Chapter 22 Sandro
THE TRIAL DRAGGED on for three more weeks after Emilio's testimony.
A parade of witnesses, each one contradicting the others in subtle ways.
Medical experts discussing the severity of Antonio Costello's injuries.
Character witnesses for both sides. The standard machinery of criminal justice grinding forward with agonizing slowness.
I attended every day. Sat at the defense table in perfectly tailored suits. Maintained the image of a successful businessman being persecuted by overzealous prosecutors. Diana did competent work—objecting at the right moments, cross-examining effectively, building reasonable doubt piece by piece.
But she wasn't Emilio. Every day I was reminded of that fact.
Emilio attended every session from the gallery.
Took notes in his leather notebook. Occasionally caught my eye with small gestures of support.
We couldn't be seen together outside the courtroom—not with the jury watching, not with reporters documenting every interaction.
So we existed in separate worlds during the day and came together only at night.
It was torture of a particular kind. Seeing him. Not being able to touch him. Knowing he was analyzing every word, every strategy, every missed opportunity. Knowing he could've done this better if circumstances were different.
Week four began with Roberto Green's announcement that changed everything.
"The People call Antonio Costello to the stand."
The nephew. The alleged victim. The centerpiece of the prosecution's case.
He walked to the witness stand wearing a conservative suit that probably cost his family a fortune. His left arm still showed signs of the break—slight stiffness in his movement, careful positioning. The injury Matteo had caused defending our waitress from a drunk with a knife.
Or the injury Matteo had caused in an unprovoked attack, if you believed the prosecution's version.
Antonio was sworn in and settled into the witness chair. He looked nervous but rehearsed. Like he'd practiced his testimony until it was perfect.
"Mr. Costello," Roberto began. "Can you tell us what happened on the night of June fifteenth at Inferno nightclub?"
"I was there with friends. We were celebrating a birthday." Antonio's voice was steady. Confident. "I'd had a couple beers. We were dancing. Having a good time."
"What happened next?"
"I went to the bar to order another round. The bartender said I'd had enough. I tried to explain I was just ordering for my friends, not for myself. But he refused." Antonio shifted in his seat. "Then this huge guy—the security guard—came over and grabbed me. Started dragging me toward the exit."
"Did you resist?"
"I asked him what he was doing. Told him I hadn't done anything wrong. He didn't say anything. Just kept pulling me." Antonio touched his left arm unconsciously. "Then he threw me against the wall. I heard something crack. The pain was incredible."
"What did you do?"
"I tried to get away from him. But he grabbed my arm—the broken one—and twisted it. I was screaming. Begging him to stop. He just kept twisting until I blacked out from the pain."
Roberto walked closer to the witness stand. "Did you do anything to provoke this attack?"
"No. I was just trying to order drinks for my friends."
"Did you have any weapons on you?"
"No. I don't carry weapons."
"Did you threaten anyone?"
"No. I was just having a good time at a club. Then I got assaulted by their security guard for no reason."
Roberto returned to the prosecution table and picked up a document. "Mr. Costello, you required surgery for this injury, correct?"
"Yes. Three pins in my arm. Months of physical therapy. I still don't have full mobility." He demonstrated by trying to rotate his wrist. The movement was clearly limited. "The doctors say I might never get it back completely."
"No further questions."
Judge Morrison looked at Diana. "Cross-examination?"
Diana stood and approached the witness stand with her trial notebook. She looked confident. Prepared. I'd given her everything we had on Antonio Costello—his history of bar fights, his gambling debts, his previous assault charges that his family made disappear.
"Mr. Costello, you testified you'd had 'a couple beers' that night. Is that accurate?"
"Yes."
"How many is a couple? Two?"
"Two, maybe three. I wasn't counting."
Diana pulled up security footage on the courtroom monitor. "Your Honor, Defense Exhibit 12. Security footage from Inferno's main bar on June fifteenth."
The video played. Showed Antonio at the bar. Showed him ordering. The timestamp ran in the corner.
"Mr. Costello, that's you at 10:47 PM, correct?"
Antonio squinted at the screen. "Yes."
"And what are you ordering?"
"I don't remember specifically."
"Let me help you. According to the bartender's testimony and the bar's POS system, you ordered six shots of tequila between 10:30 and 11:15 PM. Does that sound accurate?"
"I was buying for my friends—"
"But you were the one consuming them, weren't you? The video shows you drinking each shot immediately after ordering." Diana paused. "Six shots in forty-five minutes. Plus the beers you mentioned earlier. That's quite a bit more than 'a couple beers,' isn't it?"
Antonio's confident expression faltered. "I might've had more than I thought. But I wasn't that drunk."
"You weren't that drunk. Yet you testified you were just trying to order drinks when Mr. DeLuca approached you. But the bartender testified he cut you off because you were visibly intoxicated and becoming belligerent. Which version is true?"
"I wasn't belligerent—"
"The bartender has no reason to lie, does he? He doesn't work for the Vitale organization anymore. He's employed by a different establishment. Yet he testified under oath that you became aggressive when he refused to serve you. Are you calling him a liar?"
"I don't remember being aggressive."
"You don't remember. But you clearly remember everything else about that night?
The exact sequence of events? How Mr. DeLuca grabbed you?
How he threw you against a wall?" Diana's voice sharpened.
"Isn't it more likely that your memory of that night is impaired by the amount of alcohol you consumed? "
"I remember what happened to my arm."
"I'm sure you do. Broken bones tend to be memorable." Diana walked back to the defense table. "Mr. Costello, did you have a knife on you that night?"
Silence. Long and damning.
"Mr. Costello? The question is simple. Did you have a knife?"
"I might've had a pocketknife. For utility purposes."
"A pocketknife. Can you describe this knife?"
"Just a small folding knife. Nothing threatening."
Diana pulled another exhibit. "Defense Exhibit 18. The knife recovered at the scene by police." She held up an evidence bag. "This knife has a four-inch blade. It's a tactical folding knife, not a utility pocketknife. Is this your knife?"
Antonio wouldn't look at it. "It could be."
"It is your knife. Your fingerprints were found on the handle. The police report confirms it." Diana set down the evidence bag. "So you did have a weapon on you that night. A weapon you initially claimed you didn't have. Why did you lie about that?"
"I wasn't thinking about the knife—"
"Or you were hoping we wouldn't bring it up? That you could testify you were unarmed and we'd just accept that?" Diana moved closer. "Multiple witnesses testified that you pulled this knife on Sarah Mitchell, the waitress who was working that section. Did you pull your knife on her?"
"I don't remember—"
"You don't remember pulling a four-inch blade on a woman who was just doing her job?"
"Objection!" Roberto was on his feet. "Counsel is badgering the witness."
"Sustained. Ms. Martinez, ease up."
Diana nodded. "Mr. Costello, let me ask you directly. Did you pull your knife on anyone at Inferno that night?"
Long pause. Then, quietly: "I might have. For self-defense."
"Self-defense against a waitress who weighs maybe a hundred and twenty pounds?"
"She was being rude—"
"So you pulled a knife because someone was rude to you?" Diana let that hang. "And then Mr. DeLuca, who's head of security and whose job is to protect staff and patrons, intervened to disarm you. Correct?"
"He attacked me—"
"He disarmed a drunk patron who was threatening a staff member with a weapon. That's his job, isn't it?"
Antonio's composure was cracking. "I don't know—"
"You don't know. You don't remember. You weren't that drunk.
But you also had six shots and multiple beers.
You didn't have a knife. But then you did have a knife.
For self-defense against a waitress." Diana's voice was sharp now.
"Mr. Costello, have you been truthful with this jury about what happened that night? "
"I've told the truth—"
"Have you? Because your testimony keeps changing every time I point out an inconsistency."
"Objection! Argumentative."
"Sustained."
Diana returned to her table. "No further questions for now. But I reserve the right to recall this witness."
Judge Morrison called for afternoon recess. I followed Diana to our conference room.
"He's breaking," she said. "His story's falling apart. If I can get him back on the stand, I can finish destroying his credibility."
"The prosecution knows that. They'll try to rehabilitate him before you get another chance."
"Let them try. He's scared. He knows he lied. It's just a matter of time before he cracks completely."
She was right. Over the next three days, Antonio's testimony continued. Roberto tried to rehabilitate him on redirect. Asked sympathetic questions. Tried to explain away the inconsistencies. But Diana had planted doubt.
On the fourth day of Antonio's testimony, something shifted.
Roberto was finishing his redirect examination. Asking Antonio to describe his injuries one more time. Building sympathy. Reminding the jury this was a real person who'd suffered real harm.