Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (19 page)

“Your Honor, Mr. Scott, gentlemen of the jury: I know you’re wondering, Who does he think he is summing up
his own case, and with all these brilliant lawyers here? Where his head at? Well, I’ll tell you, I’m here because I believe in me even though everybody else don’t. But nobody, no lawyer in the world knows better than me what happened here. And I’m gonna tell you about it and I have the confidence that you gentlemen of the jury will believe me when I tell you how this thing went down. But first, let’s get the prelims out of the way before we start the main event. From the get go let me tell you I’m against dope one hundred percent—it’s a sickness that’s gotta be wiped out, we all agree on that. Of course, Mr. Scott is gonna tell you he don’t have to tell you how terrible dope is, then he’s gonna take a half hour telling you anyway. But let’s not get carried away, let’s don’t get hysteria about it where we’re blinded and can’t see the bushes for the forest. That’s right, let us keep a cool head, like you promised to do when you was first picked out.

“Remember what you promised the lawyers? That you was gonna consider only what comes off that chair right there, right? Well, let’s see what come off that witness chair. I’ll tell you what come off—Joe Bats, also known as Mario Battaglia. If you believe him I’ll plead guilty right here and now. Joe Bats—when he come through that door, I thought it was Rondo Hatton. It’s bad enough he come on like Primo Carnera, he’s gotta have a piece of pipe in his hand, or maybe a hatchet. How’d you like to have him as your friendly bill collector? Or maybe you honk a horn at him and he come over and rip the door off your car. You heard his record—talk about safe
streets—is any street safe with a torpedo like that on it? That’s their main-event boy, Battlin’ Joe Bats, manager Scott, and trainer Cronin. They’re betting everything on him. Are you gonna buy that? Are you gonna pick up anything put down by Joe Bats? I don’t believe it. I believe you’re gonna say Joe Bats come out of the black lagoon and no amount of Brillo is gonna clean him up. Anybody go along with that villain, shame on them. Check him out, does he have a motive to lie? You better believe it. But what does Cronin’s protégé Joe Bats say? He says he now know the truth about dope and he was trying to do the right thing! If there’s a God in heaven, and I believe there is, the plaster on the ceiling shoulda fell on Joe Bats’ head—the lights shoulda blown out. And then you saw him with me. You heard his profanity. Then he couldn’t remember what I was wearing, but he could give you tiny details about things that happened long before. Joe Bats is a kewpie doll wound up by Scott— you pull the string, he goes bla-bla, wa-wa, but get him off the script for one question and he gets the apple right away. This is a put-up job of the high water. So much for that lyin’ dog, Joe B. May God forgive him, for he knows not what he done.

“So what really happened in this case? I can only tell you about what happened to me in this case. I got nothing to do with these other people. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. I’m a Puerto Rican and I stay with my own kind. I got no truck with people of other national origin and, er, customs. That ain’t my lookout. But I can tell you I was drunk that night and wound up on Canal
Street I don’t know how. I saw this bus and half-stoned I decided to go for a joyride—next thing I know these crazy hippies are banging into the car—I thought they was hot-rodders or muggers, I panicked and cracked up the bus, and—”

Scott: “Your Honor, I must inject myself—”

Me: “Wadda you mean, inject yourself? I resent that kind of remark in this kind of case.”

Scott: “Your Honor, Mr. Brigante is, in effect, testifying in his own summation to matters not in the record. He cannot do this, he did not testify during the trial—”

“Aha! There it is again, Judge. Mistrial.”

“Mr. Brigante, I have granted you wide latitude in your summation out of deference to your position as a layman. However, I cannot permit you to inject, er, infuse matters that have not been testified to. You cannot have it both ways. You assumed a certain tactical position; you are bound by it. Now continue with your summation.”

Me, continuing: “Where was I before I was interrupted? Oh yeah, about me stealin’ the bus—well, I can’t go into that, you heard Scott. But I say let it all hang out. I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t this Puerto Rican take the stand? By law, you ain’t supposed to think about that, but I ain’t hiding behind no technicalities. I’m gonna tell you. It’s because Mr. Scott here would start hoopin’ and hollerin’ about my prior record to make me look bad. It’s an old D.A.’s trick—so what if he got nothin’ to do with this case, let’s get him on his past record. But I been looking at you people and I said, Carlito, these people is not about to get the wool pulled over their eyeballs by this
D.A., so I’ll lay it out for you—yeah, I been in trouble but never for no dope, mostly fightin’ for survival in the ghetto that’s my record. I am a victim of circumstances. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mr. Scott takes that little circumstance, works it backwards through Joe Bats, and makes a big circumstance out of it, like he was lookin’ in a telescope. Now that’s a terrible thing, circumstances, they have put away a whole lot of people behind circumstances. To me, that’s a dirty word. Why, when something happens uptown, everybody quits the scene and no witnesses? Because people are afraid of circumstances, they know about them. Like a guy is stretched out stone cold on the pavement, you best not be there when the Man shows up, because that’s the time the shooter will drop the pistol at your feet. And you with a record, you know you’re going to be talkin’ uphill when they get you in the squadroom.

“Circumstances. You’re riding the subway to work with both hands on the
Daily News
, a fine fox has got her back to you, some degenerate will lean over past you and give her the dead hand—when she turns around who’s gonna get the pocketbook in the face? Circumstances. They look one way, but they’re the other. They can bury an innocent man. I know Scott’s gonna talk about the total and the parts and one brick on top of the other. Well, I say Scott’s house can’t get no building-code permit because the foundation is rotten, that being Joe Bats. And the plumbing and wiring ain’t no good either— you saw them federal agents. Unbelievable. That our government gotta hire these hippie guys with long hair
and messy clothes. What an example for our youth! That don’t command no respect. Yeah, Scott is a builder, all right, a builder of Fox Street tenements with termites in the woodwork and rusty fire escapes. He’s asking you to destroy men’s lives. I don’t have to tell you what a conviction in this means. But what are the tools he’s given you? What are the pieces in the jigsaw? They don’t fit, they don’t jibe, because they’re made out of Joe Bats and you know what he’s made of. You can’t go by Where there’s smoke there’s fire. You gotta be sure when you dealin’ with people’s lives. Can you say Joe Bats didn’t cook this up to save himself? You know he’ll kill and maim—you don’t think he’ll lie? You don’t think maybe he conned Mr. Scott here? You know there’s people that see a conspiracy when two bedbugs cross a mattress. A guy like Joe B can play on that. That’s the kind of guy Scott wants to strap on you. I don’t envy you. Well all right, I’ve had my say. I may have been clumsy, I may have been the lawyer with the fool for a client, but I went the only way I know—my way. If my speech was rough, I apologize—I was on the street when I shoulda been in school. I wanna thank you for listening to me. I know, whatever you decide, you did your best. God bless you.”

Try and read them faces. The lawyers start in. The foreman is with us, it’s plain on his face. Number 4 juror was smiling—he’s going along with us. Number 7 juror was disgusted by these hippie-type agents. Numbers 8 and 9 jurors are fighting, you can see that—they’ll be deadlocked for sure. Etc.

Bullshit. Everybody got tagged on every count. Thirty days for investigation and sentence.
Finita la commedia
.

I was worried about Rocco after that. He didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to clean up, didn’t want to do anything. He was doing bad time.

“I’m not gonna make it, Carlito.”

“Wadda you mean, Rocco? You got a lot going for you.”

“I’m tired, I want out.”

“Rocco, you got bread, you can put together a dynamite appeal, knock the jock off these sombitches—there was error like crazy in the trial.”

“You’re too much, Carlito, you never say die. I wish I was like you. But they’re going to close the door on me. Wops don’t make parole—right away they stamp us O.C. or mafia. My life is over. It’s okay, I got no squawks.”

“Don’t talk like that—what about Carmen and the kids?”

“They’ll be taken care of.”

“What about me, Rocco? Don’t you give a shit about what happens to me? You know I depend on you for the smarts—who’s gonna give me the right scoop now?”

“You’ll be okay. You got a talent for survival—c’mon, don’t get sloppy on me. You’re supposed to be a tough guy.”

“You ain’t gonna hurt yourself, are you, Rocco?”

“Get off that kick, will you, Carlito? For Christ’s sake. Hey, tell me about that thirteenth round with Walcott and Marciano.”

Rocco hung himself the week before sentence. He used his shirt. Let’s just say it was the worst news I ever got and I been in a lotta hassles and seen a lotta good boys go out. But Rocco was like an older brother to me—I’d have given my life for him. I ain’t no hack fighter, but when they wouldn’t let me attend his funeral I went bananas. He was the best guy on the street ever was. Always had class, even as a kid back at the El with me and Earl.

12

A
ND NOW THE END IS NEAR
…. F
RANK’S SONG FOR THE
wise-guys. My way, yeah, I did it my way. Regrets, I’ve had a few—ha! Thirty years, the man said. The streets’ll be buzzin’ tonight—Simpson Street, Fox Street, 117th Street, 111th Street, all the Rican hustlers—“Carlito got thirty years, that mother, had a ton of bread, why he so greedy, fuck ’im!” Yeah, your own kind always gives you a break. Judge Rossi made a big spiel about me being a cancer: “You, Charles Brigante, are a malignant tumor in the soft underbelly of our society. The influx of heroin for which you and your co-conspirators are responsible has caused untold suffering and anguish. The toll in human life is incalculable. And yet you stand there in the full flush of your arrogance, swaggering about as you did throughout the entire trial. No contrition, no repentance from you, Brigante….”

Bla, bla, bla—repentance, you goddamn right, I’m goin’ to jail for thirty years. Mr. Assistant U.S. Attorney Scott smirking—he swear his ass weigh a ton. As if
he could lose in that kangaroo court—they was playin’ with marked cards, loaded dice, and tilted tables, real sportin’-like. Shit—any fool could have won this case for the government. Ladeez and gentlemen of the ju-ree, we done caught this jive Po’Rican with two hundred keys of horse worth eighty million on the street, but he didn’t know it was in the car. Shee-it, ain’t no big deal.

“Does the defendant wish to address the court before sentence?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I swear to God I did not know anything about what was in that car. I know how my people have suffered with the drugs and I won’t have nothing to do with it. But like, I come up in Harlem at the wrong time and I been keeping bad company, so that’s how come I’m in trouble—bad people around me—I’m trying to do the right thing, but it’s hard to turn your back on people you know all your life. So like these agents cook up this conspiracy—maybe something bad went down, but it ain’t like these agents and stool pigeons—eh—informers told it. That Battaglia, he lied. I swear to God I ain’t never dealt with this man. I know Your Honor’s Italian and I don’t mean no offense, but these Italian guys, these other defendants wouldn’t have nothing to do with a Puerto Rican like me—no way—the jury was crazy to believe that. This is guilt by association like the lawyers said. And the probation department of this court. All they want to talk about is my record—what kind of justice is that? They want to talk about twenty-five years ago—why we got to talk about that? Let’s talk about this case, not about no unlawful entry or lousy assault case
skatey-eight years ago. A man had to have a record in those days, the Ricans was not in style—wasn’t no social workers out there worried about you. The bulls outa the two-three and two-five precincts had one hand on your throat and one foot up your butt—they didn’t answer to nobody in them days—if you got popped, wrong or right, shame on you. How many times I got stomped right there in the bathroom of the two-three on 104th Street or got my head shoved in the toilet bowl? It was rough out there—weren’t none of this Miranda jive. So like if a dude had heart and got himself a rep, every time something happened the man would be on you. So that’s how come I got a record. I don’t know none of these Italians and I didn’t get no fair trial. I demand a new trial! That’s all I got to say.”

B
ACK TO
W
EST
S
TREET MAX FOR A COUPLE OF WEEKS, THEN
Lewisburg or Atlanta. Let’s see now, thirty years, I’m forty-two—I’ll come before the board in ten years, they’ll say no dice—motherfuckers—yeah, I’ll do twenty—I’ll be sixty-two. Fuck it, the kid always stands up—I’m going into the yard lookin’ every motherfucker in the eye—never ratted nobody out. The wops are mad at me because I was my own lawyer—fuck ’em, it was my ass. And the stool pigeon, a wop! Ain’t this a bitch—all this bullshit about the outfit and the stool turns out to be a made-guy. Ha! What a joke on Amadeo when they opened the door behind the witness chair and in came Battaglia. The big guy like to fall through his own
asshole. Mr. Amadeo, Mr. A, Mr. Mohair, Mr. White-on-White—up yours. Me being the only spic right away I was wrong. All those months in West Street, not one look, not one word—sidge talk with his crew was all. Me, I’m out, I’m a niggerican, but when the shit had to be moved from the pier, nobody wanted to get near the car— the spic was the only one with the heart. Then when the shit hit the fan, I’m a garbage can—the spitters close ranks and the Rican is out; he ain’t family, he’s the weak link. Fuck you, Mr. Petey A—I stood up—like a chump— even when you had the scissors stolen from the barbershop to put through my chest. The contract never went down—Rocco saw to that. Rocco, m’main man. Goodbye, ol’ buddy.