A Walk in the Dark

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  “Is this a social call or have you started defending perverts?”

  Alessandra was in the section of the Public Prosecutor’s department dealing with sex crimes. As a rule, I didn’t defend that kind of client, and there weren’t many civil cases in that section, so Alessandra and I had few opportunities to meet for professional reasons.

  “Yes, your colleague next door was picked up in the park wearing a black raincoat, and nothing underneath. He was arrested by a special team from the public hygiene department and he’s asked me to defend him.”

  The colleague next door didn’t have what you’d call a spotless reputation. All sorts of amusing stories were told about him. And about the many secretaries, female bailiffs, typists – mostly quite advanced in years – who passed through his office outside working hours.

  We joked a while longer and then I told her the reason for my visit.

  The first thing she said was that I’d taken on a difficult case. Thanks, but I’d already figured that.

  Obviously, I knew who the defendant was, and his father. Obviously, yes, thanks again for the reassuring tone. When I have a problem and need moral support, I know where to come in future.

  What kind of case did we have? A disaster, which I already knew. A disaster, from every point of view. Basically her word against his, at least as far as the worst of his actions were concerned. The annoying phone calls were proved by the records, but that was a minor offence. There were a couple of medical reports from the casualty ward, but they didn’t show any serious injuries. When the worst offences had been committed, she hadn’t sought medical help. She was ashamed to say what had happened. It was always like that. They’re beaten up and then they’re ashamed to say that their husbands or partners are animals.

  “If you want my opinion, I think the Fumai girl was also raped during the period they were living together. It happens a lot, but it almost never comes to trial. They feel ashamed. It’s incredible, but they feel ashamed.”

  “Who’s the judge?”

  “Caldarola.”

  “Great.”

  Judge Cosimo Caldarola was a sad, colourless bureaucrat. I’d known him for more than fifteen years, that is, ever since becoming a trial lawyer, and I’d never seen him smile.

  “Give me some good news. Who’s our friend’s lawyer?”

  “Guess.”

  “Delissanti?”

  “Congratulations. You’ll see, we won’t be bored in this trial.”

  Delissanti was a bastard. But good, bloody good. A kind of 240-pound pitbull. Nobody was keen to have him as an opponent. I’d seen him cross-examine prosecution witnesses, making them say one thing and then immediately afterwards the exact opposite. Without their even realizing it. For a few seconds I had a disturbing vision of my frail client struggling with Delissanti. It occurred to me we were really in the shit.

  I asked if I could see the papers and Alessandra told me they were in the secretariat. I could go along there, take a look at the file, and whatever I needed I could get photocopied.

  After all this good news, I stood up to shake off my unease.

  “Wait,” she said, and started rummaging in her desk drawers. After a while she took out a small wad of photocopies pinned together. She put them in an envelope and held it out to me.

  “For copies of the documents, go to the secretariat and pay the fees. These I’m giving you for free. They make for interesting reading, I think. If you want to get an idea what kind of man our friend is.”

  I took the envelope and put it in my briefcase. We said goodbye and I went off to the secretariat to make copies of the file. Thinking that everything was going really wonderfully.

  10

  I went to the secretariat, started selecting the documents I might need, and after a while realized I was wasting time, just to save a bit of money on photocopies and chancery fees. So I told the clerk I wanted a complete copy of the file and I needed it before the end of the morning. I paid the fees, with a supplement to get it done quickly, and that reminded me that I hadn’t even got an advance from Signorina Fumai and her friend Sister Claudia.

  I went back to the office at lunchtime, with a whole folder full of photocopies.

  I told Maria Teresa to order me a couple of rolls and a beer for lunch from the bar on the ground floor, and when they arrived I started working and eating.

  There was nothing of particular interest in the file. I already knew the gist of it.

  As Alessandra had said, the evidence against Scianatico consisted basically of my client’s statements. There were some corroborating testimonies, two medical reports, and the phone records. In a normal trial that might even have been enough. But this wasn’t a normal trial.

  It took me no more than an hour to examine the whole file. Then I opened my briefcase, took out the yellow envelope and looked at what it contained.

  The photocopies were of a book on criminology by an American psychiatrist, about a kind of criminal I’d never had to deal with since becoming a lawyer. Or maybe I had, without realizing it. The stalker.

  In the first pages, the author, quoting US laws, a large number of studies, and the FBI manual of criminal classification, defined a stalker as

  a predator who furtively and obstinately follows a victim according to a specific criterion and acts in such as way as to cause emotional distress and arouse a reasonable fear of being killed or suffering physical abuse, or who in a constant, voluntary and premeditated fashion follows and harasses another person.

  In essence, the author wrote, stalking is a form of terrorism directed at a single individual, with the aim of obtaining contact with that individual and dominating him. It is often an invisible crime, until it erupts into violence, or even murder. That’s when the police intervene, but by then it’s usually too late.

  The book went on to explain that many men classified as stalkers hide their own sense of dependency behind a stereotypical, ultra-masculine image, and are chronically oppressive in their dealings with women.

  Many stalkers of this kind have suffered traumas in childhood. The death of a parent, sexual, physical or psychological abuse, etc. In other words, stalkers usually have an affective imbalance, reflecting situations in their childhoods that have disturbed their ability to deal with relationships. They are incapable of experiencing the pain of separation in the normal way, of letting go and looking for another relationship. Often their anger at abandonment is a defence against a reawakening of the intolerable pain and humiliation of childhood rejection, which may add to their more recent sense of loss.

  It is difficult, the author wrote, to imagine the intensity of the fear and anguish felt by the victim. The terror is so intense and so constant that it is often beyond the understanding of anyone not directly involved.

  There was a passage run through with an orange highlighter.

  As the terrorism escalates, the life of the victim becomes a prison. The victim hurries from the protective cover of home to that of the workplace, then home again, just like a prisoner being transferred from one cell to another. But often not even the workplace is a refuge. Some victims are too terrified to leave home. They live confined and alone, peeking out at the world from behind barred shutters.

  I let out a brief whistle, not much more than an almost soundless breath of air. This was exactly what Sister Claudia had said. She stays at home, shut in, as if she’s in prison. That’s what she’d said, and at the time I hadn’t paid too much attention.

  Now I realized it was more than just a line.

  I picked up the file again and had another look at the charges, which I’d just skimmed through before. The most interesting was that for the offence of threatening behaviour, that is, to all intents and purposes, for stalking. Apart from the abuse, the bodily harm and the telephone harassment, Scianatico was charged:

  with the offence as under articles 81, 610, 61n.1 and 5 of the penal code, in that with a number of actions carried out with one and the same criminal inten
tion, acting for base and yet senseless motives, and taking such advantage of circumstances of time, place and person as to reduce the possibilities of self-defence, he forced Martina Fumai (after the end of the period during which they were cohabitating more uxorio, in which environment the offence of domestic abuse as described in the preceding charge was noted) using violence and threats, both explicit and implicit, as described in greater detail in the charges which follow: (1) to endure his constant, persistent, persecutory presence in the vicinity of her place of habitation, place of work and places of usual frequentation; (2) to gradually abandon her usual occupations and social relations; (3) to live in her home in a state of substantial deprivation of personal freedom, unable to go out freely without being subjected to harassment, as described above and also in greater detail in the charges which follow; (4) to go to and from her place of work substantially restricted in her personal freedom and with the necessary accompaniment (intended to prevent or resist the attacks of Signor Scianatico) of third parties . . .

  It struck me that this was a kind of situation I’d never really thought about. Obviously there had been times when I’d had to deal with marriages or relationships that had ended badly. Obviously I’d had to deal with the violence and harassment that often followed these endings. I’d always considered them minor deeds. A mere coda to failed relationships. Small acts of violence, insults, repeated harassment.

  Minor offences.

  I’d never thought about the extent to which these minor offences could devastate the victims’ lives.

  I went back to the photocopies Alessandra Mantovani had given me.

  The stalker is a predator who acts in such a way as to cause emotional distress and arouse a reasonable fear of being killed or suffering physical abuse. It is difficult to imagine the intensity of the fear and anguish felt by the victim. The terror is so intense and so constant that it is often beyond the understanding of anyone not directly involved.

  And so on.

  I started to feel a healthy sense of anger.

  So I closed the file, put aside the photocopies, and started to write out the civil action.

  11

  Margherita had gone to Milan for two days on business.

  So I went straight back to my apartment, with the idea of training for half an hour. Since I’d half moved to Margherita’s, I’d created a gym corner in my own apartment, with dumbbells and a punch bag.

  Sometimes I managed to go to a real gym, to skip rope, hit the punch bag, fight a few rounds. And get a few punches in the face from younger men who were a lot faster than me these days. At other times, if it was too late, if I didn’t have the time or the inclination to get my bag ready and go to the gym, I’d train alone at home.

  I was just about to get in my tracksuit when it struck me that it was too late this evening even to train at home. Besides, I was almost satisfied with my work – which didn’t happen often – and so I didn’t have a sense of guilt, which was what usually got me pounding that punch bag.

  So I decided to make dinner. Since being with Margherita, and spending so much time in her apartment, I’d made sure my fridge and my larder were always well stocked. Nor before, but now, always.

  I realize it may seem absurd, but that’s how it is. Maybe it was my way of reassuring myself that I’d kept my independence. Maybe simply being with Margherita had made me pay more attention to details, in other words, to the things that really mattered.

  Whatever the reason, my fridge and larder were full. In addition, I’d actually learned to cook. Even that, I think, was linked to Margherita. I wouldn’t be able to say exactly how, but it was linked to her.

  So I took off my jacket and shoes and went into the kitchen to check I had the ingredients for what I had in mind. Cannellini beans, rosemary, a couple of small onions, botargo. And spaghetti. That was all.

  Before starting, I went to choose some music. I spent a while looking through my collection, then chose Angelo Branduardi’s settings of poetry by Yeats. I went back to the kitchen as the music was starting.

  I put on water to boil for the pasta and salted it almost immediately. A habit of mine, because if I don’t do it straight away I forget and the pasta comes out tasting bland.

  I cleaned the small onions, sliced them and put them in the frying pan to cook with some oil and the rosemary. After four or five minutes I added the beans and a pinch of pepper. I left them to fry, and lowered half a pound of spaghetti into the boiling water. I drained it five minutes later, because I like pasta very hard, and tossed it in the frying pan with the seasoning. After putting it on the plate – it spilled over the edge a bit – I sprinkled it abundantly (more than was recommended in the recipe) with the botargo.

  It was almost midnight by the time I started eating. I drank half a bottle of a fourteen-proof Sicilian white. I’d tried it in a wine shop two months before, and bought two cases of it the following day.

  When I’d finished, I took a book from the pile of my latest purchases, still unread, which I kept on the floor next to the sofa.

  It was a Penguin edition of My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell, brother of the more famous – and much more boring – Laurence Durrell. It was a book I’d read, in Italian, many years before. Well written, intelligent, and above all very funny. Funny as few books are.

  I’d recently decided to brush up on my English – when I was younger, I’d spoken it quite well – and so I’d started to buy books by American and English authors in the original language.

  I lay down on the sofa and started reading and, almost simultaneously, laughing out loud without restraint.

  Without being aware of it, I went straight from laughter to sleep.

  A lovely, effortless, serene sleep, full of childlike dreams.

  Uninterrupted, until the following morning.

  12

  When I went to the clerk of the court’s office to lodge the civil action, I had the impression the official responsible for receiving documents looked at me in a strange way.

  As I left, I wondered if he had noticed which case I was bringing a civil action in, and if that was the reason he’d looked at me that way. I wondered if that particular clerk of the court had connections with Scianatico’s father, or with Delissanti. Then I told myself that maybe I was becoming paranoid and let it go.

  That afternoon, I had a call at the office from Delissanti. Now at least I knew I wasn’t becoming paranoid. The clerk of the court must have called him less than a minute after saying goodbye to me.

  Part of Delissanti’s professional success was based on his shrewd handling of relations with clerks of the court, assistants, bailiffs. Christmas and Easter presents for everyone. Special presents – sometimes very special, it was said in the corridors – for some people, where necessary.

  He didn’t waste time beating about the bush.

  “I hear you’re representing that Fumai girl in a civil action.”

  “News travels fast. I suppose you have a little bug in the clerk of the court’s office.”

  The clerk of the court was a small, thin man. But Delissanti didn’t catch the double meaning. Or if he did catch it, he didn’t think it was very witty.

  “Obviously you realize who the defendant is.”

  “Let me see . . . yes, Signor . . . no, Doctor Gianluca Scianatico, born in Bari . . .”

  I was annoyed by the phone call, and I wanted to provoke him. I succeeded.

  “Guerrieri, let’s not be childish. You know he’s Judge Scianatico’s son.”

  “Yes. I hope you didn’t phone me just to tell me that.”

  “No. I phoned to tell you you’re getting involved in something you don’t understand, something that’s going to cause a lot of trouble.”

  Silence at my end of the line. I wanted to see how far he would go.

  A few seconds passed, and he regained control. He probably thought it wasn’t the right time to say anything too compromising.

  “Listen, Guerrieri, I
don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. I’d just like to explain to you the spirit in which I’m phoning you.”

  All right, I thought. Explain it to me, fatso.

  “You know the Fumai girl is unbalanced, psychologically speaking, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. She’s someone who’s been in mental hospitals with serious problems. She’s someone who’s still in therapy, under psychiatric observation. That’s what I mean.”

  Now he was the one to enjoy a pause, and my silence this time was because I was stunned. When he thought maybe he’d waited long enough, he started speaking again. In the tone of someone who has the situation under control now.

  “In other words, we’d like to try to avoid situations we might come to regret. The girl isn’t well. She’s had serious problems. Young Scianatico was very stupid to take her into his home, but then the relationship finished and the girl made up this whole incredible story. And that other woman, who’s a fanatical oldstyle feminist” – he meant Alessandra Mantovani – “has taken it as gospel truth. Obviously, I’ve talked to her, but it was no use; knowing her type I should have expected it.”

  I resisted the impulse to ask him what Martina’s psychiatric problems were. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  “There’s no evidence against my client. Just her word, and you’ll soon realize what that’s worth in court. This case should never have come to trial. It should have been dismissed by now. So let’s avoid making waves, which would only be pointless and damaging. Look, Guerrieri, I’m not saying anything. Check it out yourself, get the information you need, and then tell me if I’m talking rubbish. Then we’ll have another word. You’ll end up thanking me.”