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The key to the case against Michael Moretti was Camillo Stela, and Di Silva’s star witness was heavily protected. The District Attorney remembered only too vividly the example of Abe “Kid Twist” Reles, the government witness who had “fallen” out of a sixth-floor window of the Half Moon Hotel in Coney Island while being guarded by half a dozen policemen. Robert Di Silva had selected Camillo Stela’s guards personally, and before the trial Stela had been secretly moved to a different location every night. Now, with the trial under way, Stela was kept in an isolated holding cell, guarded by four armed deputies. No one was allowed to get near him, for Stela’s willingness to testify rested on his belief that District Attorney Di Silva was capable of protecting him from the vengeance of Michael Moretti.
It was the morning of the fifth day of the trial.
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The alarm had failed to go off. Je
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There were twenty-five lawyers gathered in the District Attorney’s office, most of them newly out of law school, young and eager and excited about going to work for the District Attorney of the County of New York.
The office was impressive, paneled and decorated in quiet good taste. There was a large desk with three chairs in front of it and a comfortable leather chair behind it, a conference table with a dozen chairs around it, and wall cabinets filled with law books.
On the walls were framed autographed pictures of J. Edgar Hoover, John Lindsay, Richard Nixon and Jack Dempsey.
When Je
“I’m terribly sorry, I—”
“I don’t give a damn whether you’re sorry. Don’t you ever be late again!”
The others looked at Je
Di Silva turned to the group and snapped, “I know why you’re all here. You’ll stick around long enough to pick my brains and learn a few courtroom tricks, and then when you think you’re ready, you’ll leave to become hotshot criminal lawyers. But there may be one of you—maybe—who will be good enough to take my place one day.” Di Silva nodded to his assistant. “Swear them in.”
They took the oath, their voices subdued.
When it was over, Di Silva said, “All right. You’re sworn officers of the court, God help us. This office is where the action is, but don’t get your hopes up. You’re going to bury your noses in legal research, and draft documents—subpoenas, warrants—all those wonderful things they taught you in law school. You won’t get to handle a trial for the next year or two.”
Di Silva stopped to light a short, stubby cigar. “I’m prosecuting a case now. Some of you may have read about it.” His voice was edged with sarcasm. “I can use half a dozen of you to run errands for me.” Je
“Get down to Courtroom Sixteen.”
As they left the room, they were issued identification cards. Je
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Camillo Stela was on the witness stand. If Stela had been an animal, he would have been a weasel. He had a narrow, pinched face, with thin lips and yellow buckteeth. His eyes were darting and furtive and you disbelieved him before he even opened his mouth. Robert Di Silva was aware of his witness’s shortcomings, but they did not matter. What mattered was what Stela had to say. He had horror stories to tell that had never been told before, and they had the unmistakable ring of truth.
The District Attorney walked over to the witness box where Camillo Stela had been sworn in.
“Mr. Stela, I want this jury to be aware that you are a reluctant witness and that in order to persuade you to testify, the State has agreed to allow you to plead to the lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter in the murder you are charged with. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir.” His right arm was twitching.
“Mr. Stela, are you acquainted with the defendant, Michael Moretti?”
“Yes, sir.” He kept his eyes away from the defendant’s table where Michael Moretti was sitting.
“What was the nature of your relationship?”
“I worked for Mike.”
“How long have you known Michael Moretti?”
“About ten years.” His voice was almost inaudible.