In a case steeped in blood and memory, It will take a stroke of brilliance to save Pigeon Tony. But if anyone can see justice done, it may be this gutsy young attorney. She'll risk everything for her client...including her life. In The Vendetta Defense, Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author of Moment of Truth and Mistaken Identity, tells a wonderfully rich story of past sins, love and justice. Lawyer Judy Carrier takes the case of an elderly pigeon racer, Tony Lucia, who has been arrested for the murder of his lifelong enemy Angelo Coluzzi. "Pigeon Tony," as he's known, confesses to Judy that he killed Coluzzi because of a vendetta begun more than fifty years ago. Her client's guilt, however, is only the beginning of Judy's problems. The Coluzzi family wants revenge, and they are determined to finish off Pigeon Tony and Judybefore the case can go to trial.
Is it murder or simply eye-for-an-eye justice if you kill someone who has killed members of your family That moral conundrum lies at the heart of Scottoline's (Moment of Truth; Mistaken Identity) latest legal yarn, which gives top billing to yet another lawyer from the all-female Philadelphia firm of Rosato & Associates. The star here is the somewhat manic Judy Carrier, who has played supporting roles in the past. The story, however, revolves around Anthony "Pigeon Tony" Lucia, a lovable septuagenarian who killed his longtime rival, Angelo Coluzzi, who murdered Lucia's wife in their native Italy 60 years ago. Coluzzi, the wealthy, mob-connected owner of a big construction firm, always seems to get the upper hand until Pigeon Tony breaks his neck during a showdown at the pigeon-racing club where they're both members. Pigeon Tony freely admits he killed Coluzzi, but maintains he was justified because of the long-standing Italian tradition of vendetta; Carrier knows it will be a big stretch to make that argument fly before a 21st-century American jury. Aided, however, by Tony's many friends in South Philly's Italian neighborhoods, Carrier mounts a sparkling defense while dodging innumerable attempts on her life from Coluzzi's gang and trying to keep in check her amorous feelings for Pigeon Tony's ruggedly handsome grandson, Frank. Scottoline shows once again her knack for building a highly entertaining plot around an intriguingly simple legal issue and a cast of likable eccentrics. Her touch is light, and her satisfying mix of mischief, sex appeal, action and legal analysis justifies her wide following. (Feb. 27) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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February 28, 2002
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Excerpt from The Vendetta Defense by Lisa Scottoline
The morning Tony Lucia killed Angelo Coluzzi, he was late to feed his pigeons. As long as Tony had kept pigeons, which was for almost all of his seventy-nine years, he had never been late to feed them, and they began complaining the moment he opened the screen door. Deserting their perches, cawing and cooing, they flew agitated around the cages, their wings pounding against the chicken wire, setting into motion the air in the tiny city loft. It didn't help that the morning had dawned clear and that March blew hard outside. The birds itched to fly.
Tony waved his wrinkled hand to settle them, but his heart wasn't in it. They had a right to their bad manners, and he was a tolerant man. It was okay with him if the birds did only one thing, which was to fly home. They were homers, thirty-seven of them, and it wasn't an easy job they had, to travel to a place they'd never been, a distance in some races of three hundred or four hundred miles, then to navigate their return through skies they'd never flown, over city and country they'd never seen and couldn't possibly know, to flap their way home to a tiny speck in the middle of South Philadelphia, all without even stopping to congratulate themselves for this incredible feat, one that man couldn't even explain, much less accomplish.
There were so many mistakes a bird could make. Circling too long, as if it were a joyride or a training toss. Getting distracted on the way, buffeted by sudden bad weather, or worse, simply getting tired and disoriented -- thousands of things could result in the loss of a precious bird. Even once the first bird had made it home, the race wasn't won. Many races had been lost by the bird who wouldn't trap fast enough; the one who was first to reach his loft but who stopped on the roof, dawdling on his way to the trap, so that his leg band couldn't be slipped off and clocked in before another man's bird.
But Tony's birds trapped fast. He bred them for speed, intelligence, and bravery, through six and even seven generations, and over time the birds had become his life. It wasn't a life for the impatient. It took years, even decades, for Tony to see the results of his breeding choices, and it wasn't until recently that his South Philly loft had attained the best record in his pigeon-racing club.
Suddenly the screen door banged open, blown by a gust of wind, startling Tony and frightening the birds in the first large cage. They took panicky wing, seventeen of them, all white as Communion wafers, transforming their cage into a snowy blizzard of whirring and beating, squawking and calling. Pinfeathers flurried and snagged on the chicken wire. Tony hurried to the loft door, silently reprimanding himself for being so careless. Normally he would have latched the screen behind him -- the old door had bowed in the middle, warped with the rain, and wouldn't stay shut without the latch -- but this morning, Tony's mind had been on Angelo Coluzzi.
The white pigeons finally took their perches, which were small plywood boxes lining the walls, but in their panic they had displaced each other, violating customary territories and upsetting altogether the pecking order, which led to a final round of fussing. "Mi dispiace," Tony whispered to the white birds. I'm sorry, in Italian. Though Tony understood English, he preferred Italian. As did his birds, to his mind.
He gazed at the white pigeons, really doves, which he found so beautiful. Large and healthy, the hue of their feathers so pure Tony marveled that only God could make this color. Their pearliness contrasted with the inky roundness of their eye, which looked black but in fact was the deepest of reds, blood-rich. Tony even liked their funny bird-feet, with the flaky red scales and the toe in back with a talon as black as their eyes pretended to be. And he kidded himself into thinking that the doves behaved better than the other birds. More civilized, they seemed aware of how special they were.