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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?”
“No, it was on a prepaid phone, a disposable.”
“And the messages came from my client’s number?”
“No, it came from a private number.”
“Do you still have that disposable phone?”
“No, it was destroyed. You know, uh, disposed of.”
“So, let me get this straight . . . you robbed these places because you received anonymous text messages telling you to, which you have no evidence of, and you expect us to just take your word that it came from Corrado Moretti?”
“It was him.”
“What if I told you the three others you named in these robberies claim to not even know who Corrado Moretti is? They say it was a scheme the four of you cooked up on your own.”
“I’d say they were lying.”
“It’s possible all three are lying,” Mr. Borza said. “But isn’t it more likely it’s just you?”
* * *
A pin drop could be heard through the strained silence of the courtroom. The prosecutor stood beside his table, shifting through paperwork while everyone waited for him to speak. Nerves frazzled, the spectators were on the edge of their seats, eyes darting toward the big set of double doors every time there was a noise.
A month into the trial, the prosecution was down to the last name on their witness list.
Carmine held his breath, as did what seemed like half of Chicago crowded into the stifling room. He had avoided most of the proceedings—out of respect or selfishness, he wasn’t sure—but today was one day he couldn’t miss. He had to be there, had to see with his own eyes, face reality and learn the truth.
He needed to know if his father was still alive.
Had Vincent been located and taken into witness protection, nobody would know until he walked in, escorted by armed U.S. Marshals. But if he didn’t show, well . . . Carmine didn’t like to think about what that meant.
He glanced around, his eyes drifting to his uncle. Corrado seemed relaxed, borderline bored as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on the restless jury. Had he been like that the whole trial, confident and calm, or did he know something the rest of them didn’t?
Carmine shifted his attention to the other side of the room where his aunt sat with Dominic. Neither had seen him come in, and he appreciated that. The last thing he wanted was forced family time.
Mr. Markson cleared his throat. “Your honor, the prosecution . . .”
Carmine closed his eyes . . . Calls Vincenzo DeMarco to the stand . . .
“. . . Rests its case. We have no more witnesses.”
