“You're gonna sit here, until you start talking.” He remarked, as he leaned over my back getting closer to my right ear.
I wasn’t ready to give him my answer. I was still deciding. Either I say it was me, take the consequences and then be free with the money I’ve earned, or tell him about who got me sitting here in this chair on a Tuesday night with my hands cuffed, inside this very cliché interrogation room. Tell him about Frankie. Frankie Costello. That f**king grease ball. I had made my decision. I was done with this life. I was done with being a servant to some prick who wasn’t going to “get me in”. If he wasn’t doing any favors, neither would I.
All my life I wanted to be a gangster; a bad boy. Make quick cash, and be a symbol of danger to everyone around me. When I was a little kid, back when I was around 13, I changed my philosophy: don’t give a f*** about anything or anyone, and make money. Seeing dad hit mom at least once a week, Uncle Pauley always in and out of jail, and living in a sh*thole made me realize something. I really didn’t give a f*** about anything. Growing up, I’d walk down the block, and every time I’d pass “Costello’s Italian Restaurant”, I’d see Frankie in there, running his restaurant, and occasionally, if I was lucky enough, I’d witness him deal with some real business. Maybe beat the s*** out of a guy, or maybe have one of his men take him around back. The first time I ever saw that happen, I realized that’s what I wanted to. I wanted to be a “made man”. When I made that decision, I started running errands for Frankie because I knew who he was, what kind of guy he was, and what he could do for me in the future. I’d walk down the street from my house everyday, go to “Costello’s”, where he’d give me his mail and have me send them off for him. When I got older I started to do bigger jobs, and making bigger money. It all progressed until now where I’m his sideman. I’m basically doing everything he was doing, sometimes doing things for him, without getting the reputation. After many years with this guy, I’m still his little servant, and he still can’t consider me part of the mafia like him. I was done with this.
“Alright Detective, you want the truth... Okay. But this is not because you’ve threatened me into saying this.”
“Hah… Alright now talk.”
And I did. I told him all about Frankie. Detective sat down, leaned forward putting both elbows on the table with his fists on his cheekbones, and listened to me intensely without ever taking his eyes off me. When I was done explaining, he leaned back, had a sigh of relief, and put both arms perfectly on the armrests.
“Vito…Vito…Vito. I must thank you for being honest as that is helpful in my case, but spilling out your guts still isn’t gonna help you out of this one.”
“I FU—“
“— Hold up…hold up…hold up. Let me clarify. So this Frankie guy, has you go out to some butt-f*** nowhere place in Philadelphia to bury the body of…” He shuffled some papers, “Johnny Shapiro. And has you do this why?”
“Because—“
“—Because this Johnny guy threatened Frankie in a bar so he killed him, that’s right. So it was a bar fight gone wrong, and you were sent to clean up the mess. ”
“Exactly, so I didn’t kill the guy!”
“Ever heard of Accessory?”
When he said those words, nothing he said afterwards I gave a crap about. The only things going through my mind was how I was such an idiot since things didn’t go as planned. Although his punishment would have him f**ked, I’d consider my punishment standing here with my clothes off.
“Well wait a second. How did he get you to do this? Who is this guy? What is he, part of the mafia or something?” I continued to ignore him. Instead I demanded to leave.
It was months later, on a Friday morning, but this Friday was a lot different than usual. This Friday I was on trial. I sat in my chair wearing an orange jumpsuit sitting next to my lawyer. I’ll be honest. I was scared. As I sat there, I ignored every sentence that didn’t involve my name, and instead thought about my sentence. Sitting in a cell, bored out of my mind, wishing I could leave but not being able to, wondering how long my sentence is, and how long it will feel.
“Vito Scapelli.” I looked up at the judge.
“Yes your honor?”
“On Monday, December 16th, You…Vito Scapelli, took place in a murder crime where you put the body of Johnny Shapiro in your trunk, and went out to bury the body to abolish any possible evidence. Vito Scapelli, because of this doing, you have been sentence to 8 years in the State Penitentiary.”