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“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.
“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.
“Do it,” he barked on the tape. “When I wake up tomorrow, I better not hear about him still breathing, or you might not be by the time I go back to bed.”
Corrado ran his hands down his face in frustration. How would his lawyer explain that one away?
Tape after tape, threat after threat. Little in the way of proof but a whole lot of damning insinuation.
They were all restless when the prosecution put on the last recording of the day. Corrado sat back in his chair, tensing when a familiar voice spoke through the speakers.
“It’s done,” Vincent said. “Happened tonight. Finally.”
Corrado pinpointed the conversation immediately. He had been sitting at home when his brother-in-law called from Blackburn to say he had gotten Haven.
“About time,” Corrado said. “How much did you pay?”
“A quarter mil, cash,” he replied. “I’ve given more than that, though.”
“I know,” Corrado said. “You’ve paid a lot for that girl.”
“Yeah.” Vincent sighed loudly on the line. “We all have.”
When those words hit him, Corrado shook his head. Trafficking in persons for servitude. Those words on his indictment made sense. Intentions hadn’t mattered, and often never do.
DAY SEVENTEEN
Expert witnesses.
Corrado’s attention wavered as the prosecutor questioned an accountant on the stand. They were going through his financial records one transaction at a time, trying to find a large sum of money they could prove was acquired illegally. Corrado was quite bored, knowing they would find nothing substantial. As far as he was concerned, a few dollars here and there didn’t count.
“Objection!” his lawyer interrupted the line of questioning. “I fail to see why it’s important to note how much Mr. Moretti spent for bathroom supplies in July.”
“Overruled.” The judge motioned for the prosecutor to continue.
