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community. Basically, she’d had Jarrod—that was it. And over the weekend, it all kind of settled on her.
    “It’s true. I did feel that way,” Andie said. “But if it’s all the same, I came here this morning to serve.”
    The judge stopped writing. She gazed up at Andie, a little surprised by what she’d heard.
    “You think you can be a positive force on this jury, Ms. DeGrasse? And not cause any trouble?”
    Andie nodded. “Yes, if you let me get back in there, I think I can.”
    Christ, Andie, all you had to do was keep your mouth shut, and you’d be gone.
    Judge Seiderman put down her pen. She took a long, evaluating look at Andie. “Okay, why not? It’s your right to serve.” The judge summoned her clerk. “Ms. Moran, would you mind showing Juror Number Eleven back to the jury room.”
    “Thank you, Your Honor.” Andie smiled.
    Heading back to the courtroom, Sharon Ann held the door. “Well, I’m certainly surprised you’re still on this jury.”
    “Yeah.” Andie shook her head in disbelief. “That makes two of us.”

Chapter 12
    “ON THE MORNING of August sixth, 1993,” U.S. Attorney Joel Goldenberger began, “Samuel Greenblatt, a happily married sixty-two-year-old building contractor, was brutally murdered outside his home in Union, New Jersey.” The prosecutor pointed to a photographic enlargement resting on an easel. It depicted a smiling, slightly balding man with his wife at his sixtieth birthday party.
    The jury stared at the face.
    “A car pulled up as Greenblatt left for the office that morning. Two men in caps and sunglasses jumped out and shot him, multiple times, as he stepped onto the street. The victim looked at his killers and muttered, ‘ Why? ’ Then he called out, ‘Frannie,’ the name of his wife of thirty-seven years. Then, to make sure they had finished the job, one of them stood over Mr. Greenblatt’s dying body and calmly put two more rounds into his head. After the gunmen drove away, the first one to find the body was his youngest son, a senior at Rutgers. Members of the jury, you’re going to be hearing a lot about Samuel Greenblatt during this trial.”
    One of Goldenberger’s assistants passed out graphic police photographs showing the victim’s bloodied corpse. One or two women in the jury box squirmed and shook their heads. “Now, no one is claiming Sam Greenblatt was an angel. In fact, he had assisted the Guarino crime family on several union-tampering construction jobs. He had secured bogus contracts for the family through the Local 407, a contracting union the family controlled.
    “But what the government is saying,” the prosecutor continued, gripping the sides of his table, “and what will be repeatedly backed up by the words of several key witnesses, is that the defendant, Dominic Cavello, gave the direct order for Mr. Greenblatt’s execution. That the very killers were chosen by Mr. Cavello and rewarded by him—with money and promotions in the organization to which they all belonged. And what was the motive for this killing? Why did Mr. Greenblatt need to be eliminated? Because Mr. Cavello and his cronies believed they were the subject of a state law enforcement investigation, an assumption that turned out to be false. They simply thought Mr. Greenblatt could do them harm.”
    The prosecutor stepped away. He placed his hands on the jury box. “But the killing didn’t end there. Contrary to the movies, mob hits don’t always go according to plan. What you’re going to hear is that this murder spawned a series of killings, three, in fact—all ordered by Mr. Cavello with the goal of covering up the first one.
    “You’re going to hear of union tampering and construction fraud. Of extortion. Loan-sharking. You’re going to hear, above all, that Mr. Cavello was the boss of the Guarino crime family. The Boss of Bosses, in fact, using the Colombian and Russian crime syndicates to do his dirty work, a man whose principal business was to enrich