Angel of the Dark
“Yet when Ms. Basta acted out these hatreds, when she assumed them as her own, you say that they were pathological.”
“Yes, but that’s different.”
“How so, Doctor?”
“Well, in her case there was transference. She was acting as someone else, for someone else.”
“But wasn’t he doing the same thing? Wasn’t he, according to your testimony, acting out the fantasies of a disturbed, abused little boy? Wasn’t he transferring his hatred from Tony Renalto and his own father to the victims he butchered?”
“Yeees,” Dr. Petridis agreed uneasily. “He was. But clinically, that wouldn’t be enough to exonerate him on mental health grounds. He knew what he was doing.”
“I quite agree. He knew that the men he killed were not his father or his stepfather.”
“Of course.”
“And so did Sofia Basta.”
“Well, yes. She would have understood that. But—”
“No further questions.”
DAVID ISHAG DIDN’T SLEEP A WINK that night, tossing and turning in his suite at the Beverly Wilshire. Nor did Matt Daley, in the ground-floor spare room at his sister’s house, which Claire had converted into a bedroom in order to make it easy for him to come and go in his wheelchair. Nor did Danny McGuire, in a lonely motel room a few miles east of the courthouse.
Ellen Watts had done a good job so far of painting her client, at least partially, as a victim. Despite the prosecution’s attempts at undermining Dr. Petridis’s sympathetic testimony, she still came across as a disturbed little girl, drawn into a web of hatred, fantasy and violence by the corrupt Mancini. But it was tomorrow’s evidence that would decide the fate of the woman each man still thought of by a different name and who, despite everything, each man wanted to spare from execution. Deep down they all still wanted to rescue her.
Tomorrow, that woman would finally speak for herself. She would answer what had become, for David Ishag, Matt Daley and Danny McGuire, the most important question of all:
Who are you?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE TELEVISION CREWS WERE LINED UP along Burton Way en route to the courthouse as if they were covering a royal wedding. Today was the day the Angel of Death was going to testify in the Azrael murder trial and the sense of excitement and anticipation in the air was almost palpable. People were in the mood for a carnival, it seemed, smiling and joking with one another, cheering as Judge Muñoz’s bulletproof Cadillac swept by and catcalling as the armored prison vans bearing Basta and Mancini passed the security barrier and descended into the secure underground lot.
“It’s all just a game to them, isn’t it?” Matt Daley gazed out of the LAPD squad car in despair. He and Danny McGuire arrived at the trial together every morning. The squad car came courtesy of an old friend of Danny’s from back in his homicide-division days. “Don’t they realize there are lives at stake? Don’t they care?”
Danny wanted to respond that perhaps they cared more about the four lives that had already been taken than about the fate of two admitted killers. But he bit his tongue. Today was going to be tough for all of them, but it would be toughest on Matt. If Sofia—Lisa—incriminated herself up on that stand, death row was a certainty. No one, not even Matt Daley, would be able to save her then.
Inside courtroom 306 they took their usual places, oblivious to the gawking stares aimed their way from the spectators in the gallery. David Ishag was already in his seat. It was tough for an Indian to look pale, but David had achieved it this morning. Sitting rigid-backed in his chair, immaculately dressed as always, in an Ozwald Boateng suit and silk Gucci tie, the poor man looked as if he was about to face the firing squad himself.
“You okay?” Danny McGuire asked.
Ishag nodded curtly. There was no time for any further exchanges. Preening like a squat, Hispanic peacock, Judge Federico Muñoz strutted into court, basking in his short-lived moment in the spotlight and the rush he always got when a roomful of people rose to their feet to acknowledge the importance of his arrival. In truth, though, no one much gave a damn about Judge Dread this morning, any more than they did about Ellen Watts’s opening statement. There was a brief flurry of interest when Alvin Dubray announced matter-of-factly that his client, Frankie Mancini, had elected not to testify, a clear sign that his lawyer was shooting for a diminished responsibility/mental incapacity defense. But even the Mancini team’s legal maneuverings were of little interest to those assembled today in courtroom 306. Only when the name Sofia Basta was called, and the slight, slender figure at the defendants’ table was escorted to the stand to take her oath, did the room come to life.
“Please state your full, legal name for the court.”
“Sofia Miriam Basta Mancini.”
Her voice was neither strong nor faltering, but deep and mellow, projecting an aura of peace and calm. David Ishag, Danny McGuire and Matt Daley all remembered that voice and each man felt his heart leap when he heard it.
Ellen Watts started off gently. “Ms. Basta, would you begin by telling us in your own words how you met Mr. Mancini and to characterize your relationship with him.”
“I was fourteen. I was living in a home for children in New York, in Queens, and Frankie was transferred there from a different home.”
“And the two of you became friends?”
“Yes. More than friends. I loved him.”
As one, the court turned to see if Mancini had displayed any reaction to this announcement, but his face remained as regally impassive as ever.