FRIDAY AFTERNOON. FROM THE WITNESS box, Carmelina looks at Vincent Trussardi where he sits across the courtroom. He has not seen her since her suicide attempt, and his eyes momentarily widen at the diminished person before him. He gives the smallest of nods, and she turns her face away, raising a tissue to wipe the corner of her eye.
Cy opens his examination gently, inviting Carmelina to tell the jury how she came to the Trussardi household and what she did there, before launching into the laborious exercise of exploring the activities of the deceased in the days leading up to the murder. Carmelina sits a little easier as she recounts the mundane events of the Trussardi household. It takes a long time but the takeaway is simple—nothing out of the ordinary.
The court learns that the day before the murder, Mrs. Trussardi had gone shopping and come home with a lavender gown and new shoes for an upcoming gala. “Bella, regalia, Prada. Madam was happy,” Carmelina tells the jurors in response to Cy’s probing.
That night, Mr. and Mrs. Trussardi had gone out to a party—Carmelina doesn’t know where, just that they came home before ten and shared a glass of Prosecco by the fire before going to bed.
“And the morning of the murder?” asks Cy.
“Mr. Trussardi was already gone before I got up. He had told us the day before that he was going sailing, so I wasn’t surprised. Madam came into the kitchen where I was rolling out pasta.”
“What time was that?”
“About nine, I think. She said it was my day off. Usually, I took the bus to visit friends in Burnaby. But Mrs. Trussardi offered to drive me.” Carmelina wipes her eye. “She was very good to me.”
“Did you notice anything different about her, about her mood?”
“She was like usual. Only more relaxed than sometimes. Contenta.”
Cy cranes his neck to look at the clock on the back wall, which says two fifty-three. Justice Moulton nods, happy to take the afternoon break. A small smile flickers over Cy’s face before he settles his features into studied indifference. My fist tightens around my pen; Cy has something up his sleeve.
“WERE YOU AWARE THAT MRS. Trussardi was having an affair with the architect Trevor Shore, Ms. Cappelli?” Cy asks Carmelina when we’re all back in courtroom twenty.
I could object to leading but I know what Carmelina will say.
“No, no,” she replies. “I mean, Mr. Shore came to the house a few times—he was the architect and had the door code so he could check on details. I served them lunch once, but they were always very proper.”
“Let’s go back to the day of the murder. When did you return to the house?”
Carmelina is tired. The circles under her eyes are dark, and she slumps in the witness box. But she has her pride, and she pulls herself erect to answer Cy’s question.
“About seven o’clock, Emilia’s father drove me back, and Emilia came along. They let me out in the street outside the Trussardi house. I came down the drive and saw the police cars. I knew something was wrong.”
“Did you go in?”
“Yes. There was a policeman by the door, but when I told him I was the housekeeper, he let me by.”
“What did you see when you entered the house?”
“Police, everywhere. I went past them to the living room. Mr. Trussardi was sitting there on a sofa. He just looked at me for a while, like he couldn’t get up. Then he spoke. His voice was all broken; I could hardly understand. ‘A terrible thing has happened, Carmelina,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Trussardi has been killed.’ I must have screamed and cried. I don’t remember. The next thing I knew, they were carrying a bag—a long, lumpy, black bag. I knew it was Mrs. Trussardi. I must have screamed again.”
“Laura Trussardi, the kind woman you admired and loved, carried out in a lumpy black bag.” He leans toward Carmelina sympathetically. “Terrible for you.”
Carmelina dabs at her eye.
“But the horror for you wasn’t over, was it, Miss Cappelli? What happened when the police eventually left?”
I glance up at the clock—half past three. He’s stretching this out, I think, my stomach tightening.
“Well, they didn’t all go right away—two of them stayed to guard the room because they hadn’t finished what they needed to do. Mr. Trussardi still was sitting on the couch in the living room in shock. I went to the policewoman they had left and said that I needed to get some things for Mr. Trussardi so he could go to bed in another room. She said okay. So she lifted the tape, and I got his pajamas and robe and some things from his bathroom and brought them to a guest room. Then I went back to the living room and told Mr. Trussardi he needed to get some sleep. He didn’t seem to understand, but when I pulled him up, he followed me. I left him in the guest room, and I went to my own apartment.”
“What happened next, Ms. Cappelli?”
Carmelina falters. “Nothing.”
“Come, come, Miss Cappelli. That’s not what you told us in the course of the investigation, is it?”
“I—I . . .” Carmelina convulses. We wait while she mops up her own tears. I stifle an inward groan. This is terrible—she should be getting through the bad part quickly and smoothly; instead she’s marking it—underlining and emphasizing and adding an exclamation mark to boot.
I catch Carmelina’s eye, and she pulls herself together. “I couldn’t sleep,” she finally says. “I started thinking about Mr. Trussardi and how he looked. I got worried he might do something stupid, something to himself. So I put my robe on and went to the guest room.”
“What did you see, Carmelina?” Cy’s voice is low, for the first time addressing the witness by her first name.
“He was lying on the bed in his robe, crying. Big cries, like—how do you say it?—sobs. I went over to him.” She wipes her eyes again. “I put my arms around him.”
“Was that all, Ms. Cappelli?”
“No.”
“Let’s get to the point,” says Cy, abruptly aggressive. “Tell the jury. Did you have sex with Mr. Trussardi?”
“Yes,” she whispers, “we had sex.”
The jurors stare at Carmelina, then at Trussardi in the prisoner’s box, disgust on the faces of the librarian and the nurse. Vincent Trussardi gives no sign that he has heard what Carmelina has said, nor that every eye in the courtroom is upon him. Cy’s narrative of a crazed and immoral man is taking shape.
“Your witness.” Cy concludes, swinging back to his chair.
“Court will retire for the day,” Justice Moulton says.
I look at my big round watch. Four thirty on the dot. Precisely as planned, Cy’s left the jury hanging with the image of Vincent Trussardi in Carmelina’s arms four hours after the murder. The jury will spend the weekend with a bad taste in their mouth. By the time we get to cross-examine Carmelina on Monday, they’ll have made up their minds. I give Cy a pointed look. He responds with the fleetest of smiles before heaving his heavy body up to mark the judge’s exit. A game, and he plays it well.
I check my iPhone, pull up a message from Richard: Got some info on Trevor Shore. Cops had him and blew right by. Think you’ll be interested.