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    The Vendetta Defense
    The Vendetta Defense
    The Vendetta Defense
    Ebook498 pages8 hours

    The Vendetta Defense

    By Lisa Scottoline

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    "Scottoline knows the simple yet magical secret at the heart of compelling suspense fiction." — Philadelphia Inquirer

    In the sixth riveting thriller in #1 bestselling author Lisa Scottoline’s Rosato & Associates series, a lawyer is handed the case that could make her career—and jeopardize her life.

    Judy Carrier takes the case of her career to defend Anthony Lucia, fondly known as "Pigeon Tony," who freely admits to killing his lifelong enemy in order to settle a personal vendetta. Her client's guilt, however, is only the beginning of Judy's problems. The victim's family wants revenge and is determined to finish off Pigeon Tony and Judy before the case goes to trial. Then there's Pigeon Tony's hunky grandson, who makes Judy think about everything but the law.

    In a case steeped in blood and memory, it will take brains and a lot of luck to save Pigeon Tony. But if anyone will see justice done, it's this gutsy girl who will risk everything to win—including her life.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateMar 17, 2009
    ISBN9780061758348
    Author

    Lisa Scottoline

    Lisa Scottoline is a #1 bestselling and award-winning author of more than thirty-two novels. She also co-authors a bestselling non-fiction humor series with her daughter, Francesca Serritella. There are more than thirty million copies of Lisa's books in print in more than thirty-five countries. She lives in Pennsylvania with an array of disobedient but adorable pets.

    Read more from Lisa Scottoline

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    Reviews for The Vendetta Defense

    4.5/5

    29 ratings13 reviews

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    • 4/5

      I received this book as a Christmas gift. I confess that reverse snobbery had kept
      me from Ms. Scottoline's books up till now -- I had assumed that anyone
      who appeared on the bestseller lists so regularly would not be to my
      taste. Well, I was wrong. I enjoyed THE VENDETTA DEFENSE and will seek
      out more of the author's work.

      It's my impression that many, if not all, the Scottoline books deal with
      the all-woman law firm headed by Benny Rosato, highlighting a different
      attorney in each book. THE VENDETTA DEFENSE features military brat and
      artist Judy Carrier as the attorney who takes her first murder case when
      a friend's father enlists her help for a pigeon-racing buddy. "Pigeon
      Tony" has broken the neck of Angelo Coluzzi, a man he's known and hated
      for sixty years both in fascist Italy and in Philadelphia. He admits the
      killing, but says it isn't murder, because Coluzzi was responsible for
      the deaths of Tony's wife and, more recently, his son and
      daughter-in-law. Judy is pulled deeper into the case by her strong
      attraction to Pigeon Tony's handsome grandson.

      For the first 50 pages or so I wasn't enthralled with this book, but I
      kept going and soon found it hard to put down. Judy must use both her
      legal and investigative talents, with help from Pigeon Tony's equally
      elderly friends and the ex-wife of a Coluzzi henchman, in doing her best
      to win an acquittal for Pigeon Tony. The characters were very believable
      and the Philadelphia setting drawn by someone who obviously really loves
      her city. Highly recommended!
    • 4/5
      Judy Carrier defends Pigeon Tony, an elderly murderer.
    • 5/5
      My first Lisa Scottoline book and I am hooked!

      I have always enjoyed legal thrillers and strong women characters. What a thrill to have both! And toss in humor, charm, warmth and characters that complement each other and you've a wonderful read. I love the all female law firm and can't wait to read all books by this author.
    • 4/5
      I actually like Judy Carrier and her pal Mary better than I like Bennie Rosato, who is the attorney that heads up the law firm featured in Lisa Scottoline's books. Good story....a good legal thriller-type read.
    • 5/5
      In this novel, lawyer Judy Carrier has a case that seems impossible to win. A vendetta that began 60 years ago in Italy comes to fruition in the Italian neighborhood of Philly and results in a killing, but not a murder. At least, that’s what the perpetrator believes. Now all Judy has to do is convince a jury of that in a courtroom while dodging bullets and avoiding pipe bombs during her investigations. A page turner, this thriller has elements of mystery, humor, romance, and history. The verdict? This book is a winner.
    • 5/5
      Just re-read this book for a book discussion and loved it all over again. Funny, great characters, a little pre-war Italy history, lots of Italian culture, and some courtroom drama to finish it all off.
    • 5/5
      This book is simply great. Ms. Scottoline wrote a book with depth, humor, suspense, and Ms. Rosenblat did herself proud in the narration. I strongly encourage anyone to listen to this unabridged edition of the book, just to fall in love with Pigeon Tony and his friends. Ms. Rosenblat makes these characters come to life through consistent use of vocal nuances and following the expert pacing set out in the author's lyrical dialogue. If you are new to Ms. Scottoline's writing and/or audiobooks, this is the perfect one to start with. Don't be intimidated that this book is number eight in a series, as it stands so well by itself.
    • 2/5
      I found this as a book on tape at a used bookstore and was having a blast listening to the book until I got to a tape that was damaged. I searched at used bookstores to find another copy but I came up empty-handed. I was too cheap to buy the new book-on-tape and found the used paperback instead. I just couldn't get into it without the cool narrator. I've got to look for this on CD at the library and finally finish it now that it's been a few years.
    • 4/5
      How could I not enjoy a book with many of the characters named ‘...Tony’ and featuring a delightful and heartwarming old man named Pigeon Tony (Tony Lucia), whose life is shaped by a lifelong vendetta? When Pigeon Tony is charged with first degree murder, the lawyer Judy Carrier is pulled into defending him, with great reluctance. When he admits his guilt in killing his lifelong enemy Anthony Coluzzi in Italy, the story become challenging for the attorney and for the reader. I had never understood the stories behind pigeon racing and now I have a greater appreciation of the sport. Scottoline develops her characters well and I became vested in their lives and the story's outcome. There is hatred, sorrow, loyalty, love, romance and suspense. The courtroom scenes felt fairly realistic and the dialogue was entertaining. The involvement of the Tony’s (Pigeon Tony’s friends) was similar to the feeling an Badacci’s Camel Club characters. The connection to the title “The Vendetta Defense” was clear from the beginning and that was a refreshing change. I have not read many Lisa Scottoline books but I will definitely read another as this book was enjoyable and easy to follow with enough action to keep me reading. A fun read for a cold winter night by the fire or on the beach on a warm summer day. I give this a 4 not because it was a great book, but because it was a very enjoyable read.
    • 4/5
      ....... JUSTICE ! Justice served, truly. What a good read.
    • 4/5
      After re-re-reading "The Vendetta Defense," I can say, as is usual with Lisa Scottoline's books, this is great, full of memorable and usually likeable characters and plenty of plot.Alas, she makes one gross error, double alas, one made by too, too many writers, including those propagandists and ignorami at "Law and Order": "Jury nullification" is NOT the correct term to apply to a jury's voting "not guilty" because they don't like the prosecutors and/or the prosecution case, and do like the defendant."News" people and, as I said, too many writers constantly mis-use the term "jury nullification," sometimes because of abysmal ignorance, and sometimes because of willful and intentional distortion."Jury nullification" is voting because the jury members oppose a law.For example, a defendant accused of the heinous crime of selling, or even just growing, marijuana might be voted "not guilty" because the jurors recognize the immorality and/or stupidity of The Insane War on Some Drugs.Jury Nullification is, in truth, part of the American tradition, part of our heritage.It goes back to the John Peter Zenger trial.And even further back to very courageous jurors in England defying the persecutorial government and even risking their own lives to try to prevent a legal wrong.Fully Informed Jury Association is available to give us the facts. It's headquartered in Montana, but accessible via the Internet. Too bad that so many people, even lawyers and judges, don't know the truth, the history, and even the law: There are states, though not very many, that require judges to inform jurors that they, those jurors, are judges not only of the facts of a case, but of the law.THAT, gentle reader, is "Jury Nullification."If you ever get conscripted for a jury, don't let a judge or prosecutor tell you any different. That judge or prosecutor might not be lying: He might actually believe his nonsense. But he is still wrong.
    • 4/5
      I have to give it credit for being a very interesting story but parts of it were just boring and unrealistic and I sometimes found myself getting lost in the sheer number of characters. The thing that I disliked the most was that it went quickly from being a mystery to being mainly a romance. I had to give it a 3 star rating because it was well written and I generally like this author...and...you guessed it... it fit a challenge very well.
    • 3/5
      A rather easy read. Pigeon Tony is arrested for killing a lifetime enemy, and Judy Carrier must defend him, and try to save his life in the process. Was Tony getting revenge on his enemy for wrongs against him?

    Book preview

    The Vendetta Defense - Lisa Scottoline

    1

    The morning Tony Lucia killed Angelo Coluzzi, he was late to feed his pigeons. As long as Tony had kept pigeons, which was for almost all of his seventy-nine years, he had never been late to feed them, and they began complaining the moment he opened the screen door. Deserting their perches, cawing and cooing, they flew agitated around the cages, their wings pounding against the chicken wire, setting into motion the air in the tiny city loft. It didn’t help that the morning had dawned clear and that March blew hard outside. The birds itched to fly.

    Tony waved his wrinkled hand to settle them, but his heart wasn’t in it. They had a right to their bad manners, and he was a tolerant man. It was okay with him if the birds did only one thing, which was to fly home. They were homers, thirty-seven of them, and it wasn’t an easy job they had, to travel to a place they’d never been, a distance in some races of three hundred or four hundred miles, then to navigate their return through skies they’d never flown, over city and country they’d never seen and couldn’t possibly know, to flap their way home to a tiny speck in the middle of South Philadelphia, all without even stopping to congratulate themselves for this incredible feat, one that man couldn’t even explain, much less accomplish.

    There were so many mistakes a bird could make. Circling too long, as if it were a joyride or a training toss. Getting distracted on the way, buffeted by sudden bad weather, or worse, simply getting tired and disoriented—thousands of things could result in the loss of a precious bird. Even once the first bird had made it home, the race wasn’t won. Many races had been lost by the bird who wouldn’t trap fast enough; the one who was first to reach his loft but who stopped on the roof, dawdling on his way to the trap, so that his leg band couldn’t be slipped off and clocked in before another man’s bird.

    But Tony’s birds trapped fast. He bred them for speed, intelligence, and bravery, through six and even seven generations, and over time the birds had become his life. It wasn’t a life for the impatient. It took years, even decades, for Tony to see the results of his breeding choices, and it wasn’t until recently that his South Philly loft had attained the best record in his pigeon-racing club.

    Suddenly the screen door banged open, blown by a gust of wind, startling Tony and frightening the birds in the first large cage. They took panicky wing, seventeen of them, all white as Communion wafers, transforming their cage into a snowy blizzard of whirring and beating, squawking and calling. Pinfeathers flurried and snagged on the chicken wire. Tony hurried to the loft door, silently reprimanding himself for being so careless. Normally he would have latched the screen behind him—the old door had bowed in the middle, warped with the rain, and wouldn’t stay shut without the latch—but this morning, Tony’s mind had been on Angelo Coluzzi.

    The white pigeons finally took their perches, which were small plywood boxes lining the walls, but in their panic they had displaced each other, violating customary territories and upsetting altogether the pecking order, which led to a final round of fussing. "Mi dispiace," Tony whispered to the white birds. I’m sorry, in Italian. Though Tony understood English, he preferred Italian. As did his birds, to his mind.

    He gazed at the white pigeons, really doves, which he found so beautiful. Large and healthy, the hue of their feathers so pure Tony marveled that only God could make this color. Their pearliness contrasted with the inky roundness of their eye, which looked black but in fact was the deepest of reds, blood-rich. Tony even liked their funny bird-feet, with the flaky red scales and the toe in back with a talon as black as their eyes pretended to be. And he kidded himself into thinking that the doves behaved better than the other birds. More civilized, they seemed aware of how special they were.

    The secret reason for the doves’ special status was that they were beloved of his son, who had finally stopped Tony from releasing them at weddings for a hundred fifty dollars a pop. Tony had thought it made a good side business; why not make some money to pay for the seed and medicines, plus keep the birds in shape during the off-season? And it made Tony happy to see the brides, whose hearts lifted at the flock of doves taking off outside the church, since you couldn’t throw rice anymore. It reminded his heart of his own wedding day, less grand than theirs, though such things didn’t matter when it came to love.

    But his son had hated the whole idea. They’re not trained monkeys, Frank had said. They’re athletes.

    So Tony had relented. Mi dispiace, he whispered again, this time to his son. But Tony couldn’t think about Frank now. It would hurt too much, and he had birds to feed.

    He shuffled down the skinny aisle, and his old sneakers, their soles worn flat, made a swishing sound on the whitewash of the plywood floor. The floor had held up okay, unlike the screen door; Tony had built the loft himself when he first came to America from Abruzzo, sixty years ago. The loft measured thirty feet long, with the single door in the middle opening onto a skinny aisle that ran the short length of the building. It occupied all of Tony’s backyard, as if the loft and yard were nesting boxes. Off the aisle of the loft were three large chicken wire cages lined with box perches. The aisle ended in a crammed feed room, the seed kept safe from rats in a trash can, and there was a bookshelf holding antibiotics, lice sprays, vitamins, and other supplies, all labels out, in clean white shelves.

    Tony prided himself on the neatness of his loft. He dusted the sills, cleaned the windows with the bright blue Windex, and scraped the floor of the cages twice a day, not once. It was important to the health of his birds. He whitewashed the loft interior each spring, before the old bird season; he had done it last week, experiencing a familiar pang—the chalky smell of the whitewash and its brightness reminded him of the white liquid shoe polish he used to paint over the scuffs on Frank’s baby shoes, when his son had started to walk. Tony remembered the shoe polish—they didn’t make it anymore—he would paint it on the stiff baby shoes with the cotton they gave you, stuck on a stick inside the cap like a white ball of dandelion seeds. Even though it dripped it worked okay.

    Tony shook his head, thinking of it now, the chalky smell filling his nose like the fragrance of a rose. The bottle of polish had a blue paper label and a little circle picture of a blond-haired, blue-eyed baby who didn’t look anything like baby Frank, with his jet black curls and his big brown eyes. Somehow Tony had the idea that if he painted the watery polish on Frank’s baby shoes, his son would look like all the American babies and one day come to be one, even though Frank had the black hair and no mother. And when it actually happened and Frank grew up to take his place in this country, Tony was just superstitious enough to think that maybe it was the shoe polish.

    Tony had to stop thinking about his son, though he couldn’t help it, not this morning, of all mornings, and he tried to concentrate on the first cage of doves, appraising with failing eyes their condition. The doves were settling down, roosting again, and they looked good, no big fights during the night. Tony worried about the fights; the birds were territorial and always bickering about something, and the white birds bruised easily. He wanted them to look especially nice and stay healthy. For Frank.

    Tony shuffled down the aisle to the second and third cages, which held the multicolored birds, mostly Meulemans with their reddish-brown feathers, and Janssens. There were other breeds in shades of gray and brown, and the common slateys; a slate gray, their eyes generally the same dark brown. Tony liked the nonwhite breeds, too, the ordinariness of their plumage reminding him of himself; he wasn’t a flashy man, not a braggadocio. He didn’t have the strut that some men had, going about like cocks. It had been his ruin, but now that he was old, it didn’t matter anymore. It had stopped mattering a long time ago. Sixty years, to be exact.

    His thoughts elsewhere, Tony watched the Janssens cooing and stirring without really seeing them. The breed name came from the Janssen family who had bred them, and the other names from the other families who had bred them; Tony had always dreamed that his family would produce its own strain of birds, but he wouldn’t name it after himself. He knew who he would name it after, but he didn’t get the chance. Many of the best breed stock came from Belgium and France. Italian pigeons also made good racers, but Tony wouldn’t have much to do with them, especially the so-called Mussolini birds. Anybody who had lived during Mussolini wouldn’t want anything to do with a Mussolini bird. Chi ha poca vergogna, tutto il mondo è suo. He who is without shame, all the world is his. Mussolini birds!

    Tony was an old man with old memories. He wished he could spit on the loft floor, but he didn’t want to dirty it. Instead he stood trembling until the anger left him, except for the bitterness in his mouth. Shaken, he idly inspected the Meulemans, and they seemed fine, too. Only Tony had had the terrible morning. An awful morning; the worst he’d had in a long time, but not the worst he’d had in his life. The worst he’d had in his life was sixty years ago. That morning then, and this morning now. Today. Tony had thought he would feel better after, but he didn’t. He felt worse; he had committed an act against God. He knew that his judgment would come in heaven, and he would accept it.

    His thoughts were interrupted by the Meulemans, cooing loudly, wanting to be fed, and his dark eyes went, as always, to his favorite bird of all, a Meuleman he had named The Old Man. The Old Man and Tony went back eighteen years; The Old Man was the oldest of Tony’s pigeons, and to look at him, Tony wasn’t sure who was the Old Man, him or the bird. The Old Man roosted peacefully in his corner perch in the second cage, his strong head held characteristically erect, his eyes clear and alert, and his broad breast a still robust curve covering his feet. Tony remembered the day the chick hatched, an otherwise typical slatey, apparently unremarkable at birth except for his eye sign. Eye sign, or the look in a pigeon’s eye, spoke to Tony, and The Old Man’s eyes told Tony that the bird would be fast and smart. And he had been the best, in his day.

    Come sta? Tony asked The Old Man. How are you? But The Old Man knew exactly what he meant, and it wasn’t, How are you?

    The Old Man regarded the old man for a long time then. Tony couldn’t help but feel that the old bird knew what he had done that morning, what had been so important as to keep Tony from feeding his birds on time. The Old Man knew why Tony had to do what he had done, even after all this time. And Tony knew that The Old Man approved.

    It was then that Tony heard cars pulling up outside his house and in the alley right behind the loft, on the other side of the cinderblock wall. There was the slamming of heavy car doors, and Tony knew that they were police cars.

    He had been expecting them.

    But the birds startled at the sudden sound, taking flight in their cages, and even though Tony knew that the police were coming, he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, as it used to so long ago. He froze beside the cages as the police shouted English words he didn’t bother to translate, though he could, then they broke down the old wood door in the backyard wall, one, two, three pushes and it splintered and gave way to their shoulders and they burst into his yard, trampling his basil and tomatoes.

    They were coming for him.

    Tony didn’t run from them, he wouldn’t have anyway, but he remembered he had yet to feed his birds. He would have to hurry to finish before the police took him away. He shuffled to the feed room even as he caught sight of the police drawing their black guns silently, pointing instructions to each other, and two of them sneaking to the back door of his house like the cowards they were, little men hiding behind black shirts and shiny badges.

    Tony’s gut churned with bile, and it struck him with astonishment that the deepest hate could rage like a fire for so many years, never burning itself up.

    Dwelling with perfect comfort alongside the deepest love.

    2

    Come on, it’s lunchtime! Let’s go, Judy Carrier heard the other associates saying as they grabbed their light coats and bags. It was the first day of real warmth after a long winter, and evidently spring fever struck lawyers, too. Everybody at the Philadelphia law firm of Rosato & Associates, except Judy, was escaping. She remained at her desk trying to draft an antitrust article, though the sun obliterated the legal citations on her computer screen and the chatter in the hall kept distracting her. It was hard to work when you were eavesdropping.

    Suddenly Anne Murphy, who called herself only Murphy, popped her head in Judy’s open doorway. She was one of the new associates, her lipsticked lips expertly lined and her dark hair tied back into its typically fashionable knot. You wanna go to lunch? she asked.

    No thanks, Judy answered. She usually gave others the benefit of the doubt, but she was hard-pressed to respect women who drew lines around their lips, like coloring books. Judy wore no makeup herself, and a daily shower was her idea of fashionable. I ate already.

    So what? Come on, you haven’t taken lunch in weeks. Murphy smiled in a friendly way, though Judy suspected it was the lipliner. It’s gorgeous out. Walk around with us.

    "Can’t, thanks. Got an article to do, on the Simmons case."

    You can’t even take a walk? It’s Friday, for God’s sake.

    No time for a walk. I really can’t, Judy said, knowing that the walk part was bullshit. Murphy didn’t walk, she shopped, and shopping made Judy want to kill indiscriminately. What was the matter with these baby lawyers? Judy didn’t like any of them. Graduates of the Ally McBeal School of Law, they thought being a lawyer meant wearing skirts that met the legal definition of indecent exposure. They weren’t serious about the law, which is the only thing Judy was serious about. She thought of them as Murphy’s Lawyers.

    Oh. Okay. Well, don’t work too hard. Murphy gave the white molding a good-bye pat and wisely disappeared, and Judy listened to the familiar sounds of the office emptying out, the gossip trailing off toward the elevator banks. The elevator cabs chimed as they left, bearing lawyers into the sun. Rosato & Associates was a small firm, only nine women lawyers and support staff, and for the next hour or so, whatever telephone calls the receptionist didn’t answer would be forwarded to voicemail. E-mail would go unopened, and faxes would wait in gray plastic trays. The office fell silent except for the occasional ringing of telephones, and Judy felt her whole body relax into the midday lull that was a long, deep breath before the afternoon’s business began.

    She knew she was supposed to feel lonely, but she didn’t. She liked being on her own. She sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup amid federal casebooks, stacks of printed cases, scribbled notes, and correspondence that covered her wooden desk and the desk return on her right. Her office was small, standard issue for mid-level associates at Rosato, but the clutter reduced it to a shoebox. Judy didn’t mind. She didn’t think of her office as messy, she thought of it as full, and felt very cozy surrounded by all her stuff. Nobody needed a nest more than a lawyer.

    Papers, memos, law school texts, novels, and copies of the federal civil and criminal rules filled the bookshelves across from her and the shelves behind her, under the window. Three large file cabinets sat flush against the side wall, their fake-wood counter hidden by twenty thick accordion files from Moltex v. Huartzer, a massive antitrust case, which was redundant. A tower of potential trial exhibits at the end cabinet threatened daily to topple. Blanketing the walls were dog, horse, and family photos, certificates of court admission and awards Judy had received as law review editor and class salutatorian, and diplomas from Stanford University and Boalt Law School. Judy was the firm’s true legal scholar, so her office, while a mess, was a highly scholarly mess.

    And her friend Mary wasn’t around to nag her about it. Mary DiNunzio had worked with Judy since they had graduated from law school, but she was taking time off from work after their last murder case; since then Judy’s nest hadn’t felt much like home. She took a reflective sip of coffee, eased back in an ergonomically correct chair whose cushions stabbed her in the back and shoulders, and crossed her legs, which were strong and shapely but completely bare. In Judy’s view, pantyhose was for Republicans, and now that Mary wasn’t here, she was getting away with that, too. Judy and Mary disagreed about practically everything, including Murphy’s use of lipliner.

    On impulse, Judy pulled open her middle drawer and shuffled through ballpoint pens, parti-colored plastic paper clips, and loose change until she found a red pencil she used to edit briefs; then she dug again in the drawer for the mirror Mary had given her. Judy usually used the mirror to check for poppy seeds between her teeth, but now, her red pencil poised, she appraised herself in its large square:

    Looking back at her from the mirror was a broad-shouldered young woman whose bright blue dress, yellow T-shirt, and artsy silver earrings made her look out of place against the legal books. Her hair was naturally blond, almost crayon yellow, and hacked off in a straight line at her chin; her face was big and round, reminding her always of a full moon, and her eyes were large and bright blue, as unmade-up as her lips. Her light eyelashes were mascaraless, her nose short and bobbed. An old boyfriend used to tell her she was beautiful, but whenever Judy looked at herself, all she thought was I look like myself, which was satisfying.

    She puckered up in the mirror. Her lips were in between full and thin, of a normal pink color. Hmmm. Judy raised the red editing pencil close to her lips. The color match was perfect. And she was a good artist. Watching herself in the mirror, Judy took the pencil, moistened the point, and sketched across the top of her lip. The red pigment smelled funny and felt cold but was blunt enough not to scratch, and she drew a light line on her top lip, outlined her lower lip as well, and puckered up again for the mirror.

    Not bad. You could see the red penciling, but her mouth looked bigger, which was supposed to be good these days, when lips like hot dogs ruled. The phone started ringing at reception, but Judy ignored it. She smiled at the mirror and looked instantly friendly, in an ersatz-Murphy I-ignore-the-phones sort of way. Apparently you couldn’t beat office supplies for makeup. Maybe she should take a Sharpie to her eyelids. Paint her fingernails with Wite-Out. Who said being a lawyer wasn’t fun? She set down the pencil, picked up the phone, and punched in a number.

    So how do I look? Judy asked when Mary picked up.

    I got your message about the Sherman Act. Stop calling me about the Sherman Act.

    This isn’t about the Sherman Act. Antitrust is easy. Lipliner is hard.

    Murphy was in, huh?

    She was trying to be friendly so I sent her away.

    You should have lunch with her.

    I don’t like her, and she doesn’t eat lunch. If I liked her and she ate lunch, I would go with her. Instead I stayed in and drew on my lips. So what do you think? Does Oscar Mayer come to mind? Judy air-kissed the receiver, and Mary scoffed.

    You’re supposed to be making new friends.

    No, I’m supposed to be writing an article and you’re supposed to stop slacking off and get your ass back to work.

    I’m fine, and thank you for asking, Mary said, though Judy could hear the smile in her voice. The smile didn’t come from Revlon or even Dixon Ticonderoga but was due entirely to a wonderful heart, and Judy felt a twinge of guilt. Attempted murder wasn’t a laughing matter.

    I’m sorry. How’re you feeling, Mare?

    Pretty good for somebody who took two bullets.

    Judy winced. She had almost lost Mary, forever. She didn’t want to think about it. You need anything? It’s only fifteen minutes by cab. Want me to bring you anything?

    No thanks.

    You sure?

    Mary snorted. You regret that wisecrack, don’t you? If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you feel guilty.

    Me? Judy smiled. It was a long-running joke between them. Mary, an Italian Catholic, held the patent on guilt, and Judy could see that it would never expire. No way. I’m from California.

    You should be guilty. You were making fun of somebody with ventilation. What kind of friend are you? Mary laughed, but it got lost in a surprising burst of background noise, which sounded like men talking loud. Mary had been recuperating at her parents’ house in South Philly, and the DiNunzios, whom Judy adored, were an old Italian couple who lived very quietly, at least when Mr. DiNunzio wore his hearing aid. Usually the only background noise at the DiNunzio rowhouse was a continuous loop of novenas.

    What’s that sound over there? Judy asked. Another DiNunzio clambake?

    You don’t wanna know.

    Yes, I do. It sounded like quite a commotion, with the men now arguing. Judy frowned. Is anything the matter?

    You wouldn’t believe it.

    Try me.

    My father’s friends are here. You met Tony-From-Down-The-Block.

    The guy he buys cigars with?

    That could be anybody, but yes, Mary answered, and the background arguing surged.

    What the hell was that?

    Feet.

    It didn’t sound like feet, it sounded like voices.

    Feet’s his nickname. His real name is Tony Two Feet. He’s shouting. He’s an excitable boy, for an eighty-year-old.

    Tony Two Feet? That’s a name? Everybody has two feet.

    Don’t ask me. He’s my father’s other friend. They’re all upset about Pigeon Tony.

    Judy smiled. "Is anybody there not named Tony?"

    Please. It’s ten Italian men. Odds are three will be Tony, two will be Frank, and one will end up in jail. Pigeon Tony just got arrested. The smart money was on Dominic.

    Arrested for what?

    Murder.

    Judy’s lips formed an imperfectly lined circle. Murder?

    Also my mother sends her love.

    Murder? Judy felt her pulse quicken. "A friend of your father’s, arrested for murder? Your father is around seventy-five, isn’t he? How old is Tony? And who did he kill, allegedly? I mean whom?"

    You can’t just say Tony, you have to say Pigeon Tony, and he’s close to eighty. He grew up in Italy and he supposedly killed another old man, also from Italy. I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on when you called.

    Judy’s eyes flared in surprise. She felt awake for the first time in months. Does Pigeon Tony have a lawyer?

    Wait a minute. You sound interested. You’re not allowed to be interested.

    Why not? Judy inched forward on her horrible chair. Murder trumped antitrust. Spring had sprung. Her other phone line rang but she ignored it. Ignoring phones got easier with practice. I can be interested. I have a First Amendment right to be interested.

    My father wanted me to call you, but I don’t think you should take the case.

    Your dad wants me to? Judy’s pulse quickened. She would do anything to help Mary’s father, especially something she already wanted to do.

    "Yes, but I don’t, and I don’t have time to fight about it. It’s La Traviata over here. I gotta go."

    Put your dad on the phone, Mare.

    No. Remember the last murder case we took? Gunfire ensued. Hot lead whizzing around. Lawyers are ill prepared for such things. Stick to the Sherman Act. Besides, I told my father Bennie won’t allow it.

    Why wouldn’t she? We take murder cases now, and besides, the boss is at a deposition. I’ll apologize later if she won’t let me take it. Don’t make me whine. Put him on!

    No. The ruckus in the background started again, and Judy could hear Mary’s father closer to the phone.

    Now, Mare! Lemme talk to your father. There was a sudden silence on the phone, and Judy could picture Mary’s hand covering the receiver, muting the arguing of the men and the softer voice of Mariano DiNunzio. Mr. D, is that you? Judy asked, shouting through Mary’s hand, as if it were possible. What’s the matter, Mr. D?

    Judy, thank God you called! Mr. DiNunzio said. He came onto the line abruptly, and Judy assumed he had taken the phone from Mary. The police, they have my friend downtown. They took him away, in handcuffs. Mr. DiNunzio’s voice was choked with emotion, and Judy’s heart went out to him, the gravity of the situation striking home.

    What happened?

    They say he killed a man, but he would never. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Mr. DiNunzio cleared his throat, and Judy could hear him collect himself. "I would never ask such a thing, a favor, for me. For myself. You know this. But for my friend, my compare, he’s in trouble."

    Whatever you need, you got it, Mr. D.

    I know you, you’re a good girl. A smart lawyer. You know all the ins and outs. You work hard, like my Mary. Will you be his lawyer, Judy? Please?

    Of course I will, Mr. D, Judy answered, and the words weren’t out of her mouth before she was reaching for her briefcase.

    And slipping her bare feet into a pair of clunky yellow clogs.

    3

    Pigeon Tony struck Judy as the cutest defendant ever, and she wanted to rescue the little old man the moment she saw him in the interview room of the Roundhouse, Philadelphia’s police administration building. He was only five foot four, probably a hundred and thirty pounds, and he startled as Judy burst into the interview room, lost in a white paper jumpsuit that was way too large for his scrawny neck and narrow chest. His withered arms stuck like twigs from short sleeves, and his knobby wrists were pinched by steel handcuffs. His sunburned pate was dotted with liver spots and streaked by only a few filaments of silvery hair. His peeling nose was small and hooked; his eyes a round, dark brown, almost black, under a short brow. Judy couldn’t explain his superb tan, but she gathered he was called Pigeon because he looked like one.

    Mr. Lucia, I’m a lawyer, she said, briefcase in hand. My name is Judy Carrier and I was sent by the DiNunzios. They asked me to come and help you.

    The old man’s only response was to squint at her, and Judy didn’t understand why. Maybe he didn’t speak English. Maybe he didn’t want a lawyer. Maybe she should have worn pantyhose.

    I’m a friend of Mary DiNunzio. Judy took a seat in the orange bucket chair on the lawyer’s side of the counter. Five ratty interview carrels sat side by side. The interview room was otherwise empty, not for want of felons but for want of lawyers. Few attorneys bothered to come to the bowels of the Roundhouse, preferring to meet their clients where the floor didn’t crawl. You know Mary DiNunzio, don’t you?

    The old man, still squinting, slowly raised his arm and pointed at Judy with a finger that, though crooked at the knuckle, did not waver. His sleeve slid up his arm when he pointed, revealing a surprisingly wiry knot of biceps and a tattooed crucifix that had gone a blurry blue. But Judy still didn’t understand what he was pointing at.

    Mr. Lucia? What is it?

    Your, eh, your face, he said, his Italian accent as thick as tomato sauce. "Your mouth. Is bleeding?"

    Judy reddened. The lipliner. The editing pencil. No wonder the cops had recoiled at the sight of her. And she thought it was because she was a lawyer. No, it’s not bleeding. I’m sorry. She wiped her mouth quickly, rouging the back of her hand. Despite appearances, I’m not a clown but a lawyer, and a fairly good one, Mr. Lucia.

    Mariano tell me. I call him, and he tell me you come. I thank you. The old man nodded, in a courtly way. Also you calla me Pigeon Tony. Everybody calla me Pigeon Tony.

    Well, then, Pigeon Tony, you’re welcome, and I’m happy to represent you, Judy said, then remembered she could get fired for taking on a nice client. Lately she had been representing corporations, ill-mannered entities by charter. I’ll have to make sure that my boss says my firm can take your case. I just came down today to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.

    Pigeon Tony’s brow furrowed in confusion.

    Judy reminded herself to edit her words. Her only experience with broken English had been in the legal aid clinic in law school, and Latin hadn’t helped there either. I mean, hurt your case. Say the wrong thing to the police. You didn’t talk to the police, did you?

    I no talk. Mariano tell me.

    Did the police ask you questions about the murder? She flipped open the latch of her messy briefcase, wrested a legal pad from the debris, and located a Pilot pen strictly by sheer good luck. So what if her briefcase was a little full? Sometimes you had to carry your nest around. Nobody knew better than a military brat how to pitch a tent.

    "Si, si, they ask questions."

    What questions? Judy was wondering if the cops had tried an end-run around the Miranda warnings, as they still did. Taking advantage of a little old man, an immigrant even. They should be ashamed. Lots of questions?

    I no answer.

    Good.

    I no like.

    Judy was getting the hang of the accent thing. You no like what?

    Police.

    She smiled as she uncapped the pen and flipped through the pad for a clean slate. Now what else did the police do?

    Take me to here, take my hands—Pigeon Tony held up two small palms so that Judy could see the ink on each finger pad—"take me a picture. Take alla clothes, alla shoes, alla socks. Take blood. Take everything. Everything. No can believe!" His dark eyes rounded with amazement, and Judy gathered he didn’t get out much.

    They took your clothes and your blood for evidence. They always do that. It’s procedure.

    Evidence? Pigeon Tony repeated, rolling the unfamiliar word around in his mouth. "What means evidence?"

    Evidence is proof against you. Evidence shows you did the crime.

    "Evidence? Take mutandine!"

    "What’s mutandine?" Judy asked, and Pigeon Tony went visibly red in the face, his thin skin a dead giveaway. Mutandine must have meant underwear.

    Forget, he said quickly, looking away, and Judy suppressed a smile. He was so sweet, she couldn’t believe the police had arrested him for murder. Were they nuts? She was starting to no like police.

    I understand they’re charging you with murder. Judy checked her notes. The man they say you killed was eighty years old. Named Angelo Coluzzi. Did I say that right? Coluzzi? She pronounced it like Coa-lootz-see, to make it sound festive and Italian. Okay?

    "Si, si. Coluzzi."

    Good. Upstairs they’ll be processing—getting ready—the charge against you. Do you understand?

    "Si. Pigeon Tony’s face turned grave. Murder."

    Yes, murder, and I have to understand the evidence—the proof—they have against you. I’d like to begin by asking you a few—

    I kill Coluzzi, Pigeon Tony interrupted, and Judy’s mouth went dry. She hadn’t heard him right. She couldn’t have heard him right. She fumbled for her voice.

    You didn’t say you murdered Coluzzi, did you? she asked, her tone unprofessionally aghast. She didn’t know what a lawyer was supposed to do when her client volunteered a confession. Probably shut him up, but that wasn’t Judy’s style. If it was true, it was awful, and she wanted to know why. "Did you say you murdered Coluzzi?"

    No.

    Judy sighed with relief. It must have been the language barrier. Thank God.

    I no murder Coluzzi.

    I didn’t think so.

    I kill him. Pigeon Tony nodded firmly, his thin lips forming a determined line, confusing Judy completely.

    Let’s try this again, Mr. Lucia. Tony. Did you kill Angelo Coluzzi? Yes or no?

    "Si, si, I kill him. But—Pigeon Tony held up a finger, like a warning—no murder. I no murder!"

    What do you mean? Judy’s mind reeled. Antitrust beckoned. The Sherman Act was a cakewalk compared to an Italian immigrant. You killed Coluzzi but you didn’t murder him?

    "Si."

    That means yes, right? She wanted to make sure. Clarity would be in order right now, since it was the murder part.

    "Si, si. He kill my wife, so I kill him. No è murder."

    Judy’s heart lifted. Maybe it was self-defense. Where was your wife when Coluzzi killed her? Were you trying to protect your wife at the time? Is that why you killed him?

    No.

    No?

    "My wife, she dead sixty years. Murder by Coluzzi."

    Baffled, Judy set down her Pilot pen. Coluzzi killed your wife sixty years ago, so you killed him today?

    Si.

    It meant yes, but still. Why did you wait so long?

    Si! Si! Pigeon Tony’s face went suddenly red with emotion. "Sixty years, alla same. Occhio per occhio, dente per dente. Coluzzi big, important man. Suddenly animated, he puffed out his concave chest. Fascisti! You know, Fascisti?"

    Yes. Fascists? Judy racked her brain for Italian history but all she could dredge up was The Sopranos. She thought harder. You mean, like, Mussolini?

    Si! Il Duce! Pigeon Tony stuck out his lower lip, in imitation. "A murderer! He! Not me."

    I don’t understand—

    Coluzzi murder my Silvana! Tears welled up in Pigeon Tony’s eyes, a glistening but unmistakable sheen that he blinked away in obvious shame. His pointy Adam’s apple traveled up and down a stringy neck. So I kill Coluzzi.

    Are you saying that this Coluzzi killed your wife, in Italy?

    "Si, si! He murder her!"

    Why did he do that?

    "Because he want her and she no want him! So he kill her!" Pigeon Tony trembled at the thought, a shudder that traveled through his face and chin, emphasizing his frailty, and Judy felt her heart go out to him.

    So you got him back?

    Si, si.

    Judy understood the scenario, but her chest wrenched with conflict. So Coluzzi got away with murder?

    Si, si!

    What did the police do?

    "Coluzzi the police! Fascisti the police! They no care! I tell them, they do nothing! They laugh! Bitterness curled his thin lips. The war come, and alla people, they no care about one girl. You think they care? So Pigeon Tony, he get justice! For Silvana! For Frank, my son! Tony leaned forward, his manacled hands gripping the Formica counter. We go now. We tell judge!"

    Judy put up her hands. No! We no tell the judge. We no tell nobody. Anybody. The double negative was throwing her, as usual. You didn’t tell the police this, did you?

    Pigeon Tony shook his head. I no like.

    No like what?

    Police.

    She had forgotten. Okay, now, after they arraign you—charge you—they decide if you make bail. Bail means you get to go free, if you pay money. I think you will get bail, considering your age and lack of criminal record. Judy caught herself. You never killed anybody before, did you?

    Pigeon Tony appeared to think a minute. No.

    Good. Did you ever commit any other crime?

    No crime.

    Excellent. If they give you bail, who will bail you out?

    Pigeon Tony frowned again, uncomprehending.

    Who in your family will come for you? Who will pay money for you to be free? Is there anyone, when we go to the judge?

    Frank. My grandson. He come. Pigeon Tony stiffened. I tell judge.

    No, you no tell the judge. Judy had a legal duty to protect him and she wanted to get to the bottom of his story before she condemned him, even for murder. You have to listen to me. Revenge is no defense to murder, outside of Sicily.

    Com’e’?

    You can’t tell the judge. If you do, the police will send you to jail for the rest of your life. You don’t want that to happen, do you? You’ll never see Frank again. Judy watched as Pigeon Tony’s thin lips pursed,

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