"Judge," I said quickly, "Judge, on the day in question, January fourteenth of this year -"

"Mr Sutter -"

"My client, Your Honour, was, in fact, inspecting property adjacent to my property on Long Island. And though he was unknown to me personally at that time, I recognized him from newspapers and television, and I realized that I had, in fact, seen Mr Frank Bellarosa."

Judge Rosen leaned toward me and waited for the gasps and all that to subside.

"Mr Sutter, are you telling me that you are Mr Bellarosa's alibi?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

"You saw him on January fourteenth?"

"Yes, Your Honour. I was home that day. I checked my daybook." Actually I hadn't, but I should have before I committed perjury. I continued, "I was riding my horse and saw Mr Bellarosa with two other gentlemen walking around the property that he subsequently purchased. I saw them and they waved to me and I returned the wave, though we did not speak. I was not more than thirty feet from Frank Bellarosa and recognized him immediately. This was at nine A.M., then I saw them get into a black Cadillac at about noon and leave. Mr Carranza, was murdered at about noon as his car left an exit of the Garden State Parkway in New Jersey, about eighty miles from where I saw Mr Bellarosa at the same time." What could Alphonse Ferragamo say? Only one word and he said it. "Liar." I gave him my best withering Wasp look, and he actually turned his oyster eyes away.

Judge Rosen sat quietly for a full minute, probably wondering why she had wanted so badly to be a judge. Finally, she asked me, "How much money do you actually have there, Counsellor?"

"Five million, Judge. Four in assignable assets, one million in cash." "Good. I'll take it. See the clerk downstairs." She banged her gavel as Ferragamo bellowed. Judge Rosen ignored him and said, "Next case!" On the way to see the district clerk down in the basement, Bellarosa said to me, "See, I knew you could do it."

My stomach was churning, my head ached, and yes, my heart ached. Never in a billion years would I have imagined that I would perjure myself in court for any reason, let alone to spring a Mafia don.

But neither did I ever think I would be charged with criminal tax fraud for a stupid misjudgement. Nor would I have imagined that a U.S. Attorney would frame a man because of a personal grudge, or try to obstruct justice by delaying me on my way to court, then trying to send me on a wild-goose chase to Brooklyn. Yes, I know that two wrongs don't make a right – that's one of the first ethical lessons I learned as a small boy – but part of life and part of growing up is the ability to do what has to be done to survive. When the stakes go from baseball cards and pennies to life and death, then sometimes you make adjustments. Concessions, I guess you'd say. Sometimes you lie. The history of the world is filled with dead martyrs who would not compromise. I used to admire them. Now I think that most of them were probably very foolish. Bellarosa said to me, "See what a prick that guy is?"

I didn't reply.

He went on, "You pissed him off. I didn't want you to do that. It's personal for him, but it's not personal for me. Capisce?"

"Frank. Shut up."

I was still sort of in a daze as I moved through the corridors of the courthouse, reporters with pads and pencils swarming around us. They can't bring cameras or tape recorders into the courthouse, but why they let these crazy people inside at all is beyond me. Freedom of the press is one thing, but blocking the hallway is inconvenient and probably a misdemeanour. Finally, out on the courthouse steps, minus my heavy briefcase and my virginity, we ran into the press again, who had fallen back to regroup and join up with their cameramen and photographers.

Reporters were asking all sorts of pertinent and dangerous questions, but all they were getting from the don in return were wisecracks, such as: "Hey, what're you all doing here? No autographs. You want me to smile? Get my good side." And so forth.

Also, he knew some of the reporters by name. "Hey, Lorraine, long time. Where'd you get that tan?" Lorraine smiled at the charming man. "Tim, you still working for the paper? They don't know about your drinking?" Ha, ha, ha. A TV reporter got his microphone under Bellarosa's nose and asked, "Is there a power struggle going on between the Mafia and the Medellin cartel over the control of the cocaine trade?"

"The who and the what over the which? Talk English." A more sensible reporter asked, "Do you think Alphonse Ferragamo is pursuing a personal vendetta against you?"

Frank lit up a big cigar, Monte Cristo number four. "Nah. People lie to him about me, and he's got to follow up. He's my good goombah." Everyone laughed. "You happy to be free this morning, Frank?"

He puffed on his stogie. "I gotta tell ya, I had the worst breakfast of my life in there. That's what I call cruel and unusual punishment." That got a good laugh, and as it became obvious that Mr Bellarosa was not going to make any newsworthy statements, the emphasis shifted to the entertainment value of the story. Frank was good entertainment. Someone asked him, "How much did that suit cost you, Frank?"

"Peanuts. I go to a little guy on Mott Street. I don't pay uptown prices. You could use a good tailor yourself, Ralph."

So the don held court for a few minutes as we made our way down the forty-six steps toward the street, surrounded by about fifty members of the press, including cameramen and photographers. Worse, a crowd of several hundred onlookers had materialized. It doesn't take much to draw a crowd in New York. I was not being completely ignored, of course, and reporters who couldn't get the don's attention were settling for me, but I was just reciting my mantra, which was, "No comment, no comment, no comment." We were near the bottom of the steps, but the crowd around us was so thick now, I couldn't see any way to get to the street where Lenny was supposed to meet us with the car.

A reporter asked me, "How much does five million dollars weigh?" It seemed silly to say 'No comment' to a silly question, so I replied, "It was heavy enough for me to think that it was excessive bail." Well, you should never encourage these people, and by answering one question I opened myself up for a lot of attention. I was really getting grilled now, and I glanced at Bellarosa, who gave me a look of caution through his cigar smoke. "Mr Sutter," asked a newspaper reporter, "you said in court that you were delayed by four cars on your way here. How did they delay you?" "No comment."

"Did they cut you off?"

"No comment."

"Do you really think those cars were driven by people from Alphonse Ferragamo's office?"

"No comment."

And so it went. I seemed to have a permanent microphone under my nose now, recording my 'no comment' for posterity. I spotted the Cadillac parked illegally in the square about fifty yards away, with Lenny behind the wheel. Then I noticed Vinnie approaching the courthouse with two patrolmen in tow. Meanwhile, the press were really getting on my nerves. I glanced again at my client and saw that he was still smiling, still puffing away, and still at ease despite being surrounded by aggressive A-type personalities. But though he was at ease, Bellarosa did not have the reputation of being a publicity hound. He could handle it, but he did not seek it out as did some of his predecessors, certain of whom were – partly as a result of their fondness for talking too much to the press – dead.

A particularly persistent and pesky female reporter, whom I recognized from one of the TV networks, was bugging me about the alibi. She asked me, "Are you certain it was Frank Bellarosa you saw?"

"No comment."

"You mean you're not sure it was Frank Bellarosa."

"No comment."

"But you said it was Frank Bellarosa."