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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.
