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Authors: Paul Batista
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to ask you something about why D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
you decided to deal Congressman Fonseca away, to turn on him.
You recall you testified that you didn’t talk with a lawyer before you were called to the Grand Jury the first time?”
“I remember that.”
“Good. It’s nice when you remember something.” There was a relieved sarcasm in Sorrentino’s voice that one or two people in the anonymous jury noticed; they giggled, quickly and sardonically. It concerned Steinman that Sorrentino had built such a rap-port with the jurors that some of them appreciated the blatant sarcasm. And then Sorrentino continued: “And after that, because 51
you were disturbed by the way your day went, you decided to talk to a lawyer, isn’t that right, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And you finally hired Mr. Cerf as your lawyer, didn’t you, and he was the man who helped you do your deal with the government, right?”
“Right. Mr. Cerf.”
“And Mr. Cerf knows his way around Mr. Steinman’s office and he had no problem delivering a deal for you, right?”
“I wanted a man with experience.”
“In fact, Mr. Cerf used to work in exactly the same office as Mr. Steinman, didn’t he?”
“I was told that.”
“And he managed to tie you up in a package and deliver you here, didn’t he?”
“Objection.” Neil Steinman tried to sound exasperated.
Judge Feigley, quiet for a long time, now roused herself. “I don’t know where you’re going with this, Mr. Sorrentino, I truly don’t. I want to give you all the leeway in the world but I don’t know where you’re going.”
“I’ll withdraw that question, Judge. But let me just ask one other question before I leave this area—”
“When you leave this area,” Judge Feigley said with a broad smile, “ we leave for the day.” She liked to feel she entertained the jurors, and they in fact laughed. “So make it fast, Mr. Sorrentino.”
P A U L B A T I S T A
Sorrentino had sense enough to laugh as the jurors laughed before he asked, almost casually, “Between the time you left the Grand Jury room and you hired Mr. Cerf, how much time was that? What was the interval?”
“Almost six weeks. I don’t know for sure.”
“Did you see any other lawyer in that time?”
Judge Feigley said, “Now, Mr. Sorrentino, you’ve just proved again what I always say about lawyers. Never believe them when they say just one more question.”
The jurors laughed, and again so did Sorrentino before he 52
repeated the question: “What other lawyer did you see?”
“I saw Tom Perini.”
In the many weeks since Tom Perini died, his name hadn’t been mentioned once in the jury’s presence in the courtroom.
Even Sorrentino was visibly startled by the answer. The jury was alert, focused.
“How often did you see Mr. Perini?”
“Four, five times.”
“Did you hire him?”
“No.”
“Was there a reason for that?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“Did he do anything for you?”
“Look, Mr. Sorrentino, I really can’t remember. It was more than a year ago. I needed a lawyer. Someone brought up Mr.
Perini’s name. I recognized the name. I called him. I took the train up from Washington. We talked. And then I talked to other people. I decided to go with Mr. Cerf.”
“What did you talk to Mr. Perini about?”
Steinman rose to his feet. “Objection. Attorney-client privilege.”
Alert as a jaguar, Sorrentino responded, “But the witness said he never hired Perini.”
Judge Feigley commented, “But, Mr. Sorrentino, this man plainly spoke to Mr. Perini to get legal advice—”
D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
“We don’t know that, Judge, until we know what the witness discussed with Perini. This is all news to me. And it’s news, as far as I know, to everyone involved in this case—”
“Mr. Sorrentino, there you go cutting me off again.” She hit the bench with the palm of her hand. Sorrentino despised her. He waited for her next words, as he gripped
you decided to deal Congressman Fonseca away, to turn on him.
You recall you testified that you didn’t talk with a lawyer before you were called to the Grand Jury the first time?”
“I remember that.”
“Good. It’s nice when you remember something.” There was a relieved sarcasm in Sorrentino’s voice that one or two people in the anonymous jury noticed; they giggled, quickly and sardonically. It concerned Steinman that Sorrentino had built such a rap-port with the jurors that some of them appreciated the blatant sarcasm. And then Sorrentino continued: “And after that, because 51
you were disturbed by the way your day went, you decided to talk to a lawyer, isn’t that right, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And you finally hired Mr. Cerf as your lawyer, didn’t you, and he was the man who helped you do your deal with the government, right?”
“Right. Mr. Cerf.”
“And Mr. Cerf knows his way around Mr. Steinman’s office and he had no problem delivering a deal for you, right?”
“I wanted a man with experience.”
“In fact, Mr. Cerf used to work in exactly the same office as Mr. Steinman, didn’t he?”
“I was told that.”
“And he managed to tie you up in a package and deliver you here, didn’t he?”
“Objection.” Neil Steinman tried to sound exasperated.
Judge Feigley, quiet for a long time, now roused herself. “I don’t know where you’re going with this, Mr. Sorrentino, I truly don’t. I want to give you all the leeway in the world but I don’t know where you’re going.”
“I’ll withdraw that question, Judge. But let me just ask one other question before I leave this area—”
“When you leave this area,” Judge Feigley said with a broad smile, “ we leave for the day.” She liked to feel she entertained the jurors, and they in fact laughed. “So make it fast, Mr. Sorrentino.”
P A U L B A T I S T A
Sorrentino had sense enough to laugh as the jurors laughed before he asked, almost casually, “Between the time you left the Grand Jury room and you hired Mr. Cerf, how much time was that? What was the interval?”
“Almost six weeks. I don’t know for sure.”
“Did you see any other lawyer in that time?”
Judge Feigley said, “Now, Mr. Sorrentino, you’ve just proved again what I always say about lawyers. Never believe them when they say just one more question.”
The jurors laughed, and again so did Sorrentino before he 52
repeated the question: “What other lawyer did you see?”
“I saw Tom Perini.”
In the many weeks since Tom Perini died, his name hadn’t been mentioned once in the jury’s presence in the courtroom.
Even Sorrentino was visibly startled by the answer. The jury was alert, focused.
“How often did you see Mr. Perini?”
“Four, five times.”
“Did you hire him?”
“No.”
“Was there a reason for that?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“Did he do anything for you?”
“Look, Mr. Sorrentino, I really can’t remember. It was more than a year ago. I needed a lawyer. Someone brought up Mr.
Perini’s name. I recognized the name. I called him. I took the train up from Washington. We talked. And then I talked to other people. I decided to go with Mr. Cerf.”
“What did you talk to Mr. Perini about?”
Steinman rose to his feet. “Objection. Attorney-client privilege.”
Alert as a jaguar, Sorrentino responded, “But the witness said he never hired Perini.”
Judge Feigley commented, “But, Mr. Sorrentino, this man plainly spoke to Mr. Perini to get legal advice—”
D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
“We don’t know that, Judge, until we know what the witness discussed with Perini. This is all news to me. And it’s news, as far as I know, to everyone involved in this case—”
“Mr. Sorrentino, there you go cutting me off again.” She hit the bench with the palm of her hand. Sorrentino despised her. He waited for her next words, as he gripped
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