Without doubt, it was a time of small victories, a truth Buscetta acknowledged with his seven-year deal. It was also a time of high spirits and high energy. We worked until we were ready to drop. We laughed at each other’s jokes. We were drunk on the mere possibility of success. The high point of that period, the white froth at the apex of the wave just before it began to curl down over my family, occurred on February 15, in the chambers of Judge Thomas Delaney. The session was to be purely off the record, with no court reporter present, a chance to air complaints, review progress. Under other circumstances, Delaney would have pushed for a plea bargain, but I think by this time he was looking forward to a trial. After a few minutes of verbal sparring in which Buscetta accused me of withholding the state’s generous deal from my client, I renewed my demand for all paperwork pertaining to the search of Priscilla’s apartment and her arrest. “You ordered the state to produce this material, judge, but I can’t even get Mr.
