Omerta - Mario Puzo [18]
So it was with a good-humored sarcasm that the Don proposed his toast. “But tell me,” he said to Nicole. “Did you ever believe the man innocent by reason of his insanity? After all, he did exercise his free will.”
Valerius looked at Nicole with cool, measuring eyes. He was a tall man, forty years of age with a bristly short mustache and hair already turning to steel gray. As an intelligence officer, he had himself made decisions that overlooked human morality. He was interested in her reasoning.
Marcantonio understood his sister, that she aspired to a normal life partly out of shame for their father’s life. He was more worried that she would say something rash, something that her father could never forgive her for.
As for Astorre, he was dazzled by Nicole—her flashing eyes, the incredible energy with which she responded to her father’s goading. He remembered their lovemaking as teenagers and felt her still obvious affection for him. But now he was transformed, no longer what he was when they were lovers. That was understood. He wondered if her brothers knew about that long-ago affair. And he too worried that a quarrel would break the bonds of family, a family that he loved, that was his only refuge. He hoped Nicole would not go too far. But he had no sympathy for her views. His years in Sicily had taught him differently. But it amazed him that the two people he cared most about in the world could be so different. And it occurred to him that even if she were right, he could never side with Nicole against her father.
Nicole looked boldly into her father’s eyes. “I don’t believe he had free will,” she said.“He was forced by the circumstances of his life—by his own distorted perceptions, his genetic heritage, his biochemistry, the ignorance of medicine—he was insane. So of course I believe it.”
The Don pondered this for a moment. “Tell me,” he said. “If he admitted to you all his excuses were false, would you still have tried to save his life?”
“Yes,” Nicole said. “Each individual life is sacred. The state has no right to take it.”
The Don smiled at her mockingly. “That’s your Italian blood. Do you know that modern Italy has never had the death penalty? All those human lives saved.” His sons and Astorre flinched at his sarcasm, but Nicole was unabashed.
She said to him sternly, “It is barbaric for the state under the mantle of justice to commit premeditated murder. I would think that you of all people would agree with that.” It was a challenge, a reference to his reputation. Nicole laughed, then said more soberly, “We have an alternative. The criminal is locked away in an institution or a prison for life without hope of release or parole. Then he is no longer a danger to society.”
The Don looked at her coolly. “One thing at a time,” he said. “I do approve of the state taking a human life. And as for your lifetime without parole or release, that’s a joke. Twenty years pass and supposedly new evidence is found, or rehabilitation is assumed and the criminal has made a new person of himself, so now spills the milk of human kindness. The man goes free. But no one cares for the dead. That’s not really important . . .”
Nicole frowned. “Dad, I didn’t imply that the victim isn’t important. But taking a life will not get the victim’s life back. And the longer we condone killing, under any circumstances, the longer it will go on.”
Here the Don paused and drank his wine as he looked around the table at his two sons and Astorre. “Let me tell you the reality,” he said, and turned to his daughter. He spoke with an intensity rare for him. “You say human life is sacred? From what evidence? Where in history? The wars that have killed millions are endorsed by all governments and religions. The massacres of thousands of enemies in a political dispute, over economic interests, are recorded through time. How many times has the earning of money been