As he had hoped, Ricciardi encountered no familiar faces. The lawyer had handed him his own voluminous leather satchel, packed with papers and documents, just as he would have done with any assistant. As they were waiting for their identities to be recorded, he whispered to Ricciardi: “Unlike conversations with family members, it is forbidden for guards to listen in on interviews with lawyers. They are required to be present, but they keep a certain distance, which means we’ll be able to talk without fear of being overheard. Romualdo is . . . last time it was hard to keep his attention, I’d say. What do you want me to ask him?”
Ricciardi thought it over.
“I need him to talk about the murder. He needs to say what he remembers, talk about his relations with Piro. I need to understand if he gets caught up in any contradictions, if he has any hesitations or doubts. And most important of all, whether he’s thought about it, whether his time in prison has led him to reconsider the possibility of retracting his confession.”
Moscato nodded, doubtfully.
“Frankly, Commissario, the whole thing strikes me as pure folly. If Bianca hadn’t insisted so relentlessly, and if it didn’t break my heart to see her in such dire straits, I wouldn’t have inflicted this visit upon myself. You see, I believe that people’s wishes should be respected. If this is what Romualdo wants, then this is what he should get.”
Ricciardi stared at him, grimly.
“Counselor, I understand what you’re saying, and in part I subscribe to it. But I also believe that the truth must be respected. And it’s up to us policemen to make sure that that happens.”
A guard came to call them.
As they were walking down a long hallway immersed in an eerie silence, the lawyer murmured to Ricciardi: “Romualdo, at his own request and thanks to my intervention, is in solitary confinement day and night. He was terrified at the thought of having to coexist with other prisoners, and his prominent name, my own requests, and a couple of friendships in the right places took care of the matter. I wasn’t in favor of it: sometimes a little company, however unpleasant it might be, can provide a necessary distraction in these situations; but he was quite adamant. Unfortunately, subsequent events have proved me right.”
Before Ricciardi could ask the reason why, they came to a door that led into a large, rectangular room with a long table at the center and two benches along the sides. Along the walls, up high, were a number of decorated scrolls containing moral precepts set forth in handsome calligraphy, and beneath them, figures of bishops and saints. At the center of the wall were portraits of Il Duce and the king, the former considerably larger than the latter.
The lawyer took a seat on one of the benches, gesturing for the commissario to follow suit. Through the window, which was opaque with layers of dust, came a milky light. There was a stale odor in the air, a stench of mold and old paper, as in some poorly kept library.
After a few minutes, the door swung open and a guard came in, leading a prisoner, chained hand and foot.
Ricciardi had met Romualdo Palmieri, Count of Roccaspina, some two years ago. He remembered him as a disheveled, unshaven man, but handsome to behold: feverish and distracted, obsessed with his demon, dressed in a wrinkled but well made suit and a walking stick that he waved in the air a little too freely. And he’d seen a photographic portrait of him during his recent visit to the contessa: a bit younger, smiling as he stood next to a racehorse, one hand resting on the back of the animal, which was held on a pair of reins and a bit by a stable boy.
The derelict who was shuffling toward the bench on the opposite side of the table, taking one short step after another in a jangling of chains, was quite another person. The commissario experienced a lengthy shudder of pity.
Inasmuch as he was simply a defendant who had not yet been convicted, he still had the right to wear his own clothing instead of the striped uniform made of rough canvas. In fact, he wore a shirt that had once been white and a pair of black trousers. On his feet were a pair of shoes, also black, quite down at the heels, and lacking laces.
What was most striking was the size of the clothing compared to the man’s physique. He looked like a boy who was playing at wearing his father’s clothes. His skinny neck floated inside the collar, and his bony wrists stuck out of his sleeves, reddened where the iron shackles had worn away at his wrinkled, opaque flesh. His trousers wouldn’t have held up if they hadn’t been tied on with a filthy length of twine, though even so they looked as if they were about to fall down from one minute to the next.
His face really was frightening, and it had nothing in common with the image that Ricciardi recollected. Shaven practically bald in accordance with prison regulations, his cheeks were hollow, his lips chapped, his eyes sunken into the orbits that stared dully out into the empty air.
The guard held the man up as he took his seat, then touched the visor of his cap in a gesture of respect, turned toward the door, and ran his gaze out into the hallway. The greatest degree of privacy that could be allowed for an interview.
The count said nothing, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of him. The lawyer shook his head, the expression on his face betraying a sense of profound pity.
“Romua’, I don’t understand what you’ve gotten into your head. Have you decided to let yourself starve to death? Don’t you understand? You’re worse off than you were ten days ago, I . . . ”
The man suddenly jutted his chin forward, staring at him.
“No. Not ten days. Twelve. Twelve. Time is important, Atti’. We can’t make mistakes in counting. And even though I don’t have a watch like you do, of course, I can tell you from the position of the sun in the sky that it’s been twelve days and almost two hours.”
“Ten, twelve, what difference does it make? You look like a lunatic to me, that’s what you look like. Oh lord, it’s not as if you were ever quite normal, even when you were a kid you tended to rave a little.”
Romualdo bared his yellowed teeth and ulcerated gums in an attempt at a smile.
“Eh, when I was a kid. When I was a kid, I didn’t understand a thing. Now I do, now I understand.”
Moscato clucked his tongue.
“And if you understand, then you should also understand that you need to eat and you need to keep up your strength. Otherwise, as God is my witness, I’ll arrange to have you taken out of solitary confinement, and then you’ll see what it means to be in really bad shape.”
The count leaned forward.
“No! No! If they put me with the other prisoners, I swear that I’ll kill myself. I’ll do it, you know? I’ve even decided how to do it. But listen, what about the trial? Where are we with that?”
The lawyer heaved a sigh.
“I’ve studied documents and precedents, but for that matter you know the situation well yourself and, even though you’ve never practiced, you are a lawyer. The formal preliminary investigation has been concluded, the true bill has been handed down, and we’re waiting for the clerk of the court to present the chief justice with a request for trial. At that point, the court is called into session and the date of the first hearing is set. And that will be when I’m expected to submit a list of witnesses.”
“Witnesses? What witnesses? I’ve already told you that there won’t be any witnesses, and there’s not going to be a presentation of evidence by the defense, or even a formulation of a defense theory.”
“Romua’, I . . . ”
The count answered decisively, spitting drops of saliva from his chapped lips, drops that fell on the table.
“I don’t want you to do anything. You just need to make sure that no aggravating circumstances are introduced against me, that there is no reason to think we’ll be facing more than the minimum sentence.”
The lawyer threw his arms wide.
“I don’t understand and I never will. You don’t want me to defend you, you don’t want me to tr
y to get you off, but you do want the shortest possible sentence. In other words: you want to be found guilty, but you want to get out as early as possible.”
“You don’t need to understand, you just need to do what I tell you to do. It was a crime of spontaneous rage, there was no premeditation. I murdered him on impulse, so the prescribed sentence is twenty-one years. And that’s what I expect to get. I’ll always behave impeccably and you’ll be in charge of submitting the various pleas to shorten my detention. Is that clear?”
“You know, there’s always the danger of trival motives. That’s an aggravating circumstance that frequently . . . ”
The prisoner shook his head vehemently.
“No, no, I’ve explained this to you at least ten times: it was a major debt, as you can see from the promissory notes. And then I want you to say that he had insulted me, that he had denigrated the honor of my name, of my family. The judges are descended from the nobility, they’ll take that into account. You don’t need to worry, it’ll all go smooth as silk.”
Ricciardi decided to break in.
“That is, if you even make it alive to the trial. You look like you’re in pretty bad shape.”
Until that point, Roccaspina hadn’t even seemed to be aware of his presence; his eyes, at first staring into the middle distance, were focused on Moscato’s eyes and hadn’t left them. But now he slowly turned his head to look at his new interlocutor, with a smirk devoid of all cordiality.
“Buongiorno, Commissario. How strange to see you again here. May I ask why you’ve decided to poke into matters that are my business, what’s more with the approval of someone who is supposed to be my lawyer?”
A chilly silence descended. Moscato muttered: “Romua’, you see, the fact is that Bianca . . . But wait, do you two know each other?”
The prisoner replied, never taking his eyes off Ricciardi: “Ah, didn’t he tell you? I had the honor to cross paths with him almost two years ago; at the time, if I’m not mistaken, he was working on the murder of Gaspare Rummolo, an assistito. That was a nasty affair, wasn’t it, Commissario? That time you had to find the guilty parties all by yourself. Here you had my lawyer to carry you in here.”
“Compliments on your memory, Count. We only spent a few minutes together, and yet I remember you, too. You were in much better form at the time, if I may venture to say so.”
Roccaspina snickered, then turned to look at Moscato.
“Attilio, you owe me some explanations, I think. You wouldn’t want me to recuse you and be forced to serve as my own lawyer, would you? That wouldn’t be a very good advertisement for your services, since, as you tell me, our case is in the spotlight of public interest.” He turned back to look at Ricciardi. “A humble appearance, Commissario, is an unmistakable symptom of repentence and suffering. You may not be a lawyer, but surely you can guess how much that counts for the judges when it comes to the decision to apply mitigating circumstances in the formulation of the sentence. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in fine form in no time. It’s all going according to plan.”
Moscato massaged the root of his nose with two fingers.
“Romualdo, the commissario is here at your wife’s request. You know very well, she can’t get over the idea that you’re innocent. This attitude can create talk and annoy the court by interfering with your strategy, which, by the way, let me be clear, I neither understand nor support. Bianca . . . ”
The count cut him off, turning brusquely to address Ricciardi.
“My wife is deceiving you, Commissario. She tried it on with Attilio, here, and with your colleagues during that aborted investigation that was undertaken. She even went and talked to the investigating magistrate, I’ve been told. Poor woman, it’s understandable enough: solitude, I’m sure you know, plays some terrible tricks. But you’ll see that in the end she’ll come to terms with reality and resign herself. And after all, it’s better for her if I’m behind bars. The enormous mass of my debts won’t crush her, and maybe she’ll even be able to save the palazzo from the wreckage.”
Ricciardi sat motionless, curiously observing that shaven head and that chilly glance that made the man sitting in chains resemble nothing so much as a strange bird.
“Why are you doing it, Count? I don’t understand. It can’t be because of the debts.” He stopped and looked away. Then, continuing as if talking to himself, he resumed: “Even suicide would be less painful than this. And it can’t be out of love, because then you’d accept your wife’s help. So what’s the reason?”
Romualdo fell silent. His eyes suddenly welled up with tears, as if he were thinking back to some memory.
Then he coughed and replied: “I’m doing it because it’s true, because I killed him. Because that shady bastard, that shameless loan shark, died at my hand, and I’d never allow anyone else to be accused of a crime I committed. That’s why.”
Ricciardi drove in.
“And yet no one saw you go in or leave. No one heard any screams, no one heard the sounds of a struggle. And your wife . . . ”
The count slammed both fists down onto the table. The noise, amplified by the fact that the room was practically empty, as well as the twin wrist shackles and connected chains, was violent and unexpected. The guard at the door started and turned to rush over to Romualdo, shaking him roughly.
“Oh, you animal, what do you think you’re doing? Just thank your lucky stars you’re already in solitary confinement, otherwise . . . ”
Moscato raised one hand.
“No, no, thank you, but it’s all right. It’s my fault, really, I brought up a subject that . . . ”
The guard reluctantly released his grip, shooting a suspicious glance at the prisoner.
“Anyway, it’s time to get you back to your cell. The interview is over.”
Before getting to his feet, Romualdo smiled. When he bared his teeth, Ricciardi thought, he looked even more wasted than before. He brought to mind the corpses that Ricciardi saw in the streets, starving vagabonds whose weakness had pushed them under the wheels of trolley cars and automobiles.
Romualdo seemed to be speaking to the commissario, though he looked neither him nor his friend and lawyer in the face.
“Are you familiar with cockroaches? They’re very interesting creatures. In my cell I have a whole family of them. They keep me company, they’re formidable runners. I’m thinking about breeding them and racing them competitively, I might make bets with myself. I don’t understand why they should be swept out or even crushed underfoot, they’re perfectly inoffensive.”
The guard lifted him out of the chair as if he weighed nothing and walked him to the door. As he left the room, Count Romualdo Palmieri di Roccaspina was chuckling.
XXV
Moscato was fanning himself with his hat, as he sat at the little table in the café just outside the prison.
“Commissario, do you think he’s gone crazy? The loneliness, his remorse . . . every time I see him, he gives me the creeps worse and worse.”
Ricciardi pensively sipped the dense black liquid.
“I couldn’t say. I didn’t see any signs of remorse, in any case; if he did it, then he’s very glad he did.”
Moscato thought it over.
“I wouldn’t know about that. His attitude was strange from the very start. First of all, he didn’t call me, I could have gone in with him, I’d have taken advantage of the fact that the cops . . . excuse me, Commissa’, that the police, at least at first, were stumbling around in the dark a bit. Instead, it was Bianca who alerted me, when Romualdo had already been detained.”
Ricciardi grew more attentive.
“Are you telling me that at first, the count wouldn’t even accept a defense lawyer?”
“No. And you’ve heard him, he wasn’t born yesterday when it comes to legal procedure. He knows perfectly well what he’s looking at, and he doesn’t seem to be afr
aid. In fact, today he threatened to recuse me as a lawyer, which is the last thing we need: it would be a matter of considerable disgrace for everyone, from the court on down. But what about you, why didn’t you tell me that you had already met him? That wasn’t a very clever move, if anyone happens to learn that I smuggled you into the prison . . . ”
Ricciardi shook his head no.
“I thought you already knew it, actually. Otherwise, why would the contessa have come looking for me of all people? For that matter, I’m surprised that he recognized me, we only met for a brief time and, as the count pointed out, that was two years back.”
Moscato nodded, uncertainly.
“This story just gets stranger and stranger. And then there’s Romualdo’s relationship with Bianca: you must certainly have heard that they no longer lived as husband and wife; Romualdo confided in me about that fact many many months ago. What’s more, you heard him yourself, depending on how this case turns out, it could even mean the rescue of the palazzo and the few possessions remaining to them.”
“But his creditors would have the right to demand payment from the contessa, wouldn’t they?”
The lawyer smiled.
“Certainly, if they were normal creditors, but here we’re talking about a completely different circle of operators. People that have no interest in stepping out of the sewers they inhabit. No, Romualdo is right. Bianca can only benefit if he is convicted.”
“Then maybe that’s why he accused himself of the murder. To protect his wife from ruin and disgrace.”
“How melodramatic you are, Commissario. And now a man, to escape the clutches of a couple of ill-intentioned scoundrels, takes the blame for a murder he didn’t commit? Can you guess how many of my clients I’ve helped to escape on the first freighter sailing for America or Australia, or by night aboard a train for northern Europe? Much easier, more painless, and with the same positive effects. And then, if you’ll allow me, there’s still another question.”
Glass Souls Page 18