen—who were watching their every move, recording their actions, noting who accorded more respect to whom, who knew whom, who spoke to whom, all later to be set down at length in official reports or family charts.

Sandro walked into the hearing room. On the speaker's stage several library tables had been assembled into one long table, with microphones strategically placed for the committee members. Sandro saw Senator Stern standing beside the stairs leading to the stage. He was of medium height, slim, with sharp features and red hair.

Stern smiled a thin crease of a smile. “Good morning, Sandro. You representing some of the people here?”

“Just one,” said Sandro, “Gianni Aquilino.”

Stern's eyebrows rose, his lips pursed as he nodded appre-ciatively. “Might as well represent a top man as long as you're here.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sandro asked.

“Come on, Sandro. He's still one of the biggest men in the Giordano family—one of the biggest men in the Cosa Nostra until he stepped down. You know that as well as I do.”

“All I know is what you tell me, Maurice.”

A ruddy-faced, tall man walked up and joined them. Sandro recognized him as a state policeman attached to Stern's committee.

“Hello, counselor,” he said distrustfully, studying Sandro as he might a suspected criminal. To him there was not much difference. Defense lawyers were trying to protect evil; therefore they too were evil.

Stern smiled. “Is your man going to testify this morning?”

“I don't believe he will,” Sandro said.

“Do any of them ever?” asked the policeman.

“I thought the United States Constitution was still in force in New York State,” said Sandro.

The trooper's face streaked with annoyance. “The Constitution's to protect honest citizens, not racketeers and hoodlums.”

“Who's giving out the signs these days?” said Sandro.

The trooper stared at Sandro, trying to figure that one out.

“You know we have immunity powers now,” said Stern. “If your man refuses to testify, the committee can grant him immunity. Then he'll have to testify because he's immune to prosecution; he can't claim the Fifth Amendment. If he refuses, he'll go to jail for contempt.”

“I don't think your immunity is valid,” Sandro said flatly.

“I wouldn't count on it,” said Stern. “Why not?”

“Leave a few surprises in life, will you, Senator? What time do you think you'll get to my man?”

“In a few minutes. The reporters want to interview me before we start.”

“That's very important.”

“You think not? How else are the good citizens going to know what their committee is doing about crime?” Stern's face wore a thinly veiled smile. “You'll be third, I think. Just in time for the afternoon editions. After all, the Silver Eagle is good copy.”

“All set, Mr. Chairman,” announced a newsman, motioning Stern to accompany him to the waiting room. Sandro walked out behind them. He saw a cameraman standing poised to snap a picture of Gianni.

“Didn't I ask you to wait until later?” Sandro said, walking between them.

“Come on, counselor, I have to make the next edition—besides, I may not be able to get near you when you come out.”

“Let him, Sandro. What's the difference,” said Gianni. “They've got hundreds of pictures already. Only criminals have to hide. And this fellow's got to make a living.”

“Thanks, Gianni,” the photographer said, snapping a picture. Other photographers followed suit. Gianni sat impassively as strobe lights shattered the calm of the room. He could see Stern in the other room bathed in the television lights, speaking unheard words of self-praise and purpose.

“Got enough?” Gianni asked the photographers.

“Just a couple more. Hold it, please.”

“Okay. If they're good, send me a couple,” Gianni said, smiling.

The cameramen finished and walked off winding their cameras and writing picture credits on pads.

Gianni studied his watch. It was 10:30 already. “When will we be going in?”

“Shortly,” said Sandro. “They have a couple of other witnesses before you. But you're one of the main attractions, it seems.”

“I wish I could testify and answer their dumb questions,” Gianni said. “The nonsense they ask is so old and out of date it's got hair on it. Besides they have all the answers already. But they don't really want answers; they want people to refuse to answer. That way the circus atmosphere is complete—the public gets scared and they get their appropriations.”

“Why don't you testify, then?” asked Sandro.

“Because this way nobody gets hurt. It's always been done this way.”

“I think the old rule of silence is wrong and out of date too,” said Sandro. “When people go to prison for thirty days or even a year for refusal to answer, they do get hurt. And it's needless.”

“How is it needless?” Gianni saw Joey reach the top of the stairs and stand at the edge of the room, searching the faces. “Wait a minute, Sandro.”

Gianni signaled. Joey nodded and started across the room. His presence was duly noted by the investigators. Gianni knew this, but other considerations were more important right now.

“What is it?” Gianni asked. “Has the phone been moved?”

“It should be by now. And we locked up the dresses.”

“Good. Any news from the boys we sent around town?”

“They're still out. Did you see the papers this morning?”

“No. What happened?”

Gianni took the copy of the
Daily News
Joey was carrying. He was aware of eyes watching his movements and he read the paper casually. The cover story was the antici-pated splashdown of Apollo 14. Gianni turned the page. Inside were pictures of the astronauts' children and wives, and stories of the war in Vietnam.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?” he asked softly, not looking up.

“Page 7. That's last night's body.”

Gianni turned the pages slowly, reading every one in turn. Page 7 had a story about the finding of the body of a small-time hoodlum in the Hudson River, locked in the ice floes between the piers. Gianni read it with the same cursory attention he had given the other stories and moved on. The body was identified as a Tom Barton from the Bronx, several times arrested in connection with selling narcotics.

“Does anyone know him?” asked Gianni, not looking up, still turning the pages.

“No. But Gus said he thinks he's connected with some people from the south Bronx—just small-timers, guys who fool around supplying junk to pushers in the colored neighborhoods.”

“Get someone up there right away. Find out about him. See if anyone knows why he was killed, or how.”

“Okay. I'll go myself.”

“And have everyone at the garage by six. We've got a lot of work to do.” He handed the paper back to Joey with a courteous nod.

Senator Stern emerged from the waiting room and the press briefing that would reach all the television screens that evening. He walked into the hearing room and took his seat as Chairman of the Committee. Other members of the committee, state senators and assemblymen, sat on either side of him. Stern gaveled the room quiet, and called for the first witness. A squat, olive-skinned man in the anteroom put down his coat and entered the auditorium. The reporters and cameramen followed him in. The doors were closed behind them, leaving only other witnesses and a few detectives in the anteroom. Gianni's eyes met the eyes of another witness. The other man nodded. Gianni made no acknowledgement whatever.

“I imagine you'll be called soon,” Sandro said. “Stern said you'd be third.”

“I hope so,” said Gianni.

Soon the photographers burst backwards from the auditorium, hovering about the door, setting themselves for something to emerge.

“Here he comes,” one of the photographers called, and the strobe lights and flashbulbs began to flare. The witness shielded his face with his hand as he picked up his hat and coat, then started moving quickly through the phalanx of photographers toward the stairs.

“Go around the other stairs—go downstairs,” called some of the photographers. They ran down the twin staircase to catch up with the witness as he reached the lower platform. The men with the more cumbersome motion picture cameras and the battery-operated lights had to be content with leaning over the railing to record the reluctant figure bounding down the stairs.

The doors to the auditorium were closed again, and a sign was placed in the oval window indicating
EXECUTIVE SESSION
. Gianni looked around. The other waiting witnesses were still standing in the anteroom. Sandro walked toward the doors.

A committee assistant standing guard shook his head as Sandro approached. “You can't go in, counselor. Sorry.”

“Is there another witness on the stand?” Sandro asked.

The man at the door nodded, making sure to maintain his position so as to keep Sandro from entering.

As Sandro turned, he recognized Pete Scanlon, the building custodian, standing near an exit. Scanlon winked.

“How're you doing?” Sandro asked as he walked toward him.

“Okay, how's yourself?”

“Fine. Looks like they're having some fun here today.”

“Yeah,” the custodian replied, “but Stern's a little disappointed with the turnout. I heard some of the assistants talking.”

“Not enough people coming to see what's going on?”

“The guys from the press. There're a lot missing,” Scanlon said. “I guess they're at that hippie demonstration over at City Hall. It cuts into the coverage here.”

“Were they expecting more?”

“Sure. They got piles of left-over information sheets in there, all with the names of the witnesses and their nicknames, the families they belong to, the whole thing.” Scanlon fished in one of his shirt pockets and brought out a piece of paper. “Here's one of them,” he muttered, handing over the still folded paper. Sandro put it in his inside jacket pocket. “They've got other info too, about the committee members. You want that?”

“No, I know the committee. Who've they got in there now?”

“It's their star for today,” the custodian said, smiling. “Some guy with a black hood on—they got holes cut out for the eyes and he's supposed to know a lot about the mobs. He's supposed to give the inside story. It'll be today's big publicity.”

“Is he on the information sheet?”

“Yeah, as Carmine Napoli—but his name is really Crawford, one of the cops told me. They brought him down from the penitentiary.”

“I guess it makes it a little more exciting to give him an Italian name.”

“Yeah, Stern really puts on a show,” Scanlon chuckled.

Sandro walked back to Gianni. He sat next to him and unfolded the information sheet Scanlon had given him. “Here's the list of today's star performers,” he said.

“Am I on it?”

“Yes. They have you down as Gianni Aquilino, also known as the Silver Eagle, also known as Johnny Quill.”

“Who's Johnny Quill?” asked Gianni, frowning. “I'm not known as Johnny Quill—never was.”

“That's what it says. It says you're now the
consigliere
of Vito Giordano's old family; the elder statesman.”

“Great. They must have a fiction writer putting their scripts together. What else did they put down?”

“It says you've been arrested three times, with one conviction for unlawful possession of a weapon.”

“That was 1928, maybe '30,” Gianni said, “more than forty years ago. Imagine the crap they have to dig up to make a show here. I went to New Jersey carrying a pistol I was licensed to carry in New York, so I was arrested for it—I didn't have a New Jersey license. I showed them my New York license, pleaded guilty, paid ten bucks, and they took me to the ferry back to New York. That's the sum of horrible things I've done in my life to make me a gangster. This little squirt, Stern, really wants to make a name for himself. Every couple of years there's a new squirt looking for a name. There should be some way of preventing him from harassing people.”

“He does have the right to subpoena you,” Sandro replied; “but I agree, he can't just subpoena you for laughs. And that's how I think we can beat this immunity.”

Flash units were going off inside the auditorium, the light flaring beneath the doors. “He can't prove there's a syndicate—but that's a long story,” said Gianni. “I'll tell you some time. They must be almost finished in there. I'd like to get it over with.”

“Gianni Aquilino,” announced one of Stern's assistants at the door.

“Okay. We're on. Follow me,” said Sandro. They walked in and faced the long committee table on the stage. Stern nodded and pointed to the witness table below. Gianni and Sandro sat down.

A photographer, raising his camera, walked crouching toward Gianni.

“Your Honor,” Sandro addressed Stern with extra formality, “this witness does not wish to be photographed while he appears before the committee.”

The photographer stopped, looking up toward Stern.

“Is your client ashamed to be photographed, Mr. Luca?” asked Stern.

“Whatever his reason, Your Honor, my client does not wish to be photographed. Although he wishes to cooperate with your committee as fully as he is able, he does not waive his personal rights just because some people are trying to garner publicity.”