questions, Your Honor.”
“Excellent,” Judge Maniloff said, nodding at the district attorney. “Mr. Santoro, your next witness?”
“Commonwealth calls Dr. Patel to the stand.” Santoro stood up, turned to the second row, and gestured like Vanna White to Dr. Patel, reducing the distinguished medical examiner to the status of a free refrigerator. The medical examiner took the stand, raised his hand politely, and was sworn in.
“Please identify yourself for the record, Dr. Patel.”
“My name is Voresh Patel,” the coroner said, his voice soft and professional. He had the same kind brown eyes and steel-framed glasses Judy remembered from the autopsy, and he wore a trim brown suit. She would have to question him with care, because she didn’t want to show her hand.
“Dr. Patel, what is your profession?” Santoro asked.
“I am an assistant medical examiner for the County of Philadelphia.”
“I see. And did you perform the postmortem examination on the body of Angelo Coluzzi?”
“I did.”
“And when did that take place, Dr. Patel?”
“The day after the body was taken to the morgue.” Dr. Patel thought a minute, his eyes rolling heavenward. “April eighteenth, I believe.”
Santoro nodded, rolling a pencil between his fingers. “And did you form an opinion about the cause and manner of Angelo Coluzzi’s death, Dr. Patel?”
“Yes, it is my opinion that the cause of the decedent’s death was a homicide and the mechanism was a fractured vertebrae at C3.”
Santoro gripped his pencil. “In common parlance does that mean a broken neck, Dr. Patel?”
“Yes.”
“I have no further questions, Dr. Patel.” Santoro moved aside and sat down, as Judy rose with her legal pad. She stepped behind the podium.
“Dr. Patel, there has been testimony that the decedent fell against a bookcase. Just so the record is clear, did that fall have anything to do with Mr. Coluzzi’s death?”
“Objection, beyond the scope,” Santoro said, half rising, but Judge Maniloff was already shaking his head.
“Overruled, counselor. Please, let’s move along.”
Dr. Patel looked at Judy. “No, the decedent was dead by the time he fell.”
Judy wanted to nail him down. It would avoid sympathy for Coluzzi later, at trial. “And you can be sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“I have no further questions, Dr. Patel.” Judy grabbed her pad and sat down as Judge Maniloff reached for the next case filed and opened it.
“Mr. Lucia, I find that the Commonwealth has proved a prima facie case of murder sufficient to support their indictment on a general charge of murder, and I order you held over for trial. Your attorney will inform you of the schedule of further court appearances, sir.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Judy said, almost at the same time as Santoro. It was the last time they’d show any unanimity. She looked over at Pigeon Tony. “Now all we have to do is get you out of here.” As they had discussed, Frank left the gallery instantly to stand behind Pigeon Tony, and two courthouse security officers came from the side to flank him, as they would a prisoner in custody. They’d escort him out the secured exit to a waiting car Frank had rented. “I’ve made arrangements to get you out a secure way, where they take prisoners, so you’ll be safe.”
“I no afraid,” Pigeon Tony said quietly, but even with the precautions, Judy found herself wondering if they made bulletproof vests in a size 6X. The Lucia side of the gallery was lingering, evidently making sure that Pigeon Tony got out alive. The Coluzzi faction also filed out slowly, with Marco going with his mother, and John stalling, ostensibly to join Fat Jimmy. Each man eyed Judy pointedly, and if looks could kill, they’d already be in handcuffs.
Judge Maniloff began banging his gavel, loudly this time, his voice more urgent than during the procedure. “Clear the courtroom, please. Clear the courtroom immediately!”
Judy stood guard as Frank guided Pigeon Tony from his chair, and the guards flanked them quickly. “You got him?” she asked Frank, who smiled tensely.
“Don’t worry about him, worry about you.” He glanced back at the gallery, where John Coluzzi stood with Fat Jimmy, his dark gaze morphing into an undisguised glare.
“We’re ready to go, Mr. Lucia,” said one of the security guards, but Frank’s jaw clenched with anger.
“We go nowhere until that asshole is gone and she’s safe.”
“Frank, I’m fine,” Judy said, but the court security officer was already looking in the direction of Frank’s glare.
“Move it along, Mr. Coluzzi,” the guard called out. “We don’t want any more trouble from you.”
“Tell
The bailiff hurried to the gallery, but two other security guards were already in motion, escorting Coluzzi and Fat Jimmy to the door.
Frank was looking at the guard. “You’ll follow her out, right?”
“Fine,” he said reluctantly, but Judy knew she’d lose him outside the courtroom. She’d been watching her back since she left the office and she’d be doing it until the day of trial. “Better get going,” she told Frank.
“Okay.” He nodded quickly and slipped an arm around Pigeon Tony. “I’ll call you, and thanks for everything today,
“Grrrr.” Judy managed a smile, wondering when she’d see him again as the guards led them away.
BOOK FOUR
By 1870 . . . these somewhat self-contained communities were becoming the neighborhoods, or “urban villages,” of modern America. The Italian case had also attained a peculiar sociological anomaly that tends to mark most ethnic groups in complex societies. With its own internal order and partial autonomy, the Italian community in South Philadelphia formed a distinctive and separate social system in itself.
—RICHARD JULIANI,
—Italian proverb
Chapter 28
Tony caught the look on Judy’s pretty face when she said goodbye to Frank, and he felt sad for them, lovers who were not yet lovers, because it was a feeling Tony knew well, its memory deep in his bones. He wanted to tell Frank to go back to her, to run to her, that he would be fine, but there was no time to speak, for the guards had clamped their hands on his arms and were rushing him along roughly, as police do even when there is no need. Frankie, who walked behind, where Tony couldn’t see him, had said that the police were working
The police hustled Tony down a plain white corridor, then another, which took a sharp right turn, then a sharp left, then down a flight of white stairs, bearing Tony along so swiftly he soon grew dizzy with the twists and turns, with no landmarks to orient him, or to make one corridor different from the next, and he became a field mouse in a pasture, vulnerable and confused. Fear grew in his stomach, anxiety rising from the police taking him away, and his knees grew weak and his palms damp, as they had so long ago, when his terror had been so real, but then it hadn’t been for him but for Silvana.
It was the second Sunday in August, he could not forget it because nobody could; the second Sunday in
