Killer Smile Read online

  She headed out of the room but stopped at her bureau, taking the time to dab some cakey flesh-colored Clearasil over the purplish bruises on her forehead, which would fool no one and stung besides. She took no pain meds, despite the dull ache from the wound, because she had to think clearly today. She made her bed hastily, turned out the bedroom light, and padded down the hall, checking in on her parents’ bedroom, almost hoping they’d be asleep.

  But they weren’t. Their bedroom was empty, dark, and looked the way it always did; their double bed flush against the flowered wallpaper, a wooden crucifix over the dark head-board, a blue plastic denture case on her father’s night table. They were already awake and downstairs, waiting for her. Good! Right?

  Mary had told her mother last night that she had to leave the next morning. They’d tacitly agreed that they’d had enough drama for one night and could postpone the fistfight until morning. Now. She left the room, steeled her nerve, and tramped downstairs to do battle over fresh coffee. The DiNunzios may be crazy, but at least we’re civilized.

  Five minutes later, Mary was sitting behind a scorching cup, opposite her father, saying nothing as they waited for her mother to sit down. Both her parents were fully dressed, her father in maroon Bermuda shorts, undershirt, white socks and black slippers, with his hearing aid curled in his ear like an electronic snail. Uh-oh. He had undoubtedly gotten an earful last night, and it was a bad sign that he wanted to hear this morning. Her mother wore her flowered housedress, her scuffy slippers, but no pink hairnet, which meant only one thing: she was going to early Mass this morning. A definite bad sign.

  Mary sipped her coffee for strength while her mother put the pot down so hard on the stove it made a clank, unseating the cast-iron burner. Then she came over to the kitchen table and sat down behind her cup without a word. Her eyes weren’t too tired to be stern behind the bifocal half of her glasses, which magnified her pupils in a black-and-brown window. Her lips were as tight as last night. “So, where you go, Maria?”

  “To court, for Amadeo.”

  “You should stay home. You’re sick. Your head.”

  “I can’t. I have to go.”

  “The newspapers, out front again.”

  “I know. They should leave when I do, but if they don’t, don’t talk to them. Don’t talk to them no matter what.” Mary turned to her father. “Don’t let her hit them with the spoon, either. That’s assault.”

  He smiled, but her mother frowned. “Today, Judy goes?”

  “No, I go alone.”

  “E Benedetta?”

  “No, not Bennie either.” Mary didn’t even want to think where Bennie was or what she’d say about what had happened. She’d unplugged her parents’ phone for a reason. They’d realize it sometime next year.

  “These man, Saracone, he sent the one last night?”

  “Yes, the son,” Mary said, without hesitation. Justin Saracone was protecting his secret. No use sugarcoating it. Her mother wasn’t stupid.

  “And the police, why the police don’ stop these man?”

  “They can’t prove he did it, and they have to prove it.” Like me. “I can’t wait for them anyway. Now, I have to go.” Mary didn’t know how to put it any differently. She was going to court no matter what her mother said. She couldn’t ask permission to do her job, but this was beyond that. She couldn’t ask permission to be herself. Not after Montana, or last night. They had two different paths to follow, mother and daughter. They were separate now. Changed, now and forever. Mary reached across the table and touched her mother’s hand. “I can handle it, Ma. I saved my own life last night. You’re going to save yours, too, right?”

  Her mother didn’t reply. Her father looked down.

  “We can do it, Ma. You and me. But I have to go now. I’m gonna be late. You have to let me go, Ma.” You have to let me go.

  Suddenly her mother stood up, pushing back her chair, which made a familiarly unhappy squeak on the tile floor. Mary knew what would happen next because it happened all the time. Her mother would walk out of the kitchen. If Mary were going to leave today, it wouldn’t be with anybody’s blessing. But in the next minute, instead of storming out of the room, her mother opened her arms.

  “Maria, good-bye, Maria,” she said, in a shaky voice.

  Mary’s mouth dropped open. She rose reflexively and went around the table. But this time, she did cry.

  And when she was finished, she wiped her eyes and went to work.

  Forty-Six

  The rain didn’t faze the throng of reporters and photographers who mobbed Mary as soon as she got out of the Yellow cab in front of the United States Courthouse. They overflowed the wide sidewalk almost to the glamorous new Constitution Center, spilling off the curb, snarling cab, car, bus, and tourist traffic on an insanely busy Market Street. There were at least a hundred reporters, and Mary spotted ABC, COURT-TV, and CNN logos, as well as locals KYW and WCAU. And to think, all she had to do was almost get killed.

  “Mary, Mary, Mary!” Everyone in the crowd was shouting, a reportorial cacophony. Mary had never heard her name so many times, except for Our Lady of Angels. “Mary, did you know the guy who kidnapped you?” “Mary, over here!” “Mary, smile!” “Mary, this way!” “Mary, did the Roundhouse identify the driver yet, Mary?” “Mary, how’d you get outta the trunk?” “Mary, is it true he was related to Justin Saracone?”

  “After court! No comment until then!” Mary waved them all off as she made her way through the bubble microphones, boom mikes, and steno pads. They aimed videocameras, still cameras, and handheld klieglights at her Clearasil, and round flexible reflective screens bounced artificial light into her tired eyes. It was even better than she had hoped. “No comment until after the hearing! Thank you!”

  Mary pushed her way inside the tall red-brick building, threading her way through its packed lobby of jurors, lawyers, spectators, and reporters who dogged her every step. She ignored everybody, barreling head down through security to the elevators, and she didn’t look up until she reached the courtroom.

  The courtroom was immense, with long dark wood pews and a matching wood dais under the huge golden seal of the United States Courts, and even as large as it was, the courtroom was bursting at its federal seams. Spectators crammed the pews cheek by jowl, knee to knee, filling every inch of bench. They stood along the back wall of the courtroom, concealing its heavy acoustical wood panels, and along the sides, under the heavy oil portraits hanging there, framed in gilt. Beyond the bar of court, the courtroom deputies were at full staff, and every law clerk’s high-backed chair was taken. The body heat challenged the air-conditioning, and the air was thick with aftershaves, perfumes, and pencil leads.

  Mary stepped onto the blue carpet of the center aisle, and murmuring rippled through the crowd. Every single head turned toward her. She felt her face flush red as tomato sauce and kept her head down as she barreled down the aisle, with everyone craning their necks, or boosting themselves up to catch a glimpse of the lawyer who got locked in the trunk. Sketch artists held their gray pads sideways, and reporters scribbled on steno pads, including Mac, whose eye she avoided. The circolo, occupying two aisles on her right, waved frantically at her, and Mary acknowledged them with a nod, then practically ran up the aisle to the polished counsel table, where Judy was sitting, dressed up in a black suit, real eyeliner, and hair moussed into submission.

  “Don’t you look pretty,” Mary whispered as she took her seat, and Judy smiled.

  “How’s first chair feel, big girl?”

  “Terrifying.”

  “Go get ’em.” They both looked over at the same time to defendant’s table, where an older corporate-type lawyer sat next to Justin Saracone. Both lawyer and client were dressed in expensive dark suits with a sleek Italian cut, shiny black wingtips, white shirts with cutaway collars, and puffy silk ties. The only difference between them was that Justin had a swollen upper lip.

  Mary smiled. “I do good work.”

  “You
the man. BTW, you see the boss? She’s here. Third row, in the middle.”

  Mary took a peek. There. Bennie in her trademark suit. Trademark hair. Trademark glare. Mary faced front, fast. “Am I fired?”

  “Not this time. She feels guilty she almost got you killed on that last blind date.”

  Suddenly a paneled pocket door opened to the left of the dais, and the courtroom deputy appeared and took a position in front of the American flag, his chest puffed out. “All rise for the Honorable Lisa Gemmill,” he called out, his ringing voice hushing the crowd instantly, and Mary, Judy, and everyone else rose as Judge Gemmill entered the courtroom. Mary had never been before her, but the number of judges Mary had never been before was legion.

  Judge Gemmill nodded to the courtroom as she swept in and took her seat on the dais. She had long, dark hair, bright intelligent eyes, and wore a chic string of pearls with her robes. “Good morning, Ms. DiNunzio, Mr. Rovitch.” Then her gaze took in the entire courtroom, her displeasure undisguised. “Ladies and gentlemen, I will have order in my courtroom today. I intend to keep these proceedings on a tight rein.” She focused on Mary. “Ms. DiNunzio, you’re the movant today. Please begin.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Mary gathered her papers and exhibits and went to the lectern, trying to forget that five million eyes were staring at her. “Your Honor, if it please the Court, my name is Mary DiNunzio, and I’m here on behalf of the estate of Amadeo Brandolini—”

  “Brava!” “Bravissima!” “Yeah, Mary!” The circolo burst into spontaneous whoops and applause, and the gallery laughed.

  Crak! Crak! Judge Gemmill pounded the gavel with a frown. “Order, people! Order!” She waited until they had settled, then looked down at Mary. “Ms. DiNunzio. Given the crowd today, perhaps we can shorten this proceeding. I have read your papers carefully, and I do have a few questions.”

  Stay calm. Lots of judges do it this way.

  “As you are well aware, you are before me today seeking extraordinary relief. Injunctive relief is granted in advance of a full trial, and enforceable by my contempt powers. Accordingly, the standard for such relief is quite high, whether it’s a patent case or no.” Judge Gemmill peered over the top of her glasses. “You are familiar with the standard courts must use for grant of a temporary restraining order, are you not?”

  “I am, Your Honor.” Mary wet her lips. “A trial court must consider whether the movant can show a reasonable probability of success on the merits, that he or she will be irreparably harmed by denial of the relief, whether granting preliminary relief will result in even greater harm to the nonmoving party, and whether the order will be in the public interest.”

  “Exactly.” Judge Gemmill thumbed through Mary’s brief. “Your brief is really quite well done, and I understand your irreparable harm argument with the sale of rights to Reinhardt. However, the glaring problem with your case is your likelihood of success on the merits. I am not sure that you can satisfy this essential requirement for the relief you seek.”

  Okay, this happens, too. The judge tells you what’s worrying her, and you deal.

  “In this regard, while I understand your proof problems — that the alleged fraud on the patent office occurred decades ago, and that both the patent holder, Giovanni Saracone, and your client, Amadeo Brandolini, are now deceased — I simply do not see that you have proven that Mr. Saracone misappropriated an invention of Mr. Brandolini’s.” Judge Gemmill peered over the top of her glasses. “Would you address that, Ms. DiNunzio?”

  “Your Honor, I agree that my evidence is circumstantial, but it establishes the fact that Mr. Brandolini created a set of drawings for a marine deck hatch which were identical to those that ended up in Mr. Saracone’s patent application. I have also proven that the application was filed the week after Mr. Saracone and Mr. Brandolini were working together alone and Mr. Brandolini was killed by strangulation, allegedly from a suicide by hanging.”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Rovitch barked, but Judge Gemmill waved him off.

  “Duly noted,” she said. She turned to Mary. “Now, what is your proof that the drawings with the patent application were Mr. Brandolini’s and not Mr. Saracone’s?”

  Mary swallowed. “Your Honor, those drawings were in Mr. Brandolini’s wallet, part of his personal effects. As my affidavit shows, my associate Judy Carrier saw them. They were given to me by Mr. Brandolini’s former lawyer, Frank Cavuto, who was murdered last week.”

  The courtroom burst into muffled comment, which Judge Gemmill silenced with a raised eyebrow. “Did Mr. Brandolini sign the drawings that you saw?”

  “No, Your Honor. He couldn’t read or write.”

  “Did he identify them in any way, on the drawings?”

  “Aside from keeping them where he kept his most precious papers, no, Your Honor.”

  Judge Gemmill took off her glasses. “Isn’t it equally possible, then, that the drawings in Mr. Brandolini’s wallet were Mr. Saracone’s?”

  “No. The drawings were of a marine deck hatch used on fishing boats. At the time of the invention, Mr. Saracone owned a lunch truck. He was never a fisherman—”

  “Objection!” Rovitch said, and Judge Gemmill nodded to Mary to continue, not that she needed encouragement.

  “In contrast, at the time of the invention, Mr. Brandolini had been a fisherman all his life. He was an adult, almost aged forty, when he went to the camp. He owned three fishing boats.”

  “How would the Court know that, counsel?”

  “Everybody knows that,” Mary blurted out in frustration, and the circolo burst into righteous applause.

  Crak Crak Crak! Judge Gemmill pounded the gavel. “Order! I will not have this! I will not!”

  “Your Honor,” Mary said, “if Frank Cavuto hadn’t been murdered, I would have proof that Amadeo Brandolini was a fisherman. If those drawings hadn’t been stolen, I could show you that they existed. If Keisha Williams hadn’t had her throat slit, I could prove that on his deathbed, Giovanni Saracone’s practically admitted that he murdered Amadeo!”

  “Objection! Objection! That’s an outrage!” Rovitch was shouting. Justin Saracone leapt to his feet, and the courtroom erupted in noise and chatter.

  Crak Crak Crak! “Order! Order! Order!” Judge Gemmill slammed the gavel down again and again.

  “Mary! Mary! Mary!” cheered the circolo, and others were shouting, too.

  Crak Crak Crak! “Order! Order!”

  “Mary! Mary!” someone called out, over the din.

  “Order, order, I said!” Judge Gemmill was shouting. “Who is that, standing up in the gallery? Sit down, you! Sit down this very minute!” The judge gestured swiftly to the courtroom deputy, who rushed past the bar of court. Mary turned around to see what was going on. The gallery was talking, and every member was seated.

  Except one.

  Forty-Seven

  It was Mrs. Nyquist, standing up from the middle of the gallery and raising her hand. Her blue eyes shone, her crow’s-feet deepened, and her mouth curved into that sweet smile. She stood barely unbended in the courtroom. Mary couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  “Mary!” Mrs. Nyquist called out, loudly enough to be heard. “May I speak to you for a minute, please?”

  “Pardon me?” Judge Gemmill said, astounded. “What is going on here?” The courtroom burst into new chatter, everybody craning their necks to see the action, and Mary went out the bar of court and hurried down the aisle toward Mrs. Nyquist.

  “What are you doing here?” Mary asked, mystified, and Mrs. Nyquist made her way out of the packed pew as if she were at a Saturday matinee. When she got to the end of the aisle, she handed Mary some papers.

  “Take a look at this, dear,” she said, and Mary did.

  “Ms. DiNunzio! Order! Deputy!” Judge Gemmill shouted, but Mary was armed with the papers and grabbed the deputy before he laid a hand on Mrs. Nyquist.

  “Your Honor, I call Mrs. Helen Nyquist to the stand!”

  “Object
ion! Objection!” Rovitch said, and the reporters scribbled away while the gallery kept talking.

  Mary took the lectern. “Your Honor, Mrs. Nyquist has evidently come all the way from Butte, Montana to give testimony in this matter.”

  “This witness wasn’t on the witness list,” Rovitch argued. “She shouldn’t be heard. Defendant wasn’t given proper notice.”

  Mary appealed to the judge. “Your Honor, I had no idea Mrs. Nyquist would be appearing today. I listed all my known witnesses in my papers and even served defendant with a copy of the papers personally.”

  “Served me?” Justin Saracone jumped to his feet again. “You hit me!”

  “Mr. Rovitch, silence your client!” Judge Gemmill banged the gavel. “I will not have further outbursts in my courtroom! Order! Order!” Crak! “I will not have this disruption! Order! Everybody! Now!”

  In the meantime, Mrs. Nyquist strode toward the witness box, and by the time the gallery had calmed down, she had seated herself quite comfortably, crossing her legs in her long denim skirt, which she wore with a light blue cotton sweater. Her short gray hair was shaped in the same cut Mary had seen that night in the farmhouse kitchen, with no concession to vanity.

  Mary looked up at Judge Gemmill. “Your Honor, may I proceed? It’s well-established that Mrs. Nyquist didn’t have to be announced on my witness list, in this sort of expedited proceeding. It isn’t a trial, Your Honor, where those rules apply.”

  Judge Gemmill looked from Mary to Mrs. Nyquist, then leaned toward the witness box. “You say Butte?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I have a home in Bigfork.”

  “Flathead Lake’s mighty pretty.”

  “I’ll say.” Judge Gemmill banged the gavel and smiled. “Swear her in. Proceed, Ms. DiNunzio.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Your Honor, may I get some copies of these documents for defendant and the Court?” Mary handed a law clerk the documents as Judge Gemmill nodded, and he disappeared out the pocket door while Mrs. Nyquist was sworn in. “Now Mrs. Nyquist, please tell the court where you were, from 1941 to 1943.”