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“Mr. Moretti built his business from the ground up, brick-by-brick, investing every penny he had into Luna Rossa. He’s a small business owner, employing more than a dozen people and providing them with full benefits. He pays his taxes dutifully. He’s living the American dream. Despite his lack of education, he made something out of himself. Does that sound like a man without morals? Does that sound like he lacks a conscience? In my opinion, it sounds like he’s just like you and me.”
Mr. Borza went on and on, twisting the facts, so by the time he finished he made Corrado seem like a bona fide boy scout. Corrado scanned the faces of the jurors as his lawyer took his seat, relaxing a smidgen when he finally saw it. There, in the eyes of a lone female—juror number six—a gleam of hope for humanity stared back at him. Naïve and foolish, maybe, but that woman wanted to believe the best in him.
It was all he needed: a foot in the proverbial door, the first step toward walking free.
DAY NINE
Wiretaps.
The sound of Corrado’s voice resonated through the courtroom from a set of speakers in the front. Stacks of transcripts were piled high on the tables, completely untouched. His voice was clear and concise. They didn’t need to read his words when they could plainly hear them.
opened her mouth, considering conceding, when a phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out, his smile falling as he silenced it.
“Well, you’re in luck,” he said. “Duty calls. It was nice to meet you . . .”
He paused, raising his eyebrows curiously. She realized she hadn’t yet told him her name. “Hayden.”
“Hayden,” he echoed, smiling. “You can call me Gavin.”
* * *
Ping, whack, ping, whack, ping, whack
Corrado lay in his bottom bunk with his arm draped over his eyes, listening to the sound of paddles striking Ping-Pong balls on the tier outside his small cell. Chatter accompanied their playing, the noise loud enough to make his head viciously pound. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to block out the commotion, but it only seemed to grow louder as time went on.
For the first time since arriving, he regretted requesting general population.
There was little to do at MCC, nothing to look at, and no one to talk to. Table tennis and card games seemed to be how most men passed the time, but neither activity interested Corrado. He occasionally went to the rec yard for fresh air, but he spent most of his days staring at the drab walls, blocking out the others as he counted the days. Three weeks down, God knows how many more to go.
Ping, whack, ping, whack, ping, whack
Corrado tried to take it in stride. After everything he had done over the years, a few months should be an easy punishment. The way he calculated it, it was less than a day for everyone he had hurt. A measly few hours of incarceration for everyone he killed. He would take his few months and then go right back to his life.
Today, however, he found being there insufferable. The pinging of the balls, the babble of the inmates, and the squeals of the pigs as they marched along the tiers, barking orders and throwing their weight around—it was all too much to take.
Sighing, he hauled himself out of the bed. His cellmate looked up from his book on the top bunk and eyed Corrado cautiously as he stood. They hadn’t shared more than a handful of short conversations in three weeks.
“You all right, man?” he asked, his voice and eyes guarded.
“I will be in a minute.”
Corrado walked out of the cell, no hesitation in his step as he made his way into the common area. A few of the inmates were off on their own, but the bulk of them were gathered around the Ping-Pong game. Corrado cut through the crowd, people stepping out of his way instinctively as he headed straight for the man at the end of the table. He was the loudest of the group, a large guy from the south side of Chicago doing a few years for drug trafficking. He clutched the paddle, laughing as he smacked the ball, oblivious to Corrado’s approach.
Ping, whack, ping, whack, ping, whack
CRACK
The sickening crunch of Corrado’s fist connecting with the guy’s face echoed through the concrete room, bouncing off the metal doors. The guy hit the floor with a thud, stunned, as blood poured from his nose. The crowd was immediately silenced and took a step back, retreating, as whistles and lights went off on the tier.
Corrado stood in place and raised his hands in the air as a horde of correctional officers descended upon them. They ignored his peaceful surrender and grabbed him, violently shoving him against the nearest wall. His hands were forced behind his back, his wrists secured with handcuffs before shackles were attached to his ankles. In a matter of seconds he was led away, taken straight to solitary confinement.
“Dumb move, Moretti,” an officer said as they placed him in the single windowless cell, brightly lit by a flickering fluorescent bulb. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t get an assault charge.”
Corrado laughed dryly. The D.A. wouldn’t waste his time. He had beat four trumped-up murder charges, seven assault charges, three counts of extortion, and a dozen weapons violations, give or take a few. A punch was nothing, no more than a speeding ticket.
The officer shook his head as he released Corrado from his restraints, annoyed by his refusal to react. “You’re not as infallible as you think you are. If you were, you wouldn’t be in prison right now.”
“It’s only temporary,” Corrado said, rubbing his hand. His knuckles were already swelling from the force of the punch.
