Omerta (6 page)

The next family dinner was a celebration to honor Nicole for winning another case—this time her own. In a recent trial she had championed a difficult principle of law at great personal risk. And she had been brought before the Bar Association for unethical practice and had been acquitted. Now she was exuberant.

The Don, in a cheerful mood, showed an uncharacteristic interest in this case. He congratulated his daughter on the acquittal but was somewhat confused, or pretended to be, by the circumstances. Nicole had to explain it to him.

She had defended a man, thirty years of age, who had raped, sodomized, and killed a twelve-year-old girl, then secretly hidden her body so that it could not be found by the police. Circumstantial evidence against him had been strong, but without a
corpus,
the jury and judge would be reluctant to give him the death penalty. The parents of the victim were in anguish in their frustrated desire to find the body.

The murderer confided to Nicole, as his attorney, where the body was buried and authorized her to negotiate a deal—he would reveal the body’s whereabouts in exchange for a life sentence rather than execution. However, when Nicole opened negotiations with the prosecutor, she was faced with a threat of prosecution herself if she did not immediately reveal the whereabouts of the body. She believed it mattered to society to protect the confidentiality between attorney and client. Therefore, she refused, and a prominent judge declared her in the right.

The prosecutor, after consulting with the parents of the victim, finally consented to the deal.

The murderer told them that he had dismembered the body, placed it in a box filled with ice, and buried it in a nearby marshland in New Jersey. And so the body was found and the murderer sentenced to life imprisonment. But then the Bar Association brought her up on charges of unethical negotiation. And today she had won her acquittal.

The Don toasted to all of his children and then asked Nicole, “And you behaved honorably in all this?”

Nicole lost her exuberance. “It was the principle of the thing. The government cannot be allowed to breach the lawyer/client privilege in any one situation, no matter how grave, or it is no longer sacrosanct.”

“And you felt nothing for the victim’s mother and father?” the Don asked.

“Of course I did,” Nicole said, annoyed. “But how could I let this affect a basic principle of the law? I suffered for that, I really did; why wouldn’t I? But unfortunately, in order to set precedents for future law sacrifices have to be made.”

“And yet the Bar Association put you on trial,” the Don said.

“To save face,” Nicole said. “It was a political move. Ordinary people, unschooled in the complexities of the legal system, can’t accept these principles of law, and there was an uproar. So my trial diffused everything. Some very prominent judge had to go public and explain that I had the right under the Constitution to refuse to give that information.”

“Bravo,” the Don said jovially. “The law is always full of surprises. But only to lawyers, of course.”

Nicole knew he was making fun of her. She said sharply, “Without a body of law, no civilization can exist.”

“That is true,” the Don said as if to appease his daughter. “But it seems unfair that a man who commits a terrible crime escapes with his life.”

“That’s true,” Nicole said. “But our system of law is based on plea bargaining. It is true that each criminal gets less punishment than he deserves. But in a way that’s a good thing. Forgiveness heals. And in the long run, those who commit crimes against our society will be more easily rehabilitated.”

So it was with a good-humored sarcasm that the Don proposed his toast. “But tell me,” he said to Nicole. “Did you ever believe the man innocent by reason of his insanity? After all, he did exercise his free will.”

Valerius looked at Nicole with cool, measuring eyes. He was a tall man, forty years of age with a bristly short mustache and hair already turning to steel gray. As an intelligence officer, he had himself made decisions that overlooked human morality. He was interested in her reasoning.

Marcantonio understood his sister, that she aspired to a normal life partly out of shame for their father’s life. He was more worried that she would say something rash, something that her father could never forgive her for.

As for Astorre, he was dazzled by Nicole—her flashing eyes, the incredible energy with which she responded to her father’s goading. He remembered their lovemaking as teenagers and felt her still obvious affection for him. But now he was transformed, no longer what he was when they were lovers. That was understood. He wondered if her brothers knew about that long-ago affair. And he too worried that a quarrel would break the bonds of family, a family that he loved, that was his only refuge. He hoped Nicole would not go too far. But he had no sympathy for her views. His years in Sicily had taught him differently. But it amazed him that the two people he cared most about in the world could be so different. And it occurred to him that even if she were right, he could never side with Nicole against her father.

Nicole looked boldly into her father’s eyes. “I don’t believe he had free will,” she said.“He was forced by the circumstances of his life—by his own distorted perceptions, his genetic heritage, his biochemistry, the ignorance of medicine—he was insane. So of course I believe it.”

The Don pondered this for a moment. “Tell me,” he said. “If he admitted to you all his excuses were false, would you still have tried to save his life?”

“Yes,” Nicole said. “Each individual life is sacred. The state has no right to take it.”

The Don smiled at her mockingly. “That’s your Italian blood. Do you know that modern Italy has never had the death penalty? All those human lives saved.” His sons and Astorre flinched at his sarcasm, but Nicole was unabashed.

She said to him sternly, “It is barbaric for the state under the mantle of justice to commit premeditated murder. I would think that you of all people would agree with that.” It was a challenge, a reference to his reputation. Nicole laughed, then said more soberly, “We have an alternative. The criminal is locked away in an institution or a prison for life without hope of release or parole. Then he is no longer a danger to society.”

The Don looked at her coolly. “One thing at a time,” he said. “I do approve of the state taking a human life. And as for your lifetime without parole or release, that’s a joke. Twenty years pass and supposedly new evidence is found, or rehabilitation is assumed and the criminal has made a new person of himself, so now spills the milk of human kindness. The man goes free. But no one cares for the dead. That’s not really important . . .”

Nicole frowned. “Dad, I didn’t imply that the victim isn’t important. But taking a life will not get the victim’s life back. And the longer we condone killing, under any circumstances, the longer it will go on.”

Here the Don paused and drank his wine as he looked around the table at his two sons and Astorre. “Let me tell you the reality,” he said, and turned to his daughter. He spoke with an intensity rare for him. “You say human life is sacred? From what evidence? Where in history? The wars that have killed millions are endorsed by all governments and religions. The massacres of thousands of enemies in a political dispute, over economic interests, are recorded through time. How many times has the earning of money been placed above the sanctity of human life? And you yourself condone the taking of a human life when you get your client off.”

Nicole’s dark eyes flashed. “I have not condoned it,” she said. “I have not excused it. I think it’s barbaric. I have just refused to lay the ground for more of it!”

Now the Don spoke more quietly but more sincerely. “Above all this,” he said, “the victim, your loved one, lies beneath the earth. He is forever banished from this world. We will never see his face, we will never hear his voice, we will never touch his flesh. He is in darkness, lost to us and our world.”

They all listened silently as the Don took another sip of wine. “Now, my Nicole. Hear me. Your client, your murderer, is sentenced to life imprisonment. He will be behind bars or in an institution for the rest of his life. So you say. But each morning he will see the rising sun, he will taste hot food, he will hear music, the blood will run in his veins and interest him in the world. His loved ones can still embrace him. I understand he can even study books, learn carpentry to build a table and chairs. In short, he lives. And that is unjust.”

Nicole was resolute. She did not flinch. “Dad, to domesticate animals, you don’t let them eat raw meat. You don’t let them get a taste of it or they want more. The more we kill, the easier it gets to kill. Can’t you see that?” When he didn’t answer her, she asked, “And how can you decide what’s just or unjust? Where do you draw the line?” It had been meant as a defiance but was more of a plea to understand all her years of doubt in him.

They all expected an outburst of fury by the Don at her insolence, but suddenly he was in a good humor. “I have had my moments of weakness,” he said, “but I never let a child judge his or her parents. Children are useless and live by our sufferance. And I consider myself beyond reproach as a father. I have raised three children who are pillars in society, talented, accomplished, and successful. And not completely powerless against fate. Can any of you reproach me?”

At this point Nicole lost her anger. “No,” she said. “As a parent no one can reproach you. But you left something out. The oppressed are the ones who hang. The rich wind up escaping the final punishment.”

The Don looked at Nicole with great seriousness. “Why, then, do you not fight to change the laws so that the rich hang with the poor? That is more intelligent.”

Astorre murmured, smiling cheerfully. “There would be very few of us left.” And that remark cut the tension.

“The greatest virtue of humanity is mercy,” Nicole said. “An enlightened society does not execute a human being, and it refrains from punishment as much as common sense and justice allows.”

It was only then that the Don lost his customary good humor. “Where did you get such ideas?” he asked. “They are self-indulgent and cowardly—more, they are blasphemous. Who is more merciless than God? He does not forgive, He does not ban punishment. There is a Heaven and there is a Hell by His decree. He does not banish grief and sorrow in His world. It is His Almighty duty to show no more than the necessary mercy. So who are you to dispense such marvelous grace? It’s an arrogance. Do you think that if you are so saintly, you can create a better world? Remember, saints can only whisper prayers to God’s ear and only when they have earned the right to do so by their own martyrdom. No. It is our duty to pursue our fellowman. Or what great sins he could be capable of committing. We would deliver our world to the devil.”

This left Nicole speechless with anger and Valerius and Marcantonio smiling. Astorre bowed his head as if in prayer.

Finally Nicole said, “Daddy, you are just too outrageous as a moralist. And you certainly are no example to follow.”

There was a long silence at the table as each one sat with memories of their strange relationship with the Don. Nicole never quite believing the stories she’d heard about her father and yet fearing they were true. Marcantonio remembering one of his colleagues at the network asking slyly, “How does your father treat you and the other kids?”

And Marcantonio, considering the question carefully, knowing the man was referring to his father’s reputation, had said quite seriously, “My father is very cordial to us.”

Valerius was thinking how much his father was like some generals he had served under. Men who got the job done without any moral scruples, without any doubts as to their duty. Arrows that sped to their mark with deadly swiftness and accuracy.

For Astorre it was different. The Don had always shown him affection and trust. But he was also the only one at the table who knew that the reputation of the Don was true. He was remembering three years before when he had returned from his years of exile. The Don had given him certain instructions.

The Don had told him, “A man my age can die from stubbing his toe on a door, or from a black mole on his back, or from a break in the beating of his heart. It is strange that a man does not realize his mortality every second of his life. No matter. He need not have enemies. But still one must plan. I have made you a majority heir to my banks; you will control them and share the income with my children. And for this reason: Certain interests want to buy my banks, one headed by the consul general of Peru. The federal government continues to investigate me under the RICO laws so they can seize my banks. What a nice piece of business for them. They will find nothing. Now, my instructions to you are never sell the banks. They will be more profitable and powerful as time goes on. In time the past will be forgotten.

“If something unexpected happens, call Mr. Pryor, to assist you as controller. You know him well. He is extremely qualified, and he too profits from the banks. He owes me his loyalty. Also, I will introduce you to Benito Craxxi in Chicago. He is a man of infinite resources and also profits from the banks. He too is trustworthy. Meanwhile, I will give you a macaroni business simply to run and give you a good living. For all this I charge you with the safety and prosperity of my children. It is a harsh world, and I have brought them up as innocents.”

Three years later, Astorre was pondering these words. Time had passed, and it seemed now that his services would not be needed. The Don’s world could not be shattered.

But Nicole was not quite finished with her arguments. “What about the quality of mercy?” she said to her father. “You know, what Christians preach?”

The Don replied without hesitation. “Mercy is a vice, a pretension to powers we do not have. Those who give mercy commit an unpardonable offense to the victim. And that is not our duty here on earth.”

“So you would not want mercy?” Nicole asked.

“Never,” the Don said. “I do not seek it or desire it. If I must, I will accept the punishment for all my sins.”