Celeste testified.
Her lawyer asked:
“Did Vittorio tell you to throw Sophie down the staircase?”
“No.”
“Push her down?”
“No.”
“Injure her?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“To send her downstairs and stop negotiating.”
“Why use force?”
“She refused.”
“Did you intend for her to fall?”
Celeste paused.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I intended to turn her and propel her toward the first step so she would start down.”
Propel.
Her verb.
Then prosecution.
“Did you hold her hand?”
“No.”
“Keep one hand on her shoulder?”
“No.”
“Escort her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was angry.”
There.
“Did you know she was four?”
“Yes.”
“Know there were eighteen stairs?”
“Yes.”
“Know she was at the top?”
“Yes.”
“Know Vittorio wanted her frightened?”
Celeste’s mouth tightened.
“Yes.”
“Did you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she did not listen.”
“Was disobedience worth risk of a fall?”
“No.”
“Did you know that then?”
Long silence.
“Yes.”
There.
No childhood excuse.
No Vittorio excuse.
Then:
“Why obey?”
Celeste looked toward my father.
“Because when Vittorio gave a family instruction, I treated it like duty.”
“Could you refuse?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“What did you choose?”
Her voice broke.
“I pushed her.”
That was the sentence.
No passive voice.
No:
she fell.
I pushed her.
Then the prosecutor asked:
“Why retreat when Matteo looked up?”
Celeste cried.
“Because I knew what I had done.
