by Alex Perry
‘The brother left,’ said Alessandra. ‘And he never came back.’
After six more months confined to her in-laws’ home, Giuseppina managed to sneak a letter to the carabinieri. As a result, in 2008, she made several statements against the Cacciolas and was taken into witness protection. ‘But no one ever acted on her evidence!’ exclaimed Alessandra. ‘I decided to go to see her. And when she saw me, she burst into tears. “I’ve been waiting six years for someone to come and talk to me,” she said.’
Giuseppina described the Rosarno clans and the Cacciolas’ empire in a series of statements that eventually ran to several hundred pages. A dozen ’Ndranghetisti were later convicted. But what was especially striking about the case, said Alessandra, was Giuseppina Multari’s faith in herself. Even though the state had let her down, she had held on to her conviction and her courage. ‘The best part?’ said Alessandra. ‘Some of the men who kept her in that house are now serving time for slavery.’ It was, she added, a medieval conviction for medieval men.
It was Lea’s story above all, however, which moved Italy. If Concetta represented tragedy, and Giuseppina Pesce embodied resilience, then Lea was both. Here was a woman born into the mafia who had tried all her life to escape it. Trapped even deeper by marriage, she discovered the strength to fight in her love for her daughter, before being let down by the state, and trapped by a husband pretending to fall in love with her again. It was an epic melodrama of such unbelievable twists and turns that people seemed to turn up at the commemorations of her life that were held across the country from 2013 just to check that what they had heard was true.
There was something else, though. After her death, a number of pictures of Lea and Denise found their way into the newspapers. There was Lea smiling through long dark hair, or sitting on a rock by the beach with Denise on her knee, or holding Denise aloft in a city piazza, or smoking a cigarette in sunglasses on the beach, or at the stove in Bergamo on the run with Denise. People began to feel they knew Lea. Before them was a whole life, from girlhood to marriage to motherhood, from love to fear, in the city and on the beach, in the north and the south. In time, Lea’s story became one of the few ever to truly unite Italy. Posters of her face became a staple on walls across the country. There were documentaries and anti-mafia rallies, marches and newspaper profiles, plays and books and a television movie. Parks, bridges, piazzas and roads were named after her. Plaques were erected in Bergamo and Boiano and next to the warehouse outside Monza where she had died. In Milan, Lea’s remains were buried in the Cimitero Monumentale beside the city’s most illustrious citizens.1 A monument was erected in Petilia depicting a ball splitting a rock in two. In his speech unveiling the statue, the mayor declared Petilia would be for ever after a beacon to ‘women of courage’ across Italy.
On 19 October 2013, nearly four years after her death, thousands of Italians gathered on a chilly morning in Milan to remember Lea in the city where, as an expectant mother, she had once hoped for a new life. Buses laid on to transport mourners from Pagliarelle and Petilia arrived ominously empty. Among the crowd bearing flowers and waving flags decorated with Lea’s face, however, were hundreds of Calabrians who had made their own way. Enza Rando met one ’Ndrangheta wife who, following the service, walked immediately into a carabinieri station to make a statement against her family. ‘She said: “Lea taught me to be brave,”’ said Enza. ‘“Lea taught me to have courage.”’
Alessandra, unable to attend such a public event, watched on television. Lea’s coffin was carried through the streets around Sempione Park by pall bearers who included the mayors of Milan and Petilia and Don Luigi Ciotti, head of Libera. It was the size of the crowd that most caught Alessandra’s attention. The roots of the ’Ndrangheta went back to 1861 and the unification of Italy. Everything that had followed since had sprung from that first refusal to accept an Italian nation state. As a result, Italy had never really come together. It had always been north and south, state and mafia, Piedmontese, Lombardian and Venetian against Campanian, Calabrian and Sicilian. And it was in those rifts that malevolence and murder had thrived. And yet here, on the streets of Milan, was all Italy together. This was what a modern, lawful, united nation looked like. Was it possible that in the funeral of a mafioso’s daughter there were glimpses of a nation finally made whole?
Lea’s coffin was placed on a stand in front of the crowd. Over it hung a banner that read ‘I hear, I see, I speak’, a slogan which, alongside images of Lea, Giuseppina and Concetta, had become a fixture at anti-mafia rallies. Don Luigi then addressed a eulogy to Lea. She needn’t worry, he told her. Denise now had a family of thousands to look after her. ‘Your heart and your conscience will forever be wellsprings of freedom,’ he said. ‘You were a martyr to truth. Your spirit will never die.’
Don Luigi was followed by Denise.2 She had been only a girl of seventeen when, a few streets away, her mother had disappeared into the night. Now she was a woman of twenty-one and a government witness who had sent her father and boyfriend to jail for murdering her mother. And finally she was able to say her goodbyes. The crowd stood in silence. Denise, close by but hidden from view on her bodyguards’ insistence, spoke to the crowd through loudspeakers. ‘Today is a very difficult day for me,’ she began. After a long pause, in a gentle voice, she spoke to her mother. ‘Thank you for all you did for me,’ she said. ‘Thank you for giving me a better life. Everything that happened, everything you did, I know now that you did it all for me and I will never stop thanking you for it.’ Denise’s voice was cracking. There was no revenge here, no honour and no justice. There was just Denise standing before Lea, telling her she had been a good mother. ‘Ciao, Mama,’ she said.
Acknowledgements
An extraordinary selection of people tried to suppress the story of The Good Mothers and many of them did their best to frustrate the reporting and writing of this book. As with any investigation into the mafia, the ’Ndrangheta’s violent enforcement of omertà ensured that many of its leading characters were unavailable. By the time I heard their story, two of the three Good Mothers, Lea Garofalo and Maria Concetta Cacciola, were dead, killed for their courage in standing up to the organisation; the third, Giuseppina Pesce, was unreachable in witness protection. Most mafiosi and those intimidated by them were also unwilling to speak. On those occasions when subjects did talk, their answers to my questions often contained warnings or veiled threats. That the book exists at all is due to the courage and determination of a rare few.
Foremost among those who stepped forward to be counted is my agent at Pew Literary, Patrick Walsh. Patrick was the first to spot the potential of this story and he remains the greatest champion for whom a writer could ask, somehow combining charm and warmth with sage advice and commercial precision. Patrick forms an unbeatable team with Luke Speed, my film agent at Curtis Brown, who immediately saw the promise of The Good Mothers and whose consequent effect on my professional life has been nothing less than transformational. Arabella Pike at HarperCollins in London and David Highfill at HarperCollins in New York were both everything a writer wishes for in an editor: gracious in their welcome, generous in the time they allowed me to write, firm in their support against saboteurs, efficient and insightful in their editing – and providers of delicious lunches. Katherine Patrick at HarperCollins UK organised a publicity campaign that could have conquered worlds, Leo Nickolls created the fantastic cover and Iain Hunt ushered the final text to publication with the skill and collegial civility that has led to his universal acknowledgement as one of the best in the business. Tessa Ross and Juliette Howell at House Productions, who bought the film and television rights before there was even a proposal, let alone a book, have my everlasting gratitude for their brave and early support. I owe a large debt to Nick Trautwein at the New Yorker for championing an excerpt in the magazine, as well as gentle, meticulous and insightful editing; Dorothy Wickenden and David Remnick for their enthusiasm; and Fabio Bertoni, Nick Niarchos, Stephania Taladrid and France
sca Magnani for their forensic diligence. Thank you also to Philip Gourevitch for the introduction.
I first heard about the women of The Good Mothers on my first reporting trip to Italy (for a different story) when Laura Aprati, an Italian journalist whom I had asked to set up a couple of interviews, insisted that as part-payment I watch a one-woman play she had written with Enrico Fierro. The play, O cu nui o cu iddi (With us or with them), was being staged entirely in Italian to an audience of teenagers in a run-down, heavily mafia area on the outskirts of Rome. I picked up on the drama and the tragedy but little more. My confusion – and the audience’s – was only heightened when Laura pushed me on stage to answer a few questions through an interpreter about my impression of the play, the mafia and the past, present and future of Italy.
Chastened by this exposure of my ignorance, I returned to my guesthouse knowing only the name of the woman on whose life the play was based: Maria Concetta Cacciola. Thus began the process of research and reporting that led me to her story, and those of Giuseppina Pesce, and Lea and Denise Garofalo. There was a lot to read. Though the Italian press initially missed the story of the Garofalos, it later made up for its inattention with blanket coverage of Carlo Cosco’s trial. By then, Lea and Denise were becoming heroes to a generation of young Italian activists. The arrest of the powerful Pesce clan, by contrast, was a big story from the start, especially when Giuseppina began testifying. As the press watched the unravelling of the Gioia Tauro ’Ndrangheta, Concetta’s death also received significant coverage.
Still, many of the newspaper reports were frustratingly brief and incomplete. There are sound reasons for this: Italian journalists who report on the mafia in any depth are routinely forced to seek protection from the authorities. In addition, the ’Ndrangheta is a phenomenon whose scale and threat has only recently begun to be understood. Uncovering the detail of the criminal conspiracy that lies behind the story of The Good Mothers and exploring the history of the ’Ndrangheta required a painstaking two and a half years rummaging through the archives of the Italian judiciary, accumulating, translating and assessing tens of thousands of pages of court documents. These were then supplemented by lengthy and repeated interviews with the participants as well as historians and academics.
Laura was my guide throughout this process, along with Giuliana Clementi, the interpreter who first translated my ramblings that night at Laura’s play. Laura’s deep knowledge and resourcefulness left few stones unturned. Giuliana’s pinpoint and nuanced translation in a world that the ’Ndrangheta would prefer to remain as murky as possible was essential to the accuracy of my understanding. I am forever grateful for their assistance. I also benefited immensely from the insight and generosity of Enrico Fierro, Laura’s professional partner for many years and an encyclopedia of mafia knowledge; and from the generosity and expertise of Lucio Musolino, whose contacts in Calabria are unparalleled and who continues to report daily on the ’Ndrangheta in the face of numerous threats to his life. I also owe deep thanks to Teo Butturini, Marta Clinco and Francesco Creazzo for fixing and translating.
I would also like to acknowledge the generous assistance of Alessandra Cerreti, whose insight into the importance of women to the ’Ndrangheta and how feminism was the key to bringing down Europe’s most powerful mafia are important themes of The Good Mothers. Alessandra allowed me to interview her for a total of eight hours over the course of a year.
The openness of the Italian justice system, and its tradition of prosecutors presenting their entire case in official documents that contain transcripts of wiretaps and surveillance videos, as well as transcripts of interviews with key suspects and witnesses, is a treasure trove for any journalist, and it is those legal and evidential documents which form the backbone of this book. As well as Alessandra, I am indebted to numerous prosecutors in Calabria and across Italy for their assistance in providing the relevant documents and agreeing to lengthy interviews, particularly Franco Roberti, Michele Prestipino, Giovanni Musarò, Giuseppe Lombardo, Sandro Dolce, Giuseppe Creazzo, Roberto di Bella, Federico Cafiero de Raho, Marcello Tatangelo and Gaetano Paci, and, despite a cold that had taken away his voice, the indomitable Nicola Gratteri. Renato Cortese took time out of his busy schedule to answer my questions. Raffaele Grassi, Reggio Calabria’s steadfast police chief, was unfailingly solicitous on my visits to the city and granted me a rare and astonishing tour of the giant floor on the top of the police headquarters entirely given over to wiretapping, surveillance and bugging. Like many on the Gioia Tauro piano, I am also indebted to Antonino de Masi and Antonino Bartuccio, mayor of Rizziconi, who continue to speak out – to me and others – despite the repeated threats to their lives.
Among the lawyers who also assisted me, particular thanks are due to Annalisa Pisano, Lea Garofalo’s only contact in the outside world for many years, who broke seven years of silence to speak tearfully and honestly to me in a quiet corner of a courthouse café in Catanzaro. Vincenza ‘Enza’ Rando, one of my first interviewees, dealt patiently with my frequently misjudged questions. Adriana Fiormonti, Giuseppina Pesce’s lawyer, was charmingly instructive on her client and the workings of the ’Ndrangheta. Jules Munro at Simpsons solicitors in Sydney, Beth Silfin at HarperCollins and Nicola Landolfi in Rome all provided crucial legal advice.
I drew on a host of academic research in my investigation of the ’Ndrangheta. Among those who were especially helpful were Enzo Ciconte in Rome, Ernesto Savone in Milan, and John Dickie and Anna Sergi in London. Anyone interested in pursuing this subject could do worse than to peruse the considerable back catalogue belonging to these four experts.
I also relied on a small army of readers to proof and offer suggestions, all of which were invaluable. My deep thanks to Max Askew, Colin Perry, and members of southern England’s best book club: Venetia Ellvers, Serena Freeland, Cleodie Gladstone, Wiz Hok, Susie Honey, Cheryl Myers, Millie Powell, Louisa Robertson, Amanda Sinclair, Sally Turvill and Anna Worthington. Deep thanks as ever to Tess, who read every draft, endured countless discussions and offered limitless incisive advice. None of it works without you, Tess.
To the many lawyers and various others on several continents who tried to frustrate this book – and whose tactics bore a marked resemblance to those employed by the ’Ndrangheta – I hope you can still enjoy it. A number of you made the argument that this was not my book to write, because I was neither Italian nor a woman. As someone who has worked as a foreign correspondent for more than two decades, I know the pitfalls of the profession only too well. The outsider is hindered by ignorance, language and expense. A very fair question is often: who are you to tell this tale? My own view is that these obstacles are formidable but not insurmountable; that distance can sometimes lend perspective; and that empathy, imagining yourself in the shoes of another, is the duty of any writer and the basis of any good writing. If the story of The Good Mothers tells us anything, it is that to define human capacity by the accident of gender or skin colour, religion or nationality, is folly. The entire world gained because a small group of southern Italian women sought a different destiny from the one others had marked out for them. It is their example, above all else, that has been my guide in these pages.
Notes
The story of The Good Mothers relies heavily on official court documents released during the trials of those charged with the murders of Lea Garofalo and Maria Concetta Cacciola, and the cases that followed Giuseppina Pesce’s revelations. The Italian justice system is an invaluable tool for the reporter trying to reconstruct a story after the fact. At each stage of the trial process, the prosecutor will release, in printed form, all the evidence he or she intends to rely on in court, including all transcripts of tapped phone conversations and other intercepted communications. These documents are detailed and comprehensive: each set of trial documents for Giuseppina Pesce ran to more than 1,000 pages, and more than 2,000 in the latter stages of the process. They also carry an unimpeachable legal privilege, as do the trial transcripts. It’s
hard to imagine a legal system where more trouble is taken to ensure that justice is seen to be done.
For each of the three Good Mothers, as well as for other cases that feature in their story, my method was to digest the official documentation, then follow it up with supplementary interviews with the protagonists. Italy’s anti-mafia prosecutors were unfailingly accommodating and most direct quotations from prosecutors in the text are from those interviews, though I have marked the source where it might be unclear or where that is not the case. (A full list of those prosecutors who assisted me, along with my thanks, can be found in the acknowledgements.) Mafiosi, ’Ndranghetisti and their legal representatives tended to be less forthcoming: such are the restrictions of omertà. I also interviewed a number of experts – academics, law enforcement officers, judges, lawyers, politicians, officials. Again, any quotations that appear in the text should be assumed to be sourced to my interviews unless I have indicated otherwise. Finally, as part of my research, I read thousands of articles in the Italian and international press, as well as a slew of books and academic articles, and I have indicated in the text where I have relied on them for points of information.
I
1. This chapter is based on official transcriptions of Denise Cosco’s testimony in court on 20 September and 13 October 2011, judicial documents from the murder trial that followed, and transcripts of her interviews with the carabinieri on 25 November 2009 and 5 March 2010. I also conducted several supplementary interviews, notably with Denise’s lawyer, Vincenza Rando, Lea’s lawyer, Annalisa Pisano, and prosecutors Alessandra Cerreti, Giuseppe Creazzo and Sandro Dolce.