She realized it too, and did nothing to ease matters.
“What did we do? You mean, at night in his flat on the Walls?”
She was tickled to death. I wasn’t. I had gone to have a cup of tea with an ex-girlfriend and found I had to rewrite history.
I discovered that his name was Beppe, that he was a jewellery salesman, that he was married and rich. The place on the Walls, to be precise, was not his home but his bachelor pad. At the time of these events he was thirty-six and had a sterling wife.
At the time of these events I was twenty-two, my parents gave me 40,000 lire a week, I shared a bedroom with my brother and – I was now discovering rather late in the day – I had a whore for a girlfriend.
I reached the coast, turned left towards the Teatro Margherita, and headed for San Nicola, passing below the Walls. Just where this Signor Beppe had his bachelor pad. Where he used to take my girlfriend.
By now it was daylight, the air was fresh and clean, and it was an ideal day for a walk. I continued as far as the Castello Svevo and then further still towards the Fiera del Levante, to arrive perhaps two hours and several miles after leaving home at the pine wood of San Francesco.
It was practically deserted. Only a few men running and a few others seated, preferring to let their dogs do the running.
I chose a good bench, one of those green wooden ones with a back, in the sun. I sat down and read my book.
When I finished it, about two hours later, I was feeling pretty fit and thought I’d take another ten minutes’ rest before setting off for home. Or perhaps for the office, where they certainly must have begun to wonder what on earth had happened to me.
It was starting to get hot, so I took off my jacket, folded it up into a kind of pillow and stretched out with my face in the sun.
When I woke it was past midday. The joggers had multiplied, there were pairs of young boys, women with babies, and old men playing cards at the stone tables. There were also two Jehovah’s Witnesses trying to convert anyone who didn’t show them a sufficiently hostile front.
Time to be gone. Very much so.
19
As soon as I got home my eye fell on my mobile and I ignored it. When I went to the office in the afternoon it was in my pocket, but still turned off.
Maria Teresa engulfed me the very moment I opened the door. They’d been hunting for me all morning, at home and on my mobile. At home there was no answer and the other was always off.
Naturally – I thought – because I was in the pine wood, taking the sun, in defiance of the lot of you and without the damn phone.
That morning all hell had broken loose.
Surely I hadn’t forgotten some hearing? Ah, just as well, I thought not. Lots of people looking for me? No matter, they’ll call again. No, certainly I hadn’t forgotten that the time limit for Colaianni’s appeal expired tomorrow.
Liar! I had completely forgotten. Just as well I had a secretary who knew her job.
They’d called three times from the prison since midday? Why was that?
Maria Teresa didn’t know. It was something urgent, they said, but they hadn’t explained what. The last to call had been a certain Inspector Surano. He had asked me to call him back as soon as I was traced.
I called the switchboard of the administration building, asked for Inspector Surano and, after a wait of at least three minutes, I heard a low, hoarse voice with the accent of the province of Lecce.
Yes, I was Avvocato Guerrieri. Yes, I was acting for the prisoner Abdou Thiam. Yes, I could come to the prison, if he would first be good enough to tell me the reason.
He told me the reason. That morning, following visiting hours, the prisoner Abdou Thiam had put into effect an attempted suicide by means of hanging.
He had been rescued when he was already swinging from a rope made of torn-up sheets plaited together. He was now in the prison infirmary with a round-the-clock watch on him.
I said I’d be there as soon as possible.
As soon as possible is a very ambiguous concept if it is a matter of getting to the prison from the centre of Bari on a working afternoon.
However, in scarcely over half an hour I was outside the admin building and ringing the bell. Having parked the car illegally of course.
The warder in the guardroom had been alerted to my arrival. He asked me to wait and called Inspector Surano, who arrived surprisingly soon. He said the governor wanted to talk to me and we could go to him at once. I asked how my client was and he said he was fairly well, physically. He personally would accompany me to the infirmary immediately after our meeting with the governor.
We plunged into the yellowed, ill-lit corridors, in which hung the unmistakable odour of food typical of prisons, barracks and hospitals. Every so often we passed a prisoner wielding a broom or pushing a trolley. We finally entered a freshly painted corridor with potted plants in it, and at the end of this was the door of the governor’s office.
Inspector Surano knocked, looked in, said something I didn’t hear and then opened the door wide, ushering me in and following.
The governor was a man of about fifty-five, with an anonymous air, papery, lustreless skin and an evasive look.
He was sorry, he said, about what had happened, but thanks to the presence of mind of one of his men tragedy had been averted.
Yes, another tragedy, I thought, remembering the suicide of one of my clients – a twenty-year-old drug addict – and the rumours, never confirmed, of violence committed on the prisoners to impose discipline.
The governor wished to assure me that he had already given strict instructions for the prisoner – what’s his name now? – ah yes, the prisoner Abdou Thiam to be under constant surveillance with a view to preventing further attempts at suicide or any kind of self-inflicted harm.
He felt sure that this unpleasant incident would have no consequences, let alone publicity, for the peace and quiet of the penal institute and of the prisoner himself. For his own part, he was at my disposal in case I needed anything.
In plain language, if you don’t give me any trouble, it’ll be better for all concerned. Including your client, who’s in here and here to stay.
I would have liked to tell him to go fuck himself, but I was in a hurry to see Abdou and in addition I suddenly felt exhausted. So I thanked him for his readiness to help and asked him to have me accompanied to the infirmary.
We did not shake hands and Inspector Surano led me back the way we had come, and then along other even more dreary corridors, through barred doors and that stench of food that seemed to penetrate into every cranny.
The infirmary was a large room with about a dozen beds, nearly all occupied. I failed to spot Abdou and looked questioningly at Surano. He jerked his head to indicate the far end of the room and went ahead of me.
Abdou was in a bed with his arms strapped down and his eyes half closed. He was breathing through his mouth.
Close by him was sitting a fat, moustachioed warder. He was smoking, on his face an expression of boredom.
Surano chose to assume an air of authority.
“What the hell are you doing smoking in the infirmary, Abbaticchio? Put it out, put it out, and give your chair to the Avvocato.”
Such courtesy was new to me. Plainly the governor had given orders for me to be treated with kid gloves.
This Abbaticchio gave the inspector a sullen look. He seemed on the point of saying something, then thought better of it. He put out his cigarette and moved off, ignoring me completely. Surano told me I could take my time. When I had finished, he would himself escort me to the exit. Then he too retired as far as the infirmary door.
Now I was alone at Abdou’s bedside, but he didn’t seem to have noticed my presence.
I bent over him a little and tried calling his name but there was no reaction. Just as I was about to touch him on the arm he spoke, almost without moving his lips.
“What do you want, Avvocato?”
I withdrew my arm with a slig
ht start.
“What happened, Abdou?”
“You know what happened. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
His eyes were wide open now, staring at the ceiling. I sat down, and realized only then that I had absolutely no idea what to say.
Once down level with him, I noticed the marks on his neck.
“Did Abajaje come this morning?”
He made no answer, nor did he look at me. He closed his mouth and set his jaw. After two attempts he managed to swallow. Then, like a scene in slow motion, in the inner corner of his left eye I saw a tear – one only – forming, growing, detaching itself and coursing slowly all the way down his cheek, until it vanished at the edge of his jaw. I too had trouble swallowing.
For a time incalculable neither of us spoke. Then it came to me that there was only one thing I could say that made sense.
“You’ve been abandoned and you think that now it’s really all up with you. I know. And you’re probably even right.”
Abdou’s eyes, which had stayed riveted on the ceiling, now turned slowly towards me. Even his head moved, though very little. I had his attention. I started to speak again and my voice was surprisingly calm.
“In fact, as I see it, you have only one chance, and even that is a slim one. The decision is up to you alone.”
He was looking at me now, and I knew I was in control of the situation.
“If you want to fight for that chance, tell me so.”
“What chance?”
“We won’t opt for the shortened procedure. We’ll have a trial before the Court of Assizes and try to win it. That is, to get you acquitted. The chances are slight and I confirm what I said last time. My advice is still to choose the shortened procedure. But the decision is up to you. If you don’t want to go for the shortened procedure, I will defend you in the Court of Assizes.”
“I don’t have the money.”
“To hell with the money. If I manage to get you off, which is unlikely, you’ll find a way of paying me. If they convict you, you’ll have more serious problems than a debt to me.”
He turned away his eyes, kept fixed on mine while I was talking. He returned to gazing at the ceiling, but in a different way. I even had the impression of the shadow of a smile, a wistful one, on his lips. At last he spoke, still without looking at me but in a firm voice.
“You are intelligent, Avvocato. I have always thought of myself as more intelligent than other people. This is not a lucky thing, but it’s hard to understand that. If you think yourself more intelligent than others, you fail to understand a lot of things, until they are suddenly brought home to you. And then it’s too late.”
He made a motion to raise his right arm, but it was checked by the strap. I had an impulse to ask him if he wanted to be freed, but I said nothing. He started to speak again.
“Today it seems to me that you are more intelligent than I am. I thought I was a dead man and now, after listening to you, I think I was wrong. You have done something I don’t understand.”
He paused and took a deep breath, through his nose, as if summoning up all his strength.
“I want us to go to trial. To be acquitted.”
I felt a shiver that started at the top of my head and ran all the way down my spine. I wanted to say something, but knew that whatever I said would be wrong.
“OK” was all I could manage. “We’ll meet again soon.”
He set his jaw again and nodded, without taking his eyes off the ceiling.
When I got back to the car, the windscreen bore the white ticket of a parking fine.
20
Two weeks later came the preliminary hearing.
Judge Carenza arrived late, as she always did.
I waited outside the courtroom, chatting with a few colleagues and the journalists who were there especially for my case. Cervellati, on the other hand, was not present.
He didn’t like waiting for the judge outside the courtroom, mingling with the defence lawyers. So he had his secretary tell the clerk of the court to send for him when the hearing was about to begin.
La Carenza entered the courtroom, followed by the clerk of the court and a bailiff pushing a trolley loaded with dossiers. I went in too, sat down in my place at the bench on the right for those facing the judge, and opened my file, casually, just to have something to do and calm my nerves.
A few moments later I noticed that also in court was my colleague Cotugno, who was to represent the boy’s parents. He was an elderly lawyer, a bit of a windbag, deaf and with murderous bad breath.
Conversations with Cotugno were surreal. He, being hard of hearing, tended to move up close. His interlocutor, whose sense of smell was usually in working order, tended to back away. As long as the size of the room and the limits of good manners enabled him to. Then he was forced to endure it.
Therefore, when I saw Cotugno sitting at the public prosecutor’s bench – as is customary for counsel for the civil party – I enacted a complex strategy to avoid his breath. I half stood up, leaning on the desk before me, stretched out my arm to its fullest possible extent, and gave him my hand while maintaining this precarious stance. Plainly incompatible with any conversation. I then sat down again.
The judge told the clerk of the court to call the warders to bring in the prisoner.
At that moment Cervellati materialized on my left. He was wearing a grey suit and brown moccasins with leather tassels. He asked me what I intended to do with this trial.
I lied. My client – I said – had wanted to think about it until the last moment, so I myself would only know that morning whether or not we would ask for the shortened procedure.
Cervellati gave me a look, seemed on the point of saying something, then shook his head and sat down at his place. He hadn’t believed me and he didn’t look exactly friendly.
Two minutes later, through a side door, surrounded by four warders, his wrists handcuffed, in came Abdou. He was wearing khaki cotton trousers and a white shirt; over his arm was some sort of jacket. He had a clean look. He was well shaven and his shirt might have been ironed that very morning.
“Your Honour, may I have a word or two with my client before the hearing begins?”
“Certainly, Avvocato. Please remove the prisoner’s handcuffs.”
The eldest of the warders produced a key and freed Abdou’s hands. When I came up to him he was massaging his wrists. I spoke very quietly.
“Well then, Abdou, if you’ve changed your mind we’re still in time. Only just, but still in time.”
He shook his head. I stood for a moment looking at him, and he gave me a straight look back. Then I returned to my seat, my heart beating faster and fear sweeping over me like a wave.
The opening formalities were quickly dispatched and then came the moment.
“Are there any requests for alternative procedures?” asked Judge Carenza.
I got to my feet, buttoning up my jacket. I darted another look in the direction of Abdou.
“Your Honour, my client and I have considered at length the possible advantages of requesting the shortened procedure, but we eventually decided together that this is a case to be submitted to a full hearing. In view of which, no, there are no requests for alternative procedures.”
I sat down without looking at Cervellati.
The judge then asked the parties to formulate their conclusions.
Cervellati spoke briefly. The case was loaded with evidence against the accused, Abdou Thiam. There were proofs that as a result of the hearing would certainly lead to an affirmation of penal responsibility on all the criminal charges – the very grave, odious criminal charges – set down in the counts of indictment. The preliminary hearing could only lead to the accused being committed for trial before the Court of Assizes, to answer to charges of unlawful restraint and wilful murder. All that was needed was to supplement the charge contained under count B. In accordance with Article 423 of the code of criminal procedure, the public prosecutor intended to alter the
murder charge. From simple murder to murder with aggravating circumstances.
Cervellati dictated the new charge for the records.
He had been true to his word. My client was now facing a charge which, if he was convicted, would lead him straight to life imprisonment with hard labour.
The judge asked me if I intended to apply for time for defence. This was a courtesy gesture, she was not bound to do it. I thanked her and said no, I did not so intend.
Then it was the turn of Cotugno, who was even briefer than Cervellati. He associated himself with the requests of the public prosecutor and also asked for a committal for trial.
I had little to say, because in a case like this there was obviously no chance at all of an acquittal in the preliminary hearing.
So I simply said that we had no observations to make on the request for committal.
Then the judge pronounced the ruling.
The trial of Abdou Thiam, born Dakar, Senegal, on 4 March 1968, on the charges of unlawful restraint and murder with aggravating circumstances, was fixed for 12 June, before the Assize Court of Bari.
Part Three
21
I was on my way home from the office, thinking I’d have to do a spot of shopping to avoid eating out yet again when I heard a woman’s voice, slightly throaty, just behind me.
“Could you please give me a hand? I’m about to collapse.”
My neighbour Margherita. It was a wonder she hadn’t collapsed already. She was lugging a bursting briefcase, numerous plastic bags full of food and a long tube of the kind used by architects to carry drawings around.
I gave her a hand, meaning I took over all the shopping. So we set off walking side by side.
“Just as well I met you. A week ago I was in more or less the same straits when I met old Professor Costantini, and he offered to help me. I gave him the shopping bags and after one block he was on the verge of a heart attack.”
I gave her a faintly idiotic smile. I should evidently have known who this Professor Costantini was.
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