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More questions. More prying. More desperation. Corrado glanced at the jury, who appeared just as bored. Juror number six turned to him at that moment. He caught her eye, expecting her to look back away, but she didn’t. She stared, studying him, a look of curiosity in her eyes.
“Objection,” his lawyer said again. “I fail to see the relevance in any of this.”
The judge sighed. “Overruled.”
It went on for two excruciating hours before the prosecution finished. Mr. Borza stood then. “Based on your calculations, what’s the total amount of money that went unreported at Luna Rossa last year?”
“Uh, $15,776.49.”
Corrado cringed. More than a few dollars.
“Seems like a lot,” Mr. Borza said, verbalizing his thoughts. “But we’re talking about a club that made more than three million dollars last year, correct?”
“Yes.”
“This unaccounted for money equals what, half of one percent?”
“Fractionally more than that, but yes.”
“So more than ninety-nine percent of Luna Rossa’s revenue is right there in black and white. That half of one percent is the equivalent of blaming a man for losing a few pennies when he broke a dollar at the store. That’s hardly what I’d call an elaborate money laundering scheme.”
“Objection!” the prosecution declared. “He’s trying to distort the math.”
“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Borza.”
The ruling didn’t put off the lawyer. He had gotten his point across. “Could this half of one percent merely be a mathematical error?”
“It’s possible.”
“So there may not be any missing money at all.”
“Objection!”
“Overruled.”
“It’s possible,” the accountant said. “It’s usually why taxes are audited during a series of years for consistency and accuracy, since mistakes happen.”
Mr. Borza smiled as he sat back down. “Mistakes happen. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
DAY TWENTY-TWO
Testimony.
Witness after witness took the stand, answering questions being fired at them. Former associates, a few La Cosa Nostra, testified to tales of mayhem, while shop owners and unlucky bystanders swore to what they knew. Not a single one of them would finger Corrado directly, but there was enough to loosely link him to the crimes.
“Mr. Gallo,” Corrado’s lawyer started, addressing a former street soldier on the stand, “you testified that you, along with three others, were involved in a string of robberies in March of ninety-eight. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what role do you assert Corrado Moretti played in all of it?”
“He ordered us to do it.”
“Personally?”
“Through text message.”
“So there would be record of these messages, correct?”
