“Would you speak up, please?”

“About ten years.” His neck was twitching now.

“Would you say you were close to the defendant?”

“Objection!” Thomas Colfax rose to his feet. Michael Moretti’s attorney was a tall, silver-haired man in his fifties, the consigliere for the Syndicate, and one of the shrewdest criminal lawyers in the country. “The District Attorney is attempting to lead the witness.”

Judge Lawrence Waldman said, “Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase the question. In what capacity did you work for Mr. Moretti?”

“I was kind of what you might call a troubleshooter.”

“Would you be a little more explicit?”

“Yeah. If a problem comes up—someone gets out of line, like—Mike would tell me to go straighten this party out.”

“How would you do that?”

“You know—muscle.”

“Could you give the jury an example?”

Thomas Colfax was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. This line of questioning is immaterial.”

“Overruled. The witness may answer.”

“Well, Mike’s into loan-sharkin’, right? A coupla years ago Jimmy Serrano gets behind in his payments, so Mike sends me over to teach Jimmy a lesson.”

“What did that lesson consist of?”

“I broke his legs. You see,” Stela explained earnestly, “if you let one guy get away with it, they’re all gonna try it.”

From the corner of his eye, Robert Di Silva could see the shocked reactions on the faces of the jurors.

“What other business was Michael Moretti involved in besides loan-sharking?”

“Jesus! You name it.”

“I would like you to name it, Mr. Stela.”

“Yeah. Well, like on the waterfront, Mike got a pretty good fix in with the union. Likewise the garment industry. Mike’s into gamblin’, juke boxes, garbage collectin’, linen supplies. Like that.”

“Mr. Stela, Michael Moretti is on trial for the murders of Eddie and Albert Ramos. Did you know them?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Were you present when they were killed?”

“Yeah.” His whole body seemed to twitch.

“Who did the actual killing?”

“Mike.” For a second, his eyes caught Michael Moretti’s eyes and Stela quickly looked away.

“Michael Moretti?”

“That’s right.”

“Why did the defendant tell you he wanted the Ramos brothers killed?”

“Well, Eddie and Al handled a book for—”

“That’s a bookmaking operation? Illegal betting?”

“Yeah. Mike found out they was skimmin’. He had to teach ’em a lesson ’cause they was his boys, you know? He thought—”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. The witness will stick to the facts.”

“The facts was that Mike tells me to invite the boys—”

“Eddie and Albert Ramos?”

“Yeah. To a little party down at The Pelican. That’s a private beach club.” His arm started to twitch again and Stela, suddenly aware of it, pressed against it with his other hand.

Jennifer Parker turned to look at Michael Moretti. He was watching impassively, his face and body immobile.

“What happened then, Mr. Stela?”

“I picked Eddie and Al up and drove ‘em to the parkin’ lot. Mike was there, waitin’. When the boys got outta the car, I moved outta the way and Mike started blastin’.”

“Did you see the Ramos brothers fall to the ground?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they were dead?”

“They sure buried ‘em like they was dead.”

There was a ripple of sound through the courtroom. Di Silva waited until there was silence.

“Mr. Stela, you are aware that the testimony you have given in this courtroom is self-incriminating?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you are under oath and that a man’s life is at stake?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You witnessed the defendant, Michael Moretti, cold-bloodedly shoot to death two men because they had withheld money from him?”

“Objection! He’s leading the witness.”

“Sustained.”

District Attorney Di Silva looked at the faces of the jurors and what he saw there told him he had won the case. He turned to Camillo Stela.

“Mr. Stela, I know that it took a great deal of courage for you to come into this courtroom and testify. On behalf of the people of this state, I want to thank you.” Di Silva turned to Thomas Colfax. “Your witness for cross.”

Thomas Colfax rose gracefully to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Di Silva.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, then turned to the bench. “If it please Your Honor, it is now almost noon. I would prefer not to have my cross-examination interrupted. Might I request that the court recess for lunch now and I’ll cross-examine this afternoon?”

“Very well.” Judge Lawrence Waldman rapped his gavel on the bench. “This court stands adjourned until two o’clock.”

Everyone in the courtroom rose as the judge stood up and walked through the side door to his chambers. The jurors began to file out of the room. Four armed deputies surrounded Camillo Stela and escorted him through a door near the front of the courtroom that led to the witness room.

At once, Di Silva was engulfed by reporters.

“Will you give us a statement?”

“How do you think the case is going so far, Mr. District Attorney?”

“How are you going to protect Stela when this is over?”

Ordinarily Robert Di Silva would not have tolerated such an intrusion in the courtroom, but he needed now, with his political ambitions, to keep the press on his side, and so he went out of his way to be polite to them.

Jennifer Parker sat there, watching the District Attorney parrying the reporters’ questions.

“Are you going to get a conviction?”

“I’m not a fortune teller,” Jennifer heard Di Silva say modestly. “That’s what we have juries for, ladies and gentlemen. The jurors will have to decide whether Mr. Moretti is innocent or guilty.”

Jennifer watched as Michael Moretti rose to his feet. He looked calm and relaxed. Boyish was the word that came to Jennifer’s mind. It was difficult for her to believe that he was guilty of all the terrible things of which he was accused. If I had to choose the guilty one, Jennifer thought, I’d choose Stela, the Twitcher.

The reporters had moved off and Di Silva was in conference with members of his staff. Jennifer would have given anything to hear what they were discussing.

Jennifer watched as a man said something to Di Silva, detached himself from the group around the District Attorney, and hurried over toward Jennifer. He was carrying a large manila envelope. “Miss Parker?”

Jennifer looked up in surprise. “Yes.”

“The Chief wants you to give this to Stela. Tell him to refresh his memory about these dates. Colfax is going to try to tear his testimony apart this afternoon and the Chief wants to make sure Stela doesn’t foul up.”

He handed the envelope to Jennifer and she looked over at Di Silva. He remembered my name, she thought. It’s a good omen.

“Better get moving. The D.A. doesn’t think Stela’s that fast a study.”

“Yes, sir.” Jennifer hurried to her feet.

She walked over to the door she had seen Stela go through. An armed deputy blocked her way.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“District Attorney’s office,” Jennifer said crisply. She took out her identification card and showed it. “I have an envelope to deliver to Mr. Stela from Mr. Di Silva.”

The guard examined the card carefully, then opened the door, and Jennifer found herself inside the witness room. It was a small, uncomfortable-looking room containing a battered desk, an old sofa and wooden chairs. Stela was seated in one of them, his arm twitching wildly. There were four armed deputies in the room.

As Jennifer entered, one of the guards said, “Hey! Nobody’s allowed in here.”

The outside guard called, “It’s okay, Al. D.A.’s office.”

Jennifer handed Stela the envelope. “Mr. Di Silva wants you to refresh your recollection about these dates.”

Stela blinked at her and kept twitching.