Blake did not attend these tiresome preliminaries, although he followed
them with intense interest, the while a sardonic irritation arose in
him. Chancing to meet Mayor Wright one day, he said:
"I'm beginning to think my original plan was the best after all."
"You mean we should have lynched those fellows as they were taken?"
queried the Mayor, with a smile.
"Something like that."
"It won't take long to fix their guilt or innocence, once we get a
jury."
"Perhaps--if we ever get one. But the men of New Orleans seem filled
with a quality of mercy which isn't tempered with justice. Those who
haven't already formed an opinion of the case are incompetent to act as
intelligent jurors. Those who could render a fair judgment are afraid."
"You don't think there's any chance of an acquittal!"
"Hardly! And yet I hear the defense has called two hundred witnesses,
so there's no telling what they will prove. You see, the prosecution is
handicapped by a regard for the truth, something which doesn't trouble
the other side in the least."
"Suppose they should be acquitted?"
"It would mean the breakdown of our legal system."
"And what would happen?"
Blake repeated the question, eyeing the Mayor curiously.
"Exactly! What would happen? What ought to happen?"
"Why, nothing," said the other, nervously. "They'd go free, I suppose.
But Maruffi can't get off--he resisted an officer."
"Bah! He'd prove that Johnson assaulted him and he acted in
self-defense."
"He'd have to answer for his attack upon you."
Norvin gave a peculiarly disagreeable laugh. "Not at all. That's the
least of his sins. If the law fails in the Donnelly case I sha'n't ask
it to help me."
But his pessimism gave way to a more hopeful frame of mind when the
jury was finally impaneled and sworn and the trial began. The whole
city likewise heaved a sigh of relief. The people had been puzzled and
disgusted by the delay, and now looked forward to the outcome with all
the keener eagerness to see justice done. Even before the hour for
opening, the streets around the Criminal Court were thronged; the halls
and lobbies were packed with a crowd which gave evidence of a
breathless interest. No inch of space in the court-room was untenanted;
an air of deep importance, a hush of strained expectancy lay over all.
Norvin found himself in a room with the other witnesses for the State,
a goodly crowd of men and women, whites and blacks, many of whom he had
been instrumental in ferreting out. From beyond came the murmur of a
great assemblage, the shuffling of restless feet, the breathing of a
densely packed audience. The wait grew tedious as witness after witness
was summoned and did not return. At last he heard his own name called,
and was escorted down a narrow aisle into an inclosure peopled with
lawyers, reporters, and court officials, above which towered the dais
of the judge, the throne of justice. He mounted the witness-stand, was
sworn, and seated himself, then permitted his eyes to take in the
scene. Before him, stretching back to the distant walls, was a sea of
faces; to his right was the jury, which he scanned with the quick
appraisal of one skilled in human analysis. Between him and his
audience were the distinguished counsel, a dozen or more; and back of
them eleven swarthy, dark-visaged Sicilian men, seated in a row. At one
end sat Caesar Maruffi, massive, calm, powerful; at the other end sat
Gino Cressi, huddled beside his father, his pinched face bewildered and
terror-stricken.
A buzz of voices arose as the crowd caught its first full glimpse of
the man who had so nearly lost his life through his efforts to bring
these criminals to justice. Upon Maruffi's face was a look of such
malignant hate that the witness stiffened in his chair. For one brief
instant the Sicilian laid bare his soul, as their eyes met, then his
cunning returned; the fire died from his impenetrable eyes; he was
again the handsome, solid merchant who had sat with Donnelly at the Red
Wing Club. The man showed no effect of his imprisonment and betrayed no
sign of fear.
Norvin told his story simply, clearly, with a positiveness which could
not fail to impress the jury; he withstood a grilling cross-examination
at the hands of a criminal lawyer whose reputation was more than
State-wide; and when he finally descended from the stand, Larubio, the
cobbler, the senior Cressi, and Frank Normando stood within the shadow
of the gallows. Normando he identified as the man in the rubber coat
whose face he had clearly seen as the final shot was fired; he pointed
out Gino Cressi as the picket who had given warning of the Chief's
approach, then told of his share in the lad's arrest and what Gino had
said. Concerning the other three who had helped in the shooting he had
no conclusive evidence to offer; nevertheless, it was plain that his
testimony had dealt a damaging blow to the defense. Yet Maruffi's
glance showed no concern, but rather a veiled and mocking insolence.
As Blake passed out, young Cressi reached forth a timid hand and
plucked at him, whispering:
"Signore, you said they would not hurt me."
"Don't be afraid. No one shall harm you," he told the boy, reassuringly.
"You promise?"
"Yes."
Cressi snatched his son to his side and scowled upward, breathing a
malediction upon the American.
Inasmuch as the assassination had been carefully planned and executed
at a late hour on a deserted street, it was popularly believed that
very little direct testimony would be brought out, and that a
conviction, therefore, would rest mainly upon circumstantial evidence;
but as the trial progressed the case against the prisoners developed
unexpected strength. Had Donnelly fallen at the first volley, his
assailants would, in all probability, never have been identified, but
he had stood and returned their fire for a considerable time, thus
allowing opportunity for those living near by to reach their windows or
to run into the street in time to catch at least a glimpse of the
tragedy. Few saw more than a little, no one could identify all six of
the assailants; but so thoroughly had the prosecution worked, so
cunningly had it put these pieces together, that the whole scene was
reproduced in the court-room. The murderers were singled out one by one
and identified beyond a reasonable doubt.
One witness had passed Larubio's shop a few minutes before the shooting
and had recognized the cobbler and his brother-in-law, Gaspardo Cressi.
He also pointed out Normando and Paul Rafiro, both of whom he knew by
sight.
From an upper window of a house near by another man who had been
awakened by the noise saw Normando and Celso Fabbri in the act of
firing. A woman living opposite the cobbler's house peered out into the
smoke and flare in time to see Adriano Dora kneeling in the middle of
the street. He was facing her; the light was fairly good; there could
be no mistake. Various residents of the neighborhood had similar tales
to tell, for, while no one had seen the beginning of the fight, a dozen
pairs of eyes had looked out upon the finish, and many of these had
recorded a definite picture of one or more of the actors. A gentleman
returning from a lodge-meeting had even found himself on the edge of
the battle, and had been so frightened that he ran straight home. He
had learned, later, the significance of the fray, and had told nobody
about his experience until Norvin Blake had traced him out and wrung
the story from him. He feared the Mafia with the fear of death; but
descending from the stand he pointed out four of the
assassins--Normando, Fabbri, Rafiro, and Dora. He had seen them in the
very act of firing.
A watchman on duty near by saw the boy Gino running past a moment
before the shooting began; then, as he hurried toward the disturbance,
he met Normando, Dora, and Rafiro coming toward him. The first of these
carried a shotgun, which dropped into the gutter as he slipped and
fell. The weapon and the suit of clothes Normando had worn were
produced and identified. It transpired that this witness knew Paul
Rafiro well, and for that reason had refused to tell what he knew until
Norvin Blake had come to him and forced the words from his lips.
So it ran; the chain of evidence grew heavier with every hour. It
seemed that some superhuman agency must have set the stage for the
tragedy, posting witnesses at advantageous points. People marveled how
so many eyes had gazed through the empty, rainy night; it was as if a
mysterious hand had reached out of nowhere and brought together the
onlookers, one by one, willing and unwilling, friend and enemy alike.
A more conclusive case than the State advanced against the six hired
murderers during the first few days would be hard to conceive, and the
public began to look for equally conclusive proof against the master
ruffian and his lieutenants; but through it all Maruffi sat
unperturbed, guiding the counsel with a word or a suggestion, in his
bearing a calm self-assurance.
Then came a surprise which roused the whole city. From out of the
parish prison appeared another Italian, a counterfeiter, who had
recently been arrested, and who proved to be a Pinkerton detective
"planted" among the Mafiosi for a purpose. Larubio had been a
counterfeiter in Sicily--it was in the government prison that he had
learned his cobbler's trade; and out of the fullness of his heart he
had talked--so the detective swore--concerning these foolish Americans
who sought to stay the hand of La Mafia. Nor had he been the only one
to commit himself. Di Marco, Garcia, and the other two lieutenants
turned livid as the stool-pigeon confronted them with their own words.
On the heels of this came the crowning dramatic moment of the trial.
Normando broke down and tried to confess in open court. He was a dull,
ignorant man, with a bestial face and a coward's eye. This unexpected
treachery, his own complete identification, had put an intolerable
strain upon him. Without warning, he rose to his feet in the crowded
court-room and cried loudly in his own tongue:
"Madonna mia! I do not want to die! I confess! I confess!"
Norvin Blake, who had been watching the proceedings from the audience,
leaped from his seat as if electrified; other spectators followed, for
even among those who could not understand the fellow's words it was
seen that he was breaking. Normando's ghastly pallor, his wet and
twitching lips, his shaking hands, all told the story. Confusion
followed. Amid the hubbub of startled voices, the stir of feet, the
interruption of counsel, the wretch ran on, repeating his fear of death
and his desire to confess, meanwhile beating his breast in hysterical
frenzy.
Of all the Americans present perhaps Norvin alone understood exactly
what the Sicilian was saying and why consternation had fallen upon the
other prisoners. Larubio went white; a blind and savage fury leaped
into Maruffi's face; the other nine wilted or stiffened according to
the effect fear had upon them.
A death-like hush succeeded the first outbreak, and through Normando's
gabble came the judge's voice calling for an interpreter. There was no
need for the crier to demand silence; every ear was strained for the
disclosures that seemed imminent.
Blake was forcing himself forward to offer his services when the
wretch's wavering eyes caught something in the audience and rested
there. The death sign of the Brotherhood was flashed at him; he halted.
His tongue ran thickly for a moment; then he sank into his chair, and,
burying his head in his hands, began to rock from side to side, sobbing
and muttering. Nor would he say more, even when a recess was declared
and he was taken into the judge's chambers. Thereafter he maintained a
sullen, hopeless silence which nothing could break, glaring at his
captors with the defiance of a beast at bay. But the episode had had
its effect; it seemed that no one could now doubt the guilt of the
prisoners.
The assurance of conviction grew as it was proven that Maruffi himself
had rented Larubio's shop and laid the trap for Donnelly's destruction.
Step by step the plot was bared in all its hideous detail. The blood
money was traced from the six hirelings up through the four superiors
to Caesar himself. Then followed the effort to show a motive for the
crime--not a difficult task, since every one knew of Donnelly's work
against the Mafia. Maruffi's domination of the Society was harder to
bring out; but when the State finally rested its case, even Blake, who
had been dubious from the start, confessed that American law and
American courts had demonstrated their efficiency.
During all this time his relations with Vittoria remained unchanged.
She and Oliveta eagerly welcomed his reports of the trial; but she
never permitted him to see her alone, and he felt that she was
deliberately withdrawing from him. He met her only for brief
interviews. Of Myra Nell, meanwhile, he saw nothing, since, with
characteristic abruptness, she had decided to visit some forgotten
cousins in Mobile.
Of all those who followed the famous Mafia trial, detail by detail,
perhaps no one did so with greater fixity of interest than Bernie
Dreux. He reveled in it, he talked of nothing else, his waking hours
were spent in the courtroom, his dreams were peopled with Sicilian
figures. He hung upon Norvin, his hero, with a tenacity that was
trying; he discussed the evidence bit by bit; he ran to him with every
rumor, every fresh development. As the prosecution made its case his
triumph became fierce and fearful to behold; then when the defense
began its crafty efforts he grew furiously indignant, a mighty rage
shook him, he swelled and choked with resentment.
"What do you think?" he inquired, one day. "They're proving alibis, one
by one! It's infamous!"
"It will take considerable Sicilian testimony to offset the effect of
our witnesses," Blake told him.
But Dreux looked upon the efforts of the opposing lawyers as a personal
affront, and so declared himself.
"Why, they're trying to make you out a liar! That's what it amounts to.
The law never intended that a gentleman's word should be disputed. If I
were the judge I'd close the case right now and instruct the sheriff to
hang all the prisoners, including their attorneys."
"They'll never be acquitted."
Bernie shook his head morosely.
"There's a rumor of jury-fixing. I hear one of the talesmen was
approached with a bribe before the trial."
"I can scarcely believe that."
"I'll bet it's true just the same. If I'd known what they were up to
I'd have got on the jury myself. I'd have taken their money, then I'd
have fixed 'em!"
"You'd have voted for eleven hemp neckties, eh?"
"I'd have hung each man twice."
Although Blake at first refused to credit the rumors of corruption, the
following days served to verify them, for more than one juryman
confessed to receiving offers. This caused a sensation which grew as
the papers took up the matter and commented editorially. A leading
witness for the State finally told of an effort to intimidate him, and
men began to ask if this was destined to prove as rotten as other Mafia
cases in the past. A feeling of unrest, of impatience, began to
manifest itself, vague threats were voiced, but the idea of a bribed or
terrorized jury was so preposterous that few gave credence to it.
Nevertheless, the closing days of the trial were weighted heavily with
suspense. Not only the city, but the country at large, hung upon the
outcome. So strongly had racial antipathy figured that Italy took note
of the case, and it assumed an international importance. Biased
accounts were cabled abroad which led to an uneasy stir in ministerial
and consular quarters.
During the exhaustive arguments at the close of the trial Norvin and
Bernie sat together. When the opening attorneys for the prosecution had
finished, Dreux exclaimed, triumphantly:
"We've got 'em! They can't escape after that."
But when the defense in turn had closed, the little man revealed an
indignant face to his companion, saying:
"Lord! They're as good as free! We'll never convict on evidence like
that."
Once more he changed, under the spell of the masterly State's attorney,
and declared with fierce exultance:
"What did I tell you? They'll hang every mother's son of 'em. The jury
won't be out an hour."
The jury was out more than an hour, even though press and public
declared the case to be clear. Yet, knowing that the eyes of the world
were upon her, New Orleans went to sleep that night serene in the
certainty that she had vindicated herself, had upheld her laws, and
proved her ability to deal with that organized lawlessness which had so
long been a blot upon her fair name.
Soon after court convened on the following morning the jury sent word
that they had reached a verdict, and the court-room quickly filled.
Rumors of Caesar Maruffi's double identity had gone forth; it was
hinted that he was none other than the dreaded Belisario Cardi, that
genius of a thousand crimes who had held all Sicily in fear. This
report supplied the last touch of dramatic interest.
Blake and Bernie were in their places before the prisoners arrived.
Every face in the room was tense and expectant; even the calloused
attendants felt the hush and lowered their voices in deference. Every
eye was strained toward the door behind which the jury was concealed.
There came the rumble of the prison van below, the tramp of feet upon
the hollow stairs, and into the dingy, high-ceilinged hall of justice
filed the accused, manacled and doubly guarded. Maruffi led, his black
head held high; Normando brought up the rear, supported by two
officers. He was racked with terror, his body hung like a sack, a
moisture of foam and spittle lay upon his lips. When he reached the
railing of the prisoners' box he clutched it and resisted loosely,
sobbing in his throat; but he was thrust forward into a seat, where he
collapsed.
The judge and the attorneys were in their places when a deputy sheriff
swung open the door to the jury-room and the "twelve good men and true"
appeared. As if through the silence of a tomb they went to their
stations while eleven pairs of black Sicilian eyes searched their
downcast features for a sign. Larubio, the cobbler, was paper-white
above his smoky beard; Di Marco's swarthy face was green, like that of
a corpse; his companions were frozen in various attitudes of eager,
dreadful waiting. The only sound through the scuff and tramp of the
jurors' feet was Normando's lunatic murmuring. As for the leader of the
band, he sat as if graven in stone; but, despite his iron control, a
pallor had crept up beneath his skin.
Blake heard Bernie whisper:
"Look! They know they're lost."
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" came the voice
of the judge.