“I say to Coluzzi, you pig. You scum. You worse coward than me, for you kill defenseless woman.” Pigeon Tony turned to the jury. “My wife, Silvana,” he said, needlessly. Judy knew the jurors would never forget his account of the day he found Silvana in the stable, with his little son standing behind him. Two in the front row had wept openly.
“Then what did Mr. Coluzzi say to you?”
“He say, ‘You are a stupid, you are too dumb to see I destroy you. I kill your son and his wife, too. I kill them in truck and soon I kill Frank and you will have nothing.’” Pigeon Tony trembled, newly anguished, and several of the jurors gasped. The schoolteacher’s eyes narrowed with Abruzzese anger. Even Judge Vaughn shifted in his leather chair.
“Then what happened?”
“My heart is so full, and I say, ‘I kill you,’and I run and I push him. I run at him, fast. I no think, I run, and I push, I shove. I no can believe how hard! He falls and shelf fall, and I make noise, and alla things offa shelves.”
Judy focused on something she hadn’t before. “So, the scream was you, and not Mr. Coluzzi?”
“
Judy paused. It was death, after all, and it deserved its moment. It wouldn’t serve Pigeon Tony to gloss over it, and he looked stricken on the stand. The jurors’faces were uniformly grave and several of them were looking toward the gallery. Nobody had to tell Judy that Coluzzi’s widow and family would be crying. She had to deal with it.
“Pigeon Tony, are you saying, in open court, that you broke Mr. Coluzzi’s neck?”
“Yes.”
“In your opinion, was that murder?”
Santoro was on his feet. “Objection! Your Honor, the witness is not a lawyer. His opinion about whether his act constitutes murder is a conclusion of law, irrelevant and prejudicial!”
Judy shook her head. “Your Honor, the defendant is entitled to state his own personal belief about his own actions. His state of mind is always at issue in a criminal case.”
Judge Vaughn mulled it over, looking from one lawyer to the next, then returning to Judy. “You may proceed. Objection overruled.”
“Pigeon Tony,” Judy said, facing him directly. “Is it murder?”
“No! Is killing, no is murder. Is no murder because Coluzzi kill my wife, Silvana. And my son and
Judy watched the jury, but they didn’t react one way or the other. There was nothing left to tell. That was it. Pigeon Tony had told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. She hoped to God it didn’t kill him. But a detail was nagging at her.
“Pigeon Tony, I have one last question. In the back room, after you pushed Mr. Coluzzi, why did you scream?”
Pigeon Tony blinked. “I no know,” he answered quietly.
But Judy did. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
Judy let it go, for now. “I have no further questions. Thank you, Pigeon Tony.”
“
She left the podium only reluctantly, aching inside as she took her seat at counsel table. She had done the best she could, and so had Pigeon Tony. There was no way she could predict what the jury would do. It would depend on how Pigeon Tony held up on cross-examination. Santoro was already on his feet with his notes and stalking to the podium, filled with the righteous anger that was regulation-issue to prosecutors. But this time, even Judy thought it was justified.
She tried to relax in her chair. The only thing harder than assisting a suicide was watching one.
In slow motion.
Santoro glared from the podium at Pigeon Tony. “Mr. Lucia, is it your testimony that you believe Angelo Coluzzi killed your wife?”
“
“Did you report this to the Italian authorities?”
“Yes.”
“Did they bring charges against Angelo Coluzzi for this alleged murder?”
“No. No do nothing.”
Santoro raised a warning finger. “Confine your answers to yes or a no, Mr. Lucia, do you understand?”
“Sure.” Pigeon Tony nodded, and Santoro clenched his teeth.
“So the Italian police brought no charges against Angelo Coluzzi?”
“
“Mr. Lucia!” Santoro shouted so loudly that Pigeon Tony startled at the witness stand. “Only yes or no is proper! Do you understand me?”
Pigeon Tony fell silent.
“Do you understand me? Answer the question!”
“Yes.”
“Do you want a translator? Yes or no, Mr. Lucia!”
“No.”
On the dais Judge Vaughn shifted in his leather chair, and Judy considered objecting but made herself stop when she saw the jury’s reaction. A few eased back in their seats, which she read— she hoped correctly—as distancing themselves from the scene. If Santoro was going to yell at Pigeon Tony, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing for the jury to see. For the jurors who liked him, it would increase their sympathy. For the jurors who hated him, at least they see him get some comeuppance. It was in Pigeon
Tony’s interests for Judy to shut up, so she did.
“I’ll ask again, Mr. Lucia, you do understand me, don’t you!”
“Yes.” Pigeon Tony’s face fell, deep parentheses around a mouth that loved a smile, fissures on a forehead remarkably unfurrowed most of the time. The browbeating changed Pigeon Tony’s demeanor on the stand, and to Judy’s eye he seemed to shrink, his shoulders sloping, his eyes becoming opaque and guarded. Pigeon Tony knuckled under on the spot, and Judy wondered if it was an ingrained response, from growing up under Fascist rule.
If anything, it encouraged Santoro. “Now, I’ll ask this again,” he said, his tone stern. “The Italian authorities ruled your wife’s death an accident, did they not?”
“Yes,” Pigeon Tony answered quietly.
“They came to your house and investigated her death, did they not!”
“Yes.”
“And they decided that it was an accident, did they not!”
“Yes.”
“They decided that she fell from the hayloft, didn’t they!”
“Yes.”
Santoro’s fingers tightened around the podium. “Now, your wife died sixty years ago, isn’t that right!”
“Yes.”
“And you loved your wife very much!”
Pigeon Tony’s eyes fluttered. “Yes.”
“And you thought she was a wonderful mother!”
“Yes.”
“And for sixty years, you have
“Yes.”
