“Mr. Lucia.”
“Mr. Bello, what did you hear Mr. Lucia yell?”
“He yelled, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’”
Judy made a note, only apparently calmly. It would be home run evidence at trial. Worse, it was true.
“Mr. Bello, did defendant Lucia yell this in English or in Italian?”
“In Italian. Definitely, Italian.”
“And you understand Italian?”
“Very well. Been speakin’ it since I was a kid. Now, Angelo, he didn’t like to speak it. He wanted the old ways behind him. He wanted to be a real American. He didn’t have no accent either. Hardly.”
Santoro nodded, his soft chin wrinkling into his stiff white collar. “So you are sure it was Mr. Lucia’s voice and not Angelo Coluzzi’s?”
“I know Angelo’s voice and also, he’s the one who ended up dead.”
Santoro didn’t blink. “Then what did you do, Mr. Bello?”
“I got up and ran into the back room and there was Angelo, lyin’ on the ground, with the shelves over him and a big mess onna floor. I checked Angelo out but he didn’t have no pulse and his head was lying funny.”
“Where was the defendant at this time?”
“Standin’over Angelo.”
“What did Mr. Pensiera and Mr. LoMonaco do then?”
“Objection as to relevance,” Judy said for the record, but Judge Maniloff overruled her.
“They said to Mr. Lucia, ‘Let’s get outta here,’ and they got him out and they left.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I called 911 and they came and took Angelo away, and that was that.”
Judy made a note. It was the least emotional account of a murder she could imagine. Santoro would have to offer Fat Jimmy a dozen ravioli to shed a tear or two at trial, but for the time being the D.A. nodded in satisfaction, returned to counsel table, and sat down.
“I have no further questions, Your Honor,”he said, and he didn’t need any.
Judy stood up to pick Fat Jimmy’s brain for cross-examination, though she couldn’t win here anyway, and as a defense lawyer, wouldn’t want to. If the defense won at a preliminary hearing, the Commonwealth could rearrest the defendant and retry him, because double jeopardy hadn’t yet attached. Not that winning anything was in the cards today. Judy approached the podium.
“Mr. Bello,”she began, “describe where you were sitting when you allegedly heard Mr. Lucia yell, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’”
“I just come into the room from the bathroom, and sat down at the bar, when I saw Mr. LoMonaco and Mr. Pensiera. They told me that Pigeon Tony, Mr. Lucia, had gone in the back room.”
Judy recalled the layout of the racing club. “So you were at the bar.”
“Right.”
“How far is the bar from the back room?”
“About ten feet.”
“Which seat were you sitting in at the bar?”
“In the middle.”
“Were you having a drink?”
“I was gonna but I didn’t get to.”
“What was the drink?”
“Coffee.”
Judy made a note. It was good to take notes in court because it made you look as if you were getting somewhere. This note said NICE GOING, BUCKO. “Anything alcoholic in the coffee?”
“No.”
Judy made another note. OUTTA THE PARK, LOSER. “Now, you said you heard yelling. Did you hear anything else other than Mr. Lucia allegedly yelling, ‘I’m going to kill you’?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yeh.”
“You didn’t hear Angelo Coluzzi say anything?”
“No.”
Judy made a note. NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO TELL US YOU HEARD ANGELO COLUZZI CONFESS TO A DOUBLE MURDER. Santoro looked over at Judy from his counsel table, and she knew she had him wondering what else had been said in that back room, and if it made a difference. Let him sweat. “Let’s change gears, Mr. Bello. Are you married or single?”
“I’m, uh, divorced.”
“I see. And are you related to the Coluzzi family in any way?”
“Yeh.”
“How so?”
“Uh?”
ENGLISH, PLEASE. “I mean, how exactly are you related to the Coluzzis?”
“I’m a second cousin, twice removed. I think. My father Guido married somebody’s second cousin.”
GUIDO. NOT TONY? “I see. And how long have you worked for the Coluzzi family?”
“Objection, no foundation, Your Honor,” Santoro said, popping up, but Judy waved him off.
“I’ll rephrase. Mr. Bello, do you work for the Coluzzi family?”
“Yeh.”
GLAD WE CLEARED THAT UP. “What is your job, Mr. Bello?”
“Office.”
“You work in their construction office?”
Jimmy seemed unsure. “Yeh. I help out.”
“How?”
“Whatever Angelo axed me to do, I do.”
“Like an assistant?”
Santoro stood up again. “Objection as to relevance and beyond the scope, Your Honor.”
“Overruled.” Judge Maniloff looked up from papers he had been reading. “I think the defendant is entitled to know something about the primary witness against him, don’t you, counsel?”
NO, HE DOESN’T, Judy wrote, but Santoro didn’t answer and sank into his seat. She cleared her throat. “So, Mr. Bello, did you say you were a personal assistant?”
Jimmy frowned at the term. “Kinda.”
“And were you a personal assistant to Angelo Coluzzi, or are you to John Coluzzi, or to Marco Coluzzi?” Then she added, because she couldn’t resist, “In his various businesses?”
“I guess, the whole family now. I’m like an office assistant.” Jimmy looked over at the front row uncertainly, and Judy acted like she didn’t notice. She didn’t want him coached out of it; she wanted him to repeat it in front of the jury, when she could get mileage out of it.
“And how long have you been an office assistant to the Coluzzi family, Mr. Bello?”
“Thirty-five years.”
Judy made a note. NOW WE’RE GETTING SOMEWHERE. “I see. And how much do you currently earn as their office assistant, Mr. Bello?”
“Objection!” Santoro said, shooting up like a booster rocket, but Judy wasn’t having any.
“Your Honor, how can it be of no relevance that the primary witness is on the family payroll?”
Judge Maniloff arched a graying eyebrow. “I’ll allow it, tiger, but do finish up here.”
Judy smiled. “Thank you, Your Honor.” IT’S GOOD WHEN A JUDGE CALLS YOU TIGER. “Mr. Bello, you were telling us what the Coluzzis pay you. Please proceed.”
Jimmy paused, undoubtedly trying to remember the difference between what he earned and what he reported. “Fifteen grand a year.”
EEEK. YOU NEED A LAWYER. Judy closed her pad and stepped away from the podium. “I have no further
