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  “All set, Mr. Chairman,” announced a newsman, motioning Stern to accompany him to the waiting room. Sandro walked out behind them. He saw a cameraman standing poised to snap a picture of Gianni.

  “Didn’t I ask you to wait until later?” Sandro said, walking between them.

  “Come on, counselor, I have to make the next edition—besides, I may not be able to get near you when you come out.”

  “Let him, Sandro. What’s the difference,” said Gianni. “They’ve got hundreds of pictures already. Only criminals have to hide. And this fellow’s got to make a living.”

  “Thanks, Gianni,” the photographer said, snapping a picture. Other photographers followed suit. Gianni sat impassively as strobe lights shattered the calm of the room. He could see Stern in the other room bathed in the television lights, speaking unheard words of self-praise and purpose.

  “Got enough?” Gianni asked the photographers.

  “Just a couple more. Hold it, please.”

  “Okay. If they’re good, send me a couple,” Gianni said, smiling.

  The cameramen finished and walked off winding their cameras and writing picture credits on pads.

  Gianni studied his watch. It was 10:30 already. “When will we be going in?”

  “Shortly,” said Sandro. “They have a couple of other witnesses before you. But you’re one of the main attractions, it seems.”

  “I wish I could testify and answer their dumb questions,” Gianni said. “The nonsense they ask is so old and out of date it’s got hair on it. Besides they have all the answers already. But they don’t really want answers; they want people to refuse to answer. That way the circus atmosphere is complete—the public gets scared and they get their appropriations.”

  “Why don’t you testify, then?” asked Sandro.

  “Because this way nobody gets hurt. It’s always been done this way.”

  “I think the old rule of silence is wrong and out of date too,” said Sandro. “When people go to prison for thirty days or even a year for refusal to answer, they do get hurt. And it’s needless.”

  “How is it needless?” Gianni saw Joey reach the top of the stairs and stand at the edge of the room, searching the faces. “Wait a minute, Sandro.”

  Gianni signaled. Joey nodded and started across the room. His presence was duly noted by the investigators. Gianni knew this, but other considerations were more important right now.

  “What is it?” Gianni asked. “Has the phone been moved?”

  “It should be by now. And we locked up the dresses.”

  “Good. Any news from the boys we sent around town?”

  “They’re still out. Did you see the papers this morning?”

  “No. What happened?”

  Gianni took the copy of the Daily News Joey was carrying. He was aware of eyes watching his movements and he read the paper casually. The cover story was the antici-pated splashdown of Apollo 14. Gianni turned the page. Inside were pictures of the astronauts’ children and wives, and stories of the war in Vietnam.

  “What am I supposed to be looking for?” he asked softly, not looking up.

  “Page 7. That’s last night’s body.”

  Gianni turned the pages slowly, reading every one in turn. Page 7 had a story about the finding of the body of a small-time hoodlum in the Hudson River, locked in the ice floes between the piers. Gianni read it with the same cursory attention he had given the other stories and moved on. The body was identified as a Tom Barton from the Bronx, several times arrested in connection with selling narcotics.

  “Does anyone know him?” asked Gianni, not looking up, still turning the pages.

  “No. But Gus said he thinks he’s connected with some people from the south Bronx—just small-timers, guys who fool around supplying junk to pushers in the colored neighborhoods.”

  “Get someone up there right away. Find out about him. See if anyone knows why he was killed, or how.”

  “Okay. I’ll go myself.”

  “And have everyone at the garage by six. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He handed the paper back to Joey with a courteous nod.

  Senator Stern emerged from the waiting room and the press briefing that would reach all the television screens that evening. He walked into the hearing room and took his seat as Chairman of the Committee. Other members of the committee, state senators and assemblymen, sat on either side of him. Stern gaveled the room quiet, and called for the first witness. A squat, olive-skinned man in the anteroom put down his coat and entered the auditorium. The reporters and cameramen followed him in. The doors were closed behind them, leaving only other witnesses and a few detectives in the anteroom. Gianni’s eyes met the eyes of another witness. The other man nodded. Gianni made no acknowledgement whatever.

  “I imagine you’ll be called soon,” Sandro said. “Stern said you’d be third.”

  “I hope so,” said Gianni.

  Soon the photographers burst backwards from the auditorium, hovering about the door, setting themselves for something to emerge.

  “Here he comes,” one of the photographers called, and the strobe lights and flashbulbs began to flare. The witness shielded his face with his hand as he picked up his hat and coat, then started moving quickly through the phalanx of photographers toward the stairs.

  “Go around the other stairs—go downstairs,” called some of the photographers. They ran down the twin staircase to catch up with the witness as he reached the lower platform. The men with the more cumbersome motion picture cameras and the battery-operated lights had to be content with leaning over the railing to record the reluctant figure bounding down the stairs.

  The doors to the auditorium were closed again, and a sign was placed in the oval window indicating EXECUTIVE SESSION. Gianni looked around. The other waiting witnesses were still standing in the anteroom. Sandro walked toward the doors.

  A committee assistant standing guard shook his head as Sandro approached. “You can’t go in, counselor. Sorry.”

  “Is there another witness on the stand?” Sandro asked.

  The man at the door nodded, making sure to maintain his position so as to keep Sandro from entering.

  As Sandro turned, he recognized Pete Scanlon, the building custodian, standing near an exit. Scanlon winked.

  “How’re you doing?” Sandro asked as he walked toward him.

  “Okay, how’s yourself?”

  “Fine. Looks like they’re having some fun here today.”

  “Yeah,” the custodian replied, “but Stern’s a little disappointed with the turnout. I heard some of the assistants talking.”

  “Not enough people coming to see what’s going on?”

  “The guys from the press. There’re a lot missing,” Scanlon said. “I guess they’re at that hippie demonstration over at City Hall. It cuts into the coverage here.”

  “Were they expecting more?”

  “Sure. They got piles of left-over information sheets in there, all with the names of the witnesses and their nicknames, the families they belong to, the whole thing.” Scanlon fished in one of his shirt pockets and brought out a piece of paper. “Here’s one of them,” he muttered, handing over the still folded paper. Sandro put it in his inside jacket pocket. “They’ve got other info too, about the committee members. You want that?”

  “No, I know the committee. Who’ve they got in there now?”

  “It’s their star for today,” the custodian said, smiling. “Some guy with a black hood on—they got holes cut out for the eyes and he’s supposed to know a lot about the mobs. He’s supposed to give the inside story. It’ll be today’s big publicity.”

  “Is he on the information sheet?”

  “Yeah, as Carmine Napoli—but his name is really Crawford, one of the cops told me. They brought him down from the penitentiary.”

  “I guess it makes it a little more exciting to give him an Italian name.”

  “Yeah, Stern really puts on a show,” Scanlon chuckled.

  Sandro
walked back to Gianni. He sat next to him and unfolded the information sheet Scanlon had given him. “Here’s the list of today’s star performers,” he said.

  “Am I on it?”

  “Yes. They have you down as Gianni Aquilino, also known as the Silver Eagle, also known as Johnny Quill.”

  “Who’s Johnny Quill?” asked Gianni, frowning. “I’m not known as Johnny Quill—never was.”

  “That’s what it says. It says you’re now the consigliere of Vito Giordano’s old family; the elder statesman.”

  “Great. They must have a fiction writer putting their scripts together. What else did they put down?”

  “It says you’ve been arrested three times, with one conviction for unlawful possession of a weapon.”

  “That was 1928, maybe ’30,” Gianni said, “more than forty years ago. Imagine the crap they have to dig up to make a show here. I went to New Jersey carrying a pistol I was licensed to carry in New York, so I was arrested for it—I didn’t have a New Jersey license. I showed them my New York license, pleaded guilty, paid ten bucks, and they took me to the ferry back to New York. That’s the sum of horrible things I’ve done in my life to make me a gangster. This little squirt, Stern, really wants to make a name for himself. Every couple of years there’s a new squirt looking for a name. There should be some way of preventing him from harassing people.”

  “He does have the right to subpoena you,” Sandro replied; “but I agree, he can’t just subpoena you for laughs. And that’s how I think we can beat this immunity.”

  Flash units were going off inside the auditorium, the light flaring beneath the doors. “He can’t prove there’s a syndicate—but that’s a long story,” said Gianni. “I’ll tell you some time. They must be almost finished in there. I’d like to get it over with.”

  “Gianni Aquilino,” announced one of Stern’s assistants at the door.

  “Okay. We’re on. Follow me,” said Sandro. They walked in and faced the long committee table on the stage. Stern nodded and pointed to the witness table below. Gianni and Sandro sat down.

  A photographer, raising his camera, walked crouching toward Gianni.

  “Your Honor,” Sandro addressed Stern with extra formality, “this witness does not wish to be photographed while he appears before the committee.”

  The photographer stopped, looking up toward Stern.

  “Is your client ashamed to be photographed, Mr. Luca?” asked Stern.

  “Whatever his reason, Your Honor, my client does not wish to be photographed. Although he wishes to cooperate with your committee as fully as he is able, he does not waive his personal rights just because some people are trying to garner publicity.”

  “Are you in some fashion disparaging the members of this committee?” Stern asked coldly.

  “I hadn’t intended to,” Sandro answered. “I was referring to other witnesses. However, if any of the committee members happen to be publicity-hungry, unfortunately it refers to them too.”

  “All right, I’ll not fence with you, Mr. Luca. No photographs will be taken while the witness is in this room. Let’s get on with the questioning. Will you rise to be sworn, Mr. Aquilino.”

  Gianni rose. He raised his right hand, placed his left upon a Bible, and swore to tell the truth. He sat again.

  “Before we begin, Your Honor,” said Sandro, “as I read the applicable statutes regulating these proceedings, when testimony is taken at a closed session—that is, one not open to the public—there can be no dissemination to the public of any matters taking place during the proceedings, unless an order permitting such dissemination has been voted upon by a majority of the committee. This proceeding is a closed session—and yet I note the presence of many newsmen here. Such dissemination would be in violation of law, and even this committee would be guilty of a misdemeanor if it permitted dissemination of matters now transpiring before it, unless such an order exists. I must ask to see such order or ask you to remove all newsmen and other persons not members of the committee from this auditorium.”

  “This is not a closed session, Mr. Luca,” replied Stern. “The newsmen may stay.” The committee studied Sandro.

  “It is a closed session, sir,” Sandro said; “I note that the doors are closed, and your committee assistants are not allowing members of the public other than police or newsmen through that door. A sign on the door indicates, Executive Session—this is a closed session.”

  Stern studied Sandro, then the doors at the rear. “Well then, I’ll open the doors and you can invite in anyone you wish. The closed doors were merely a precaution to protect the previous witness.”

  “Since the previous witness’ identity is well known,” said Sandro, “and only newsmen and policemen were permitted in here, the black mask seems to have been more melodrama than protection. Moreover, Senator, I’m not interested in inviting anyone to this proceeding. I merely wish to have the letter of the law obeyed, as, I am sure, do you. I wouldn’t want any member of this honorable commission to be guilty of a misdemeanor.”

  Stern’s face creased. “I might retain you—you’d have another client.”

  “I’d be delighted, sir.”

  “Open the doors and let’s proceed,” Stern instructed. The assistants opened the doors. Scanlon was grinning.

  “Mr. Aquilino,” Stern said, “before we proceed, two exhibits are being placed on your table. One is the picture of a person; that is Exhibit One. The other, of a house, is Exhibit Two. Now, what is your name?”

  “Gianni Aquilino.”

  “Where do you reside?”

  “Chickapea Road, Pawling, New York.”

  “Will you please look at Exhibit One. Who is that pictured there?”

  Gianni was looking at a picture of himself as a younger man. “I respectfully decline to answer on the ground of my absolute constitutional right to do so.”

  “Is it not a picture of yourself, Mr. Aquilino?”

  “I respectfully decline to answer on the ground of my absolute constitutional right to do so.”

  “You’re not ashamed of your own picture, are you, Mr. Aquilino?”

  “I respectfully decline to answer on the ground of my absolute constitutional right to do so.”

  “Would you look at Exhibit Number Two, sir.”

  Gianni was looking at a picture of a sunlit house, surrounded by huge shade trees. He leaned over to Sandro. “This isn’t my house—it’s a house about a mile from mine.”

  “You don’t have to repeat the same thing over and over,” Sandro said, “just say, ‘same answer.’”

  “Is that your home, Mr. Aquilino?”

  “Same answer.”

  Stern’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you also ashamed of your own house?”

  “Same answer,” replied Gianni calmly. He leaned over to Sandro again. “You know, it takes a little twit like that to try to belittle people. I’d really like to take the bastard on.”

  “Don’t get angry,” Sandro said softly. “That’s exactly what he wants you to do.”

  “Hell will freeze first,” said Gianni. He sat back, calmly awaiting the next question.

  “Are you a member of what is known as the Cosa Nostra?”

  “Same answer.”

  “Are you a member of the family of Sal Angeletti, formerly the family of Vito Giordano, formerly your own family, you now being the consigliere of that family?”

  The newsmen were copying every question, just as Stern wanted them to.

  “Same answer.”

  “What answer is that, Mr. Aquilino?”

  “Same answer,” Gianni said coolly.

  “I asked you to which answer you were referring, Mr. Aquilino?”

  “Same answer.”

  Stern’s complexion flushed slightly with anger. Gianni saw it and felt somewhat pleased to be having some fun too.

  “Are you also known, sir, as the Silver Eagle?”

  “Same answer.”

  “And you have also been known as Johnny Quill?
”

  “Same answer.”

  “And in a book by Joseph A. Lockwood, known as Valachi Speaks, on page 276 it says that Gianni Aquilino, also known as the Silver Eagle, has been arrested three times, was convicted only once of illegal possession of a weapon, is now the consigliere of Sal Angeletti’s family, and in semiretirement from the Cosa Nostra. In 1959, an attempted execution of Aquilino took place in the lobby of his plush apartment building, after which Aquilino stepped down as the head of the family now headed by Sal Angeletti. Although retired, he is still an important and very active force in the Cosa Nostra. Is that true?”

  Before Gianni had a chance to say anything, Sandro reached for the microphone. “Are you asking, Sir, whether it is true that Joseph A. Lockwood wrote the book, or whether it is true that the book is called Valachi Speaks, or whether it is true that such statement appears on page 276?”

  “I want to know if the facts stated therein are correct,” Stern said impatiently.

  “Same answer,” said Gianni.

  “Are you retired from the Cosa Nostra, Mr. Aquilino?”

  “I object to the question,” Sandro cut in, “since you have not first established that the witness has ever been a member of such an organization—or even that such an organization exists.”

  “Assuming, Mr. Aquilino,” said one of the other members of the committee, seated to Stern’s left, “that you had been a member of this organization, are you now retired?”

  “The assumption is improper and totally meaningless, Your Honor,” said Sandro.

  “The witness may answer it.”

  “Same answer.”

  “Mr. Aquilino, if we continue to ask you questions, are you going to continue to give the same answer?” Stern realized with a slight wince that he had repeated Gianni’s own words.

  “Same answer.”

  “You will not answer any questions?”

  “Same answer.”

  “We’ll adjourn this witness at this time, until the committee decides whether or not it wishes to grant Mr. Aquilino immunity. If immunity is granted, Mr. Aquilino, you know of course that you will be bound to testify or face being held in contempt, with a possible jail sentence?”

  “Same answer.”

  “Mr. Luca, will you kindly advise your client of the implications of our granting immunity.”