Uniform Justice

by Donna Leon

  knew I had once planned to write a report, and perhaps he threatened

  them with it."

  Though his office was cool, Brunetti saw that sweat stood on Moro's

  brow and was slowly sliding down his chin. Moro wiped at it with the

  back of his hand. Then he said, "I'll never know."

  The two men sat for a long time, the only motion Moro's occasional

  attempt to wipe the sweat from his face. When, finally, his face was

  dry again, Brunetti asked, "What do you want me to do, Dottore?"

  Moro raised his head and looked at Brunetti with eyes that had grown

  even sadder in the last half-hour. "You want me to make the decision

  for you?"

  "No. Not really. Or not only. To make it for yourself. And for your

  family."

  "You'll do whatever I say?" Moro asked.

  "Yes."

  "Regardless of the law or justice?" Moro's emphasis, a very unkind

  emphasis, was on the last word.

  "Yes."

  "Why? Don't you care about justice?" Moro's anger was undisguised

  now.

  Brunetti had no taste for this, not any longer. "There's no justice

  here, Dottore," he said, frightened to realize that he meant not only

  for this man and his family, but for this city, and this country, and

  their lives.

  Then let it be," Moro said, exhausted. "Let him be."

  Everything that was decent in Brunetti urged him to say something that

  would comfort this man, but the words, though summoned, failed to come.

  He thought of Moro's daughter and then of his own. He thought of his

  own son, of Filippi's son, and of Moro's, and then the words came:

  "Poor boy."