Omerta by Mario Puzo

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 placed above the sanctity of human life? And you yourself condone the taking of a human life when you get your client off.”
    Nicole’s dark eyes flashed. “I have not condoned it,” she said. “I have not excused it. I think it’s barbaric. I have just refused to lay the ground for more of it!”
    Now the Don spoke more quietly but more sincerely. “Above all this,” he said, “the victim, your loved one, lies beneath the earth. He is forever banished from this world. We will never see his face, we will never hear his voice, we will never touch his flesh. He is in darkness, lost to us and our world.”
    They all listened silently as the Don took another sip of wine. “Now, my Nicole. Hear me. Your client, your murderer, is sentenced to life imprisonment. He will be behind bars or in an institution for the rest of his life. So you say. But each morning he will see the rising sun, he will taste hot food, he will hear music, the blood will run in his veins and interest him in the world. His loved ones can still embrace him. I understand he can even study books, learn carpentry to build a table and chairs. In short, he lives. And that is