Involuntary Witness

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  That day was to see the beginning of a trial that the newspapers had dubbed “Dogfighting”.

  To be exact, it was not the papers which called it that, but the police who had carried out the operation some ten months previously. The papers had confined themselves to repeating the code name for investigations into organized dogfights and the related clandestine betting ring.

  It had all started with a denouncement by the Anti-Vivisection League and had continued because the inquiries had been entrusted to a truly exceptional policeman, Chief Inspector Carmelo Tancredi.

  Inspector Tancredi had succeeded in infiltrating the clandestine betting ring, had attended the dogfights, made recordings, managed to find out where the breeders kept their animals, and noted how and where the bets changed hands. In short, he had nailed them.

  He was a small man with a gaunt face and a large black moustache that looked completely out of place on it. He seemed the most innocuous person on earth.

  He was, in fact, the most intelligent, honest and deadly cop I have ever met.

  He worked in the sixth section of the flying squad. The one that dealt with sexual offences and everything that the other sections – the more important ones – wouldn’t touch with a bargepole.

  He had always refused to leave that job, even though they had often tried to induce him to transfer to the Criminalpol, the anti-drug section or even the Secret Service. All jobs in which he would have worked less for more pay.

  On one occasion I’d had a visit from the parents of a nine-year-old child who had been sexually abused by his swimming instructor.

  They wanted advice on whether or not to report the incident, on what they would be up against if they did, and especially what the child would be up against. I took them to Tancredi and saw how he spoke to the child, and saw how the child – who until then had answered in monosyllables, never raising his eyes – spoke in turn to Tancredi, looked him in the face and even began to smile.

  The swimming instructor ended up behind bars and, what’s more, stayed there. Just as ending up behind bars and staying there was the fate of most of the maniacs, rapists and child abusers who had had the bad luck to cross the path of Inspector Tancredi.

  The organizers of the dogfights were similarly unlucky.

  The first strike of the operation led to the seizure of eight pit-bull terriers, five Fila Brasileros, three Rottweilers and three bandogs, these last being a deadly cross between Alsatian and pit bull. They were all champions, each worth between twenty and a hundred million. The most priceless was a three-year-old bandog called Harley-Davidson. He had won twenty-seven fights, invariably killing his opponent. He was considered a sort of champion of southern Italy, and the inquiries established that there were preparations in hand for a contest for the All-Italy title against a pit bull which fought in the Province of Milan. A contest worth over half a billion lire in bets.

  Dozens of videos of dogfights, not to mention fights between dogs and pumas, and even dogs and pigs, were confiscated as well. The owners of a kennels, where not only the animals but also arms and drugs were found, were arrested. Among those charged were a very well-known vet, a number of breeders and three people who had previously been arrested and found guilty on charges of association with the Mafia and trafficking in drugs. Needless to say, they had all been released, because the length of time for which they could be held had run out.

  Anyway, that late March morning the trial resulting from Operation Dogfighting was scheduled to begin. The Anti-Vivisection League planned to start civil proceedings and had appointed me to represent them.

  There were only two precedents of trials concerning cruelty to animals in which the Anti-Vivisection League and the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Dogs had been admitted as civil parties. The matter was anything but a walkover, so I’d had to work hard the previous afternoon to find convincing arguments to present in court. And to clear my mind of the meeting with Abdou.

  Purely because I was well-prepared that morning and ready to do my job in a professional fashion, the preliminary hearing was immediately adjourned on account of – in the words of the same old formula that was always used – “the excessive workload involved in the hearing and the impossibility of concluding all the proceedings at today’s date”.

  The adjournment was immediate, but it was ordered only after four hours of hearing. And waiting.

  In short, at about half-past two in the afternoon, the judge read out the formula and adjourned the trial until December, since, as all the defendants were at liberty, there was no hurry.

  I was used to it. I donned my raincoat, picked up my briefcase, made my way through the now deserted law courts and set off for home.

  I was walking along Via Abate Gimma, towards Corso Cavour, when I heard myself called from behind, “Avvocato, Avvocato”, in an accent from somewhere inland which I couldn’t place.

  There were two of them, and they seemed to have stepped straight out of a documentary on suburban thuggery. The smaller one came up very close and spoke, while the bigger one hung back a little and looked at me through half-closed eyes, as if measuring me up.

  The small man was a friend of – he said the name – whom I knew well because he had been a client of mine.

  His voice conveyed a forced, almost diplomatic politeness. I said I had no recollection of his friend and that if they wanted to speak about professional matters they could make an appointment and come to the office.

  They had no wish to come to the office and, according to the small man, I should stay calm. Very calm. The diplomatic tone hadn’t lasted long.

  They knew that I intended to represent those arse-holes of the Anti-Vivisection League, but it was better for all concerned if I minded my own business.

  I took a deep breath through the nose, at the same time placing my briefcase on the bonnet of a car, then pronounced the four syllables which, ever since I was a child, had always been the prelude to a street fight: “What if I don’t?”

  The small man opened with a wide, clumsy blow with his right. I parried with my left and almost simultaneously delivered a straight right to the face. He fell back, cursing and calling to his friend to give me the works.

  The big man was a lumbering great oaf, six foot four and eighteen stone at a guess, much of it paunch. From the way he covered the space between us and squared up to attack, I realized he was a southpaw. And in fact he started with a left swing, which was probably his best punch. If the fist had connected, no doubt it would have hurt, but this lout was moving in slow motion. I parried with my right forearm and went instinctively for his liver with a left hook, doubling with a straight right to the chin.

  The big man had a glass jaw. He stayed on his feet for a moment, motionless, with a queer look of surprise on his face. Then he fell.

  I resisted the temptation to kick him in the face. Or to insult him; or to insult them both.

  I picked up my briefcase and left, suddenly aware of the blood throbbing in my temples. The small man had stopped swearing.

  I turned the corner, walked for another block and then stopped. They were not following. No one was following, and since it was three in the afternoon the street was deserted. Putting down my briefcase, I raised my hands in front of my face and saw they were trembling violently. My right hand was also beginning to hurt.

  I remained like that for a few seconds, then I shrugged. An infantile smile flickered on my lips. I went on home.

  14

  The next day I found my car with four slashed tyres and a deep scratch – the work of a knife or a screwdriver – running the whole length of the body.

  Rather than anger at the damage, I felt humiliated. I found myself reflecting on what it is like for someone to come home and find the place turned upside down by burglars. Next I thought of all the petty thieves I had defended and got off.

  Lastly, it occurred to me that my brain was turning to pulp and I was becoming pathetic. So, luckily, I dropped moral speculat
ion and made an attempt to be practical.

  I called up a client of mine who had a certain reputation in criminal circles in Bari and the surrounding province. He came to the office and I told him the story, including the street-fight. I said I didn’t want to go to the police or the carabinieri, but I would if these people forced my hand. In my opinion we were even. I would pay for the damage to the car and they, whoever they were, could nurse their bruises and leave me to get on with my work in peace.

  My client said I was right. He also said that they really ought to pay to repair my car and provide new tyres. I said that I’d get the car done up and I didn’t want new tyres.

  It had occurred to me that neither did I want a summons for receiving stolen goods, seeing that they certainly wouldn’t have gone and bought them from an authorized dealer. But this I didn’t say.

  All I wanted was for everyone to stay put and not go making trouble for anyone else. He didn’t push the point, and gave me a nod signifying respect. A different kind of respect from that usually paid to a lawyer.

  He said he’d let me know within two days.

  He was as good as his word. He came back to the office two days later and mentioned a name that carried weight in certain circles. That person sent word offering his apologies for what had happened. It had been an accident – two accidents in fact, thought I, but let’s not split hairs – that would not be repeated. He, however, was at my disposal should I need anything.

  The story finished there.

  Apart from the two million lire I had to fork out to put the car in order.

  A few days later I discovered the identity of the new tenant in our building. Or rather, the tenantess.

  About half-past nine in the evening I had just come back from the gym and was about to thaw two chicken breasts, grill them and prepare a salad, when the bell rang.

  I spent a few seconds wondering what had happened. Then it registered that it must be my own doorbell, and while on my way to answer it I realized that this must be the first time anyone had rung it since I’d been living here. I felt a pang of melancholy, then I opened the door.

  At last she’d found someone in. It was the fourth time she’d tried my door but there was never any answer. Did I really live alone? She was the new tenant, on the seventh floor. She had introduced herself to all the other tenants in the building, I was the last. Her name was Margherita. Margherita, and I didn’t catch the surname.

  She gave me her hand across the invisible frontier of the doorway. It was a fine, masculine hand, large and strong.

  Certain women – and especially certain men – give you a strong handshake but you realize at once that it’s for show. They want to make themselves out to be decisive, no-nonsense people, but the strength is only in the hand and arm. What I mean is, it doesn’t come from inside. Some people can actually crush your hand, but it’s as if they were doing body-building.

  There are others, if only a few, who when they shake your hand tell you that there’s something behind the muscles. I held Margherita’s hand for maybe a second or two more than necessary but she went on smiling.

  Then I asked her awkwardly if she’d care to come in. No, thank you, she had just stopped by to introduce herself. She was actually on her way home after being out the whole day. She had a mass of things to do, what with having just moved in. When things were more organized, she’d ask me up for a cup of tea.

  She had a good smell about her. A mixture of fresh air, dry and clean, a masculine, leathery smell.

  “Don’t be sad,” she said as she made for the staircase.

  Just like that.

  When she was already out of sight I realized that I had never really looked at her. I went back inside, half closed my eyes and tried to reproduce her face in my mind. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her if I saw her in the street.

  In the kitchen the chicken breasts had thawed in the microwave. But I no longer felt like having them simply grilled, so I got out a recipe book I kept in the kitchen but had never used.

  Tasty chicken rissoles. That sounded just the job. At least, the name did. I read the recipe and was glad to see I had all the ingredients.

  Before starting I opened a bottle of Salice Salentino, tasted it, and then looked for a CD to listen to while I was cooking.

  White Ladder.

  The syncopated rhythm of “Please Forgive Me” started and then, almost at once, came the voice of David Gray. I stayed near the speakers to listen until it got to the part of the song I liked best.

  I won’t ever have to lie

  I won’t ever have to say goodbye ...

  Every time I look at you

  Every time I look at you.

  Then I went back to the kitchen and got down to work.

  I boiled the chicken and minced it, along with a couple of ounces of cooked ham that had been in the fridge for some days. Then I put the meat into a bowl together with an egg, some grated Parmesan, nutmeg, salt and black pepper. I stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon before kneading it with my hands, having added some breadcrumbs. I shaped the mixture into rissoles the size of an egg, then dipped them into beaten egg to which I’d added salt and a little wine, then rolled them in breadcrumbs to which I’d added another pinch of nutmeg, and finally sizzled them in olive oil over a moderate flame.

  I drained the rissoles – which smelled delicious – on kitchen paper and prepared a salad with balsamic vinegar dressing. I laid the table with a cloth, real plates, real cutlery, and before sitting down to eat I went and changed the CD.

  Simon and Garfunkel. The Concert in Central Park.

  I pushed “skip” until number 16 came up. “The Boxer.”

  I stood and listened to it until the last verse. My favourite.

  In the clearing stands a boxer

  And a fighter by his trade

  And he carries the reminders

  Of every glove that laid him down

  Or cut him, till he cried out

  In his anger and his shame

  I’m leaving, I am leaving

  But the fighter still remains ...

  Then I turned off the CD player and went to eat.

  The rissoles were excellent. So was the salad, while the wine had a bouquet and reflections danced in the glass.

  I wasn’t sad that evening.

  15

  “The fact is that we have opted for American-style trials, but we lack the preparation the Americans have. We lack the cultural basis for accusatory trials. Look at the questioning and cross-questioning in American or British trials. And then look at ours. They can do it, we can’t. We never will be able to, because we are children of the Counter-Reformation. One cannot rebel against one’s own cultural destiny.”

  Thus, during a pause in a trial in which we were fellow counsels for the defence, spake Avvocato Cesare Patrono. A Prince of the Forum. Mason and Millionaire.

  I had heard him express that idea about a hundred times since the new code of criminal procedure had come into force in 1989.

  It was to be understood that others couldn’t do it. Other lawyers – certainly not him – and especially the public prosecutors.

  Patrono liked to speak ill of everything and everyone. In conversations in the corridors – but even in court – he loved to humiliate his colleagues and, most of all, he loved to intimidate and embarrass magistrates.

  For some unknown reason he had a liking for me. He was always cordial towards me and occasionally had me assist him in the defence, which was big business, from a financial standpoint.

  He had just finished expressing his views on the current criminal procedure when there emerged from the courtroom, still wearing her robe, Alessandra Mantovani, Assistant Public Prosecutor.

  She hailed from Verona, and had asked to be transferred to Bari to join her lover. Behind her in Verona she had left a rich husband and a very comfortable life.

  As soon as she had moved to Bari her lover had left her. He explained that he ne
eded his freedom, that things between them had gone well up to that point thanks to the distance, which prevented boredom and routine. That he needed time to think things over. In short, the whole classic load of shit.

  Alessandra Mantovani had found herself in Bari, alone, with her bridges burnt behind her. She had stayed on without a murmur.

  I liked her a lot. She was everything a good public prosecutor ought to be, or a good policeman, which comes to more or less the same thing.

  In the first place she was intelligent and honest. Then she didn’t like crooks – of any sort – but she didn’t spend her time eating her heart out at the thought that most of them would get off scot-free. Above all, when she was wrong she was up to admitting it, without argument.

  We had become friends, or something like it. Enough to lunch together sometimes, and occasionally tell each other something of our personal histories. Not enough for anything more to happen between us, even if our presumed affair was one of the many bits of gossip that did the rounds of the courthouse.

  Patrono detested La Mantovani. Because she was a woman, because she was an investigating magistrate, because she was more intelligent and tougher than he was. Even though, naturally, he would never have admitted it.

  “Here, Signora,” – he called all women magistrates Signora, not Dottoressa or Judge, to make them nervous and unsettle them – “come and listen to this story. It’s the latest, really a peach.”

  La Mantovani stepped nearer and looked him in the eye, tilted her head to one side and said not a word. A slight nod – yes, go on and try to tell your story – and the ghost of a smile. It was not a warm smile. The mouth had moved but the eyes were utterly still. And cold.

  Patrono told his story. It wasn’t the latest, or even very recent.

  It was the story of a young man of good family talking to a friend and telling him how he is about to marry an ex-prostitute. The youngster explains to his friend that his fiancée’s ex-profession is no problem as far as he is concerned. No problem either are his fiancée’s parents, who are drug pushers, thieves and pimps. Everything therefore seems hunky-dory, but the lad confides to his friend that he has one really big worry.