Free Motor City Shakedown by D. E. Johnson

the judge. “Miss Cansalvo cannot speak English. I would like to call Ferdinand Palma to serve as an interpreter.”
    Judge Morton looked at our table. “Do you have any objection, Mr. Sutton?”
    Sutton stood and allowed that he didn’t. When he sat, he looked at me, shrugged, and whispered, “Palma used to be a Detroit city detective. He’s interpreted in other cases I’ve had. I think he’s all right.”
    I nodded and pulled on my collar. The air in the courthouse was stale, and it was hot. I wished someone would open a window.
    The judge nodded to the bailiff, who called Ferdinand Palma to the stand. Palma, a stocky man in his midthirties, strolled up to the bailiff like he was taking a walk through the park. He wore an impeccable white summer suit—Brooks Brothers, I thought—with a crimson handkerchief in his breast pocket and a matching carnation on his lapel. His hair was so soaked with pomade it looked like he combed it with a pork chop. Palma wasn’t a handsome man, but his self-assurance made him almost seem so.
    The bailiff swore in Miss Cansalvo, who took her seat in the witness box, and then Palma, who stood nearby on the jury side of her.
    Higgins waited until everyone was comfortable. “Miss Cansalvo, you live at 2400 Rivard in apartment 304, do you not?”
    She looked at Palma, who asked her the question in Italian. “Sì,” she answered in a quiet voice.
    He asked her if anything unusual happened the night of August 6. Palma interpreted, and her answer took about a minute. When she finished, Palma turned to the judge. “Miss Cansalvo was awakened by a shout in the apartment next to hers. She couldn’t fall asleep again. While she was lying awake, she remembered she didn’t leave any milk out for her cat. She was setting it outside when she saw a man lurking in the hallway, wiping off the doorknob of her neighbor’s apartment.”
    â€œAnd approximately what time was this?”
    Palma asked Miss Cansalvo. Her reply was, “Two in the morning.”
    â€œWhat did the man do?”
    She said he’d wiped off the doorknob and tried to hide his face, even covering it with a handkerchief like the Old West bank robbers she saw in flickers at the nickelodeon.
    Higgins harrumphed and gripped his lapels again. “Is that man in this courtroom today?”
    When she said he was, Higgins asked her to point him out.
    Palma translated. Miss Cansalvo looked at me for the briefest moment before raising her hand and pointing at me. “Lo,” she whispered. “Will Anderson.”
    *   *   *
    Sutton walked around our table and slowly approached Miss Cansalvo. He was impeccable in a dark gray suit with matching waistcoat, an ivory and gray ascot, and a pair of black oxfords shined to a high gloss.
    He paused for a moment, looking into her eyes, then began. “Miss Cansalvo, I commend you for coming forward even though you must have known this testimony would lead to your deportation. That had to be a difficult decision.” He looked at Palma, who translated.
    Her eyes narrowed a bit, but she said, “Sì. Grazie.”
    Sutton nodded and cupped his chin in his hand. “And it must have been a difficult decision to leave Sicily in the first place, to travel alone to a new country. Not many people would do that, unless of course they had good reason to leave. Why did you leave your homeland?”
    Palma translated. Miss Cansalvo’s response was that she left because she was poor and couldn’t find a job. She had heard that America was the land of opportunity.
    With a sympathetic smile, Sutton nodded. He looked every bit the doting grandfather. “And how did you get here?”
    Palma repeated the question in Italian and listened to her response. She started and stopped several times, clearly unsure what she should say. When she finished, Palma said, “There is a man in Palermo