“No, it was on a prepaid phone, a disposable.”
“And the messages came from my client’s number?”
“No, it came from a private number.”
“Do you still have that disposable phone?”
“No, it was destroyed. You know, uh, disposed of.”
“So, let me get this straight . . . you robbed these places because you received anonymous text messages telling you to, which you have no evidence of, and you expect us to just take your word that it came from Corrado Moretti?”
“It was him.”
“What if I told you the three others you named in these robberies claim to not even know who Corrado Moretti is? They say it was a scheme the four of you cooked up on your own.”
“I’d say they were lying.”
“It’s possible all three are lying,” Mr. Borza said. “But isn’t it more likely it’s just you?”
* * *
A pin drop could be heard through the strained silence of the courtroom. The prosecutor stood beside his table, shifting through paperwork while everyone waited for him to speak. Nerves frazzled, the spectators were on the edge of their seats, eyes darting toward the big set of double doors every time there was a noise.
A month into the trial, the prosecution was down to the last name on their witness list.
Carmine held his breath, as did what seemed like half of Chicago crowded into the stifling room. He had avoided most of the proceedings—out of respect or selfishness, he wasn’t sure—but today was one day he couldn’t miss. He had to be there, had to see with his own eyes, face reality and learn the truth.
He needed to know if his father was still alive.
Had Vincent been located and taken into witness protection, nobody would know until he walked in, escorted by armed U.S. Marshals. But if he didn’t show, well . . . Carmine didn’t like to think about what that meant.
He glanced around, his eyes drifting to his uncle. Corrado seemed relaxed, borderline bored as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on the restless jury. Had he been like that the whole trial, confident and calm, or did he know something the rest of them didn’t?
Carmine shifted his attention to the other side of the room where his aunt sat with Dominic. Neither had seen him come in, and he appreciated that. The last thing he wanted was forced family time.
Mr. Markson cleared his throat. “Your honor, the prosecution . . .”
Carmine closed his eyes . . . Calls Vincenzo DeMarco to the stand . . .
“. . . Rests its case. We have no more witnesses.”
Carmine reopened his eyes as the silence was abruptly shattered by a wave of murmurs. The judge banged his gavel for silence as Carmine stood, slipping out of the courtroom before they could continue.
32
Gavin became a regular fixture outside the art building on the west side of Manhattan. It was rare that he wasn’t standing there when Haven got out of her painting class, casually leaning against the wall as if there were nowhere else he needed to be.
Haven spoke to him on the days she saw him, and he would occasionally walk with her to the library on his way to the construction site a few blocks away, but he didn’t push his luck by asking for anything more.
It was comfortable and easy, and she grew used to their strange arrangement after a while, enjoying their short conversations before they went their separate ways. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was a connection, a blossoming friendship she found herself looking forward to those three days a week he infiltrated her life.
Haven smiled to herself one Friday afternoon when they were strolling down the sidewalk, the crowd moving briskly around them, but they were in no hurry to get anywhere. Gavin filled the time by telling a joke he had heard at work, a vulgar one Haven didn’t quite understand, but she laughed at what she figured were all the right places. “You know, you kind of remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Really?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “A boyfriend, maybe?”
“No, not at all. He was just a friend. He liked to tell jokes.”
Gavin’s expression fell. “Am I being friend-zoned already?”