Judge & Jury by James Patterson, Andrew Gross Page A

Maryanne, and his son, Bart, in the seats next to Carol Oliva.
    “So can you paint the picture for the jury, Agent Pellisante?” Joel Goldenberger placed a blown-up aerial photograph of the scene on an easel across from the jury box. “Agents Oliva and Sinclair are where in the stakeout?”
    I walked over and took a pointer. “They were on the beach, outside the club grounds, blocking any escape.” I described how Cavello had disguised himself as an old man in a wheelchair. How, as my special agents moved in, he jumped out of the chair, trying to escape. How he shot one of my agents who was posing as a waiter, Steve Taylor.
    “He ran down toward the beach. Manny and Ed were in position. Here. I radioed ahead that he was headed toward them.”
    “Can you describe what happened next? I know this is difficult for you, Agent Pellisante, and for the family members of the agents who are present in the courtroom.”
    “I heard a volley of shots.” I clenched my teeth. “I counted five—two quick ones, then three in rapid succession. I ran down from my position over the dunes and saw the bodies in the sand.”
    There wasn’t a sound in the courtroom. I looked away from the easel, and every eye was focused on me.
    “Then what did you do?” Goldenberger asked.
    “I went over to the bodies.” I cleared my throat. “Manny was dead. He’d been shot in the head. Ed was hit in the chest and neck. He was bleeding profusely. I could see he was dying.”
    “And did you see Dominic Cavello?”
    “He was running down the beach, trying to get away. He’d been hit in the shoulder. I could make out what looked to be a gun. He was headed toward a helicopter on a promontory. I radioed for help, and we called in a helicopter from a Coast Guard cruiser offshore to block Cavello’s escape.
    “Then I went after him and fired my weapon, hitting him in the thigh. In the time I was calling for help he must’ve hurled the gun into the ocean.”
    “So you never found a weapon?”
    “No.” I shook my head. “We never did.”
    “But you have no doubt who killed your agents, do you?”
    “None whatsoever.” I shook my head. I looked squarely at the defendant. “Dominic Cavello. There was no one else near Ed and Manny when I heard those shots. And the bullet they removed from Cavello’s shoulder was from Ed’s gun.”
    “Just to be perfectly clear”—the prosecutor turned and raised his voice—“do you see the man you chased on the dunes that day? The man you saw running away from the dead agents’ bodies?”
    “That’s him,” I said, gesturing toward the second row. “Dominic Cavello.”
    For the entire trial Cavello had gazed stoically ahead, but now he was focused on me.
    And I found out why.
    Suddenly Cavello leaped out of his chair. He pulled himself up on the table like some enraged madman. His face was red, the veins in his neck about to explode.
    “Fuck you, Pellisante! You son of a whore! You lying piece of shit!”

Chapter 38
    WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was total bedlam.
    “Lying bastards!” Cavello bellowed in a hoarse, crazed voice. He slammed his fist on the table, sending papers and documents flying.
    “And fuck you to this court!” He glared at the judge. “You have no hold on me. You think you have, because you’ve bribed a few of my old enemies to carry your lunch pails. But you don’t have shit. I have you! ”
    The marshals sprang into action. Two of them jumped in and grabbed Cavello by the torso, wrestling him to the ground. People were screaming. A few ran out the exits.
    Cavello fought like a berserk animal. “You don’t have me, Pellisante! I have you! ”
    A third guard jumped into the fray, and finally they forced the mobster to the floor. Two of them held him down while the third squeezed a set of cuffs over his wrists. He was still shouting at the top of his lungs.
    “This court is a joke! A mockery! You’ll never convict me no matter how many traitors and wiretaps you have. It’s too