Chapter Fifty-One
Eunice
New York, New York
Although the courtroom has been jammed to capacity since the beginning of the trial, today The People of the State of New York v.
Charles Luciano, et al. is different. Throngs of New Yorkers have flocked to this grand chamber to get a glimpse of the infamous defendant, the last person on the stand.
And the room overflows with family and friends, lawyers, politicians, and journalists.
Last night, every newspaper headline led with this story—the mobster versus the prosecutor.
The defense informed the court that there would be one last witness: Charles “Lucky” Luciano would take the stand. Everyone in the city was anticipating a showdown between Dewey and Luciano worthy of the Mob’s infamous shoot-outs.
Glancing over my shoulder, I inhale. My hope was that Lisle would join me, especially after all the press reports of what was coming today.
“Are you searching for someone?” Murray’s voice cuts through the din.
Turning, I smile at my friend. Today, for the first time, all twenty of us assistant district attorneys fill the seats behind the prosecution table.
“No. I’m just taking it all in. The air in here…”
“It crackles,” he finishes for me just as the bailiff comes in.
When Justice McCook enters, he moves with an air of solemn authority that is more intense today than any other day. I take in the gravity of this moment as the judge settles behind the bench.
“Mr. Levy, are you prepared to call your first witness?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Charles Luciano will take the stand in his own defense.”
The judge turns to Luciano. “Mr. Luciano, are you aware you have the right to remain silent?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And if you testify you will be cross-examined by the prosecution?”
Luciano’s lips spread into a slow, sinister grin. “I’m ready for Mr. Dewey.”
A collective gasp sweeps through the courtroom, forcing Judge McCook to bang his gavel.
The courtroom stills as Luciano rises from the defense table, lifting his cuffed wrists.
The closest guard unlocks the irons. Luciano rubs his hands together before, with a measured stride, he approaches the stand.
He walks like a man in control, not a man who’s been confined for months and faces decades in prison.
The bailiff administers the oath, and Luciano solemnly says “I do,” professing that he will tell the whole truth. I tense. This will be the crux of Dewey’s cross-examination. We will prove that Luciano has never uttered a truthful word in his life.
The defense’s questioning moves swiftly.
Mr. Levy asks his client about his early years, attending school on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, quitting in the sixth grade to work in a hat factory, and then living on his own and surviving on gambling and dice games.
Then Mr. Levy broaches Luciano’s criminal record—a decade-old narcotics conviction.
Luciano bows his head. “I regret that,” he says, softening his voice, an attempt at showing remorse.
Mr. Levy has prepared his client well. It seems Luciano is not only a liar, he’s an actor, too.
“Since that time, I’ve had no other narcotics arrests, and no convictions except for a gambling fine in Miami. I’ve done everything I can to live on the right side of the law.”
“So you’ve never sold narcotics again?”
“That is correct.”
“Now, Mr. Luciano, I want to speak with you about the other co-defendants. Are you familiar with any of the men?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never met any of these men in my life, with the exception of Davie Betillo. And that was just once. But I told him I didn’t want to do any business with him.”
“Do you know Nancy Presser?”
“No, never met her. Saw her for the first time in this courtroom.”
“What about Mildred Balitzer?”
“Never met her. Saw her for the first time in this courtroom.”
I hold my breath as Luciano gives the same response for every one of the long list of witnesses and parties.
At the end, he adds, “I swear to you and the court, with the exception of the hotel staff from the Waldorf Towers, there is not a witness that Mr. Dewey has called that I’ve ever met in my life. ”
“Thank you, Mr. Luciano.” Levy turns, and with a quick glance at Dewey, says, “Your witness.”
My heart thumps.
Dewey rises, buttoning his suit jacket. At once, I feel a collective intake of breath. Luciano glares at Dewey, his stare cold and steely.
“Good morning, Mr. Luciano,” the chief says, his tone polite but sharp.
Luciano gives him a curt nod.
“I want to begin by reviewing the gambling conviction you and Mr. Levy just discussed. You said that was your only other conviction, is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Luciano, that you were also convicted of a gun charge?”
“Mr. Levy didn’t mention no gun, and it’s not illegal to carry a gun in Miami.”
Dewey frowns as if he is confused. “Well, if it’s not against the law, why were you convicted of carrying a concealed weapon? In Miami? Which, by the way, I never mentioned in my question.”
Luciano sits straight up in his chair, looks the chief straight in his eyes, and says, “I was never convicted.”
When the chief pulls out a record of the conviction and shows it to Luciano, he concedes, “I guess I forgot about that.”
For the next hour, the chief questions Luciano about how his criminal career began.
It is a gripping portrayal of how Luciano started by selling drugs.
Of course, Luciano denies it all, but it sets the stage for Luciano’s criminal activities.
Next, Dewey takes Luciano through a record of his other arrests and convictions—for traffic violations.
These are minor offenses, of course, but the chief is able to make the weight of these offenses feel greater because Luciano has once again lied.
More lies follow as Dewey runs through the various professions Luciano has described to arresting officers—a real estate agent, a chauffeur, even a salesman.
“I don’t recall telling anyone I was any of these things,” Luciano says. “I don’t remember any of those arrests.”
“Mr. Luciano,” Dewey says, “you don’t seem to recall too much of anything. Are you telling this court the truth?”
“I would never lie under oath,” he says. Judge McCook has to bang the gavel after snickers and chuckles roll through the courtroom. Luciano continues as if half of the spectators didn’t just laugh at him. “I wouldn’t perjure myself.”
This time, I am the one who has to press my hand over half of my face to hide my snicker. I glance at the jury, and while most of the men sit stone-faced, several shake their heads.
Now Dewey turns to Luciano’s testimony that he doesn’t know any of the other defendants. Luciano again maintains that while he was acquainted with Dave Betillo, he has never worked with him. The names Jimmy Frederico, Ralph Liguori, and Tommy Pennochio are all unfamiliar to him.
“Mr. Luciano, do you recall our witness Marjorie Brown, the bath maid at the Waldorf Towers?”
“Yeah.”
“And do you recall ever seeing Miss Brown before?”
“Yeah, at the Waldorf.”
“And do you recall Miss Brown’s testimony that she’d seen Mr. Betillo in your apartment at least twenty times?”
“I heard her say that, but she was mistaken.”
“And do you recall her saying that Jimmy Frederico was in your apartment most of the time?”
“I heard her say that, but there ain’t a bit of truth to it.”
For every question Dewey asks, it’s no longer necessary for Luciano to speak. Everyone in the courtroom can answer for him:
“I don’t recall.”
“I don’t know any of them.”
“I’ve never been there in my life.”
It is becoming laughable, especially when Dewey produces telephone slips to prove Luciano’s calls to Nancy Presser, Mildred Balitzer, and other witnesses. All of whom he claimed to have never met or been acquainted with.
“I didn’t make those telephone calls.”
“Everyone in this courtroom has lied about you, Mr. Luciano, is that correct?”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
The courtroom ripples with more laughter, and the triumph that Dewey feels is evident in his smirk. This is what we wanted to linger in the jurors’ minds. He says, “That is all.”
After four hours, my shoulders sag with relief. Even as a spectator, it’s been grueling, witnessing this duel between the prosecutor and the mobster.
When Luciano finally steps down from the stand, Levy says, “The defense rests.”
The courtroom buzzes, and this time Judge McCook struggles to restore order. But once he does, he announces, “We will take a one-hour break, and then the summations will begin.”
I rise, and as I reach for my briefcase, my breath catches. I see him. Standing in the back, tucked in a corner. With his hat in hand and an unsure smile, it is Lisle.
Pushing past the other assistant district attorneys and then through the courtroom throng, I rush to him, moving faster than I ever have in my stacked-heel oxfords. When I reach him, I pause for the briefest moment, then whisper, “You’re here,” the only words that matter right now.
He nods, and I do something I’ve never done, certainly not in a courtroom in front of my colleagues, court officers, and reporters.
I throw my arms around Lisle. When he squeezes me tight, I exhale for the first time today.
Or perhaps it’s been far longer since I’ve truly breathed. But with Lisle here now, I can.
Finally, he draws back. “I’m so glad I came.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m very proud of you.”
“Why? I wasn’t the one up there questioning Luciano.”
“You may not have been standing before him, but I heard your thoughts and your words behind Dewey’s questions.” He shakes his head as if in awe. “So this is the case you put together.”
“I didn’t do it alone,” I say.
He nods. “Of course, I haven’t forgotten about the other nineteen, but today, I saw my wife, Attorney Eunice Carter.”
I stand before Lisle, beaming. There is one part of his statement that I want to correct. When I said that I didn’t do this alone, I wasn’t speaking about my colleagues. Maybe one day I will tell Lisle about the other woman on this team.
When Lisle says “I understand, sweetheart. Now I truly understand,” I have to brush away a tear, pressing in the corner of my eye.
“I’m going to stay until the end,” he says. “I want to be here every day, until the verdict. I want to be here for you.”
I respond by taking his hand, gripping him as though I’ll never let go. As we stride from the courtroom, joy swells inside me, something I feared was stretching beyond my grasp.
The corridor is as alive as the courtroom, filled with the murmur of reporters and the hum of spectators. The chatter is all the same, the question on every tongue: Will Luciano be found guilty?
I have worked long and hard for the right ending to this case. But whatever the jury decides, I have already won.
I glance at Lisle, his hand so warm in mine, and I know: This is the greatest victory.