Chapter Forty-Two
Eunice
New York, New York
When we round the corner from Chambers to Centre, I gasp.
The sidewalk in front of the Supreme Court teems with people.
Several hundred men and women, it seems, surround the entrance of this imposing templelike structure.
Curious New Yorkers are pressed on one side, and on the other, reporters and men with flashing cameras jostle for position behind a line of cops.
I’m flabbergasted, although I shouldn’t be. Since Luciano’s arrest, this case has dominated the city’s newspapers’ headlines.
“Dewey said for us to speak to no one,” Mr. Ten Eyck reminds us.
No one needs that reminder. We are all aware of the leaks. And aware of our public image. Me most of all.
I grab the box that holds the exhibits I’ve prepared and pause before exiting the car. Per the plan, the Packard with Dewey inside opens first. We knew he’d be met with reporters’ flashes, but he’s greeted with shouts and heckles as well.
“Give ’em hell, Dewey!”
“You can’t take Lucky down!”
“Put Luciano behind bars!”
“You’re just after headlines, Dewey!”
Unfazed, the chief and the prosecutors who rode with him press through the throng. Then, as they begin to ascend the steps, the second car empties before it’s our turn.
“Clean up New York!” someone shouts the moment we step out of our car.
The camera light bulbs blind me, and I clutch the box and rush up the stairs leading to the colonnade and the massive front doors. There’s a bit of a logjam, and as I look over the shoulders of the attorneys in front of me, I see the guards at the door questioning everyone.
“Shoot,” I mutter. “I should have taken out my identification card.” But I relax when I see lawyers are just giving their names to gain entry.
Finally, I reach the door, but a ruddy-faced cop blocks my path. “How did you get past the ropes?” he barks. “No spectators inside. Get back over there.” He points to the swarm of onlookers.
“I am not a spectator, Officer. I’m Assistant District Attorney Eunice Carter.”
“I don’t care if your name is Jesus Christ. Step aside or you’ll be arrested.” His face darkens with his threat.
Over his shoulder, I see the other prosecutors moving farther into the lobby.
I fumble for my identification card as I shout out, “Mr. Ten Eyck!” just as the cop shoves me back.
I stumble, nearly losing my balance. But Mr. Ten Eyck turns at the sound of my voice.
Standing on my toes, I clutch the box with one hand and wave frantically with the other. “Please, he won’t let me in.”
Mr. Ten Eyck’s eyes widen in understanding, and he rushes back. “She’s with us. One of Dewey’s team.”
The cop’s eyebrows stretch high as he glances between me and Ten Eyck.
He’s still uncertain but steps aside without apology.
I’m annoyed, but the moment I enter the lobby, it’s forgotten as I hurry behind Mr. Ten Eyck, down the wide marble-wainscoted corridor to the end.
When I step inside the courtroom, I pause.
No matter how many times I’ve been in one of these courtrooms, I’m always struck by how majestic this space feels compared to the cramped and chaotic magistrate courts.
Here, the sunlight streams through wide windows, highlighting leather-covered seats and polished wood paneling.
Even the jury box is enclosed behind an ornate railing.
The courtroom is already bustling, jam-packed even though it is not even half past eight; the trial is not set to begin until ten.
Scanning the crowd, I’m taken aback when I glance to the left.
A dozen chairs are lined against the wall, and I recognize the co-defendants: Thomas Pennochio, Dave Betillo, Ralph Liguori, Jimmy Frederico, and Pete Harris are the most familiar to me.
But I made a point to know the others: Abie Wahrman, Jackie Ellerstein, Dave Miller, Al Weiner, Jesse Jacobs, Benny Spiller, Meyer Berkman…
all twelve of them, handcuffed and flanked by guards.
Not a one is behaving like a man who’s been detained for weeks in prison, facing grievous charges and lengthy sentences. They are chewing the fat and laughing as if they are passing the morning in one of those exclusive invitation-only private clubs.
When my gaze shifts to the defense table, I finally see him. For the first time, I lay eyes on Lucky Luciano. The Boss. The man who’s raking in millions annually with this racket alone.
Luciano sits casually, shooting the breeze with his attorneys, Francis W.
H. Adams and George Morton Levy. He is immaculately dressed in one of the handmade suits he’s known to wear: a navy jacket and pants, white shirt, and silk tie the exact shade of his suit.
With his dark hair slicked back, he looks more like the chief executive of General Electric than a ruthless kingpin.
As Luciano talks to his lawyers, he casually takes in the room. Then his eyes stop roving. His gaze narrows. He’s spotted me.
The chatter mutes, the laughter fades…time holds its breath. Even with his right eyelid drooping, his stare is piercing and unrelenting. His expression is so cold, so calculating, so cruel that the box I’m holding slips from my grasp and hits the floor with a thud.
Quickly, I bend to retrieve it. But when I rise, Luciano has turned away, now laughing at something one of his attorneys has said. I’ve already been dismissed from his mind. For now.
I am unnerved. The note, the doll, the paint on my car reel through my mind. For the past year, I’ve wondered if I’ve been in Luciano’s sights. There is no question that I am now. And I will be. Every day.
Turning away, I place the carton on the floor and take my place in one of the seats behind the prosecution table with actual trial attorneys. I keep my eyes away from the defendants’ side of the courtroom and focus on my notes.
As the minutes pass, the activity in the room begins to subside. The mood becomes subdued, and when the clock strikes ten, the bailiff calls the court to order. Justice McCook enters and takes his place behind the judge’s bench.
The judge motions to the bailiff, undoubtedly to give him instructions for bringing in the jury.
Selecting a jury was an arduous process, dragging on for weeks rather than the typical four or five days.
The relentless press coverage had tainted the jury pool long before the first summonses were sent out.
Finding twelve impartial men had proven nearly impossible.
The challenge wasn’t bias—it was fear. Serving on a case against the country’s most ruthless mobster was a harrowing notion for prospective jurors.
I had stayed behind in the office for this part of the trial, preparing the charts that we’d use in Dewey’s opening argument and in witness examinations.
But through Dewey’s daily team briefings, I learned that more than a few juror candidates had paled in Lucky’s presence; several refused to enter the courtroom when they realized Luciano was inside.
When days passed, I began to wonder if we would ever find twelve men willing to pass judgment on a man like him. But we finally did.
The judge announces, “Bailiff, bring in the jury.”
Before the bailiff even takes a step toward the side door, Dewey stands. I inhale. All of us on the prosecution team have been waiting for this moment:
“Your Honor, before the jury enters, I must apprise the court of a significant development regarding three of the defendants.”
The courtroom begins to hum with whispers until Judge McCook strikes his gavel. “Order in the court,” he commands. He turns to Dewey. “Continue, Counselor.”
The chief says, “Your Honor, the defendants Dave Miller, Al Weiner, and Pete Harris wish to change their pleas. They will be entering pleas of guilty.”
Because of the concern over leaks, only a few of us were privy to this news, and now the courtroom buzzes with hushed whispers of surprise.
Judge McCook hammers his gavel three times. “Silence!”
My gaze shifts to Luciano. He and his lawyers sit as seemingly relaxed as before. I am astonished. Surely the defense team and Luciano understand what this means.
Three out of four of Luciano’s most trusted bookers have entered guilty pleas, and everyone in here knows what will follow. All three men will testify not only to the Mob’s operation but to the fact that the Combination is led by Luciano. This is without precedent.
Ordinarily, an arrangement of this kind would have been announced well before the beginning of the trial.
But this was Dewey’s doing, a deliberate maneuver.
First, to put the defense on its heels. And second, to create a sensation—for days, this will be the lead in every newspaper and on every broadcast.
Imagine that. The jury hasn’t even been seated and the People have fired the opening shot. From the sound of the chatter that continues in the courtroom, it has landed like a thunderclap.
And what’s to come will rattle the Luciano team even further.