“Very well, Your Honour. So, is it correct to say that during the week that you were watching Signor Armenise you didn’t gather any evidence to confirm the complaints you’d received?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that was correct. When parents report that someone is molesting their children close to a school, and I then discover that this person is in the habit of standing outside another school when the children are coming out, for me that is evidence to confirm the reports. Obviously if, during the course of the investigations, we actually witnessed a sexual assault being committed, as sometimes happens, we would then arrest the person involved. But that’s another matter.”
The fat man tried again to argue that these were personal opinions, but this time there wasn’t even any need for the assistant prosecutor to intervene. The presiding judge asked him, in a not very friendly tone, if he had any other questions relating to the facts of the case. If not, the cross-examination could be considered closed. The man stammered inaudibly and sat down. The assistant prosecutor had no more questions for Tancredi, so the judge thanked him and told him he could go.
“Let’s get out of here if we want a coffee,” Tancredi said. So we left the courthouse and set off through the streets of the Liberta. As we walked I told him about the latest developments, especially the phone call from my friendly colleague. Tancredi listened without making any comments, but when I told him that Macri had threatened me, he gave a quick grimace.
“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked me. We were having coffee in a bar frequented by smugglers, whores, lawyers and policemen.
I didn’t like the question. It seemed like a way of asking me if I was thinking of dropping the case.
I replied that there wasn’t much to think about. If Macri came to court the day he had been summoned to appear, I would examine him and try to extract some evidence useful to my client. If he didn’t come, I would ask for him to be brought to court by the carabinieri, and yes, I knew perfectly well he would go crazy, but I couldn’t do anything about that.
“But you can still give me a hand.”
“You want police protection when the Calabrian Mafia send their hitmen to get you, is that it?”
“Very funny. I need some more information about this Macri.”
“What kind of information?”
“Something to use when I examine him. Something I can spring on him to try and wrongfoot him. Bear in mind that I’m going into this more or less blind. If he sounds convincing I’ve lost the case.”
Tancredi stopped, lit a cigar, and looked me in the eyes. “Well, you’ve really got nerve, I’ll say that for you.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew he was right.
38
The next day Tancredi stopped by the office.
He came into my room, sat down and looked at me without saying anything.
“Well?”
“I don’t know if you’re lucky, or the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what accommodation records are?”
“To be honest, no. Should I?”
“They’re the records kept in the databank of the Ministry of the Interior, where all overnight stays in hotels and boarding houses, and all apartment rentals, are registered. I did a search for our friend Macri, and guess what I found?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Granted that Signor Macri travels a lot – there are a lot of entries in his name-I found that he’s often stayed at hotels in Bari. Both before and after Paolicelli was arrested. The times after the arrest don’t matter very much. The others are more interesting. And two of these in particular are extremely interesting.”
“Why?”
“Guess who stayed in the same hotel on the same two nights.”
“I’m stupid. Who?”
“Luca Romanazzi. And the same Romanazzi slept in the same hotel the night after Paolicelli was arrested.”
Shit. I didn’t say that, but I made a noise as I thought it. “That is interesting.”
“Right. Now, though, you have to find a way to use it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you can’t say a friend of yours, a police inspector, did an unauthorized search in the Ministry of the Interior database on your behalf.”
“Right.”
“Find a way to make him admit it when you question him. Make him think you hired a private detective to look at the hotel registers. Make up any story you like.”
“Thanks, Carmelo.”
He nodded, as if to say, you’re welcome, but I really don’t know how much good this’ll do you. Silently, he placed on the desk the sheets of paper he’d been holding in his hand until then.
“Memorize what’s written here and then throw these papers away. Technically, they’re evidence of an offence.”
39
The afternoon before the hearing in which we were due to hear Macri’s testimony I didn’t even touch the file. I concentrated on other things entirely. I wrote out an appeal which wasn’t actually due for another week. I made out a few bills for clients who were late paying. I updated some out-of-date files.
Maria Teresa realized that something wasn’t quite right, but was wise enough not to ask any questions. When it was time to close the office and she put her head in to say goodbye, I asked her to order me the usual pizza and beer.
I didn’t get down to work until after nine. That’s typical of me. I’m a specialist in leaving things until the last minute. If a task is difficult, or important, or possibly both, I tend to deal with it only when the water is already up to my neck, or even a little higher.
I reread all the papers in the file. There weren’t many of them. I also reread all my notes. Not many of those either. I started to jot down a series of questions. I wrote about twenty of them, according to the strategy I proposed following, as some of the manuals suggest. But then I felt a fool, and I was sure I would feel a fool reading out those questions when I examined Macri.
You don’t prepare for a fight, I told myself, by writing out a list of the punches and dodges and moves you’re thinking of making in the ring, from the first bell to the last. It doesn’t work like that. In the boxing ring or in court. Or in life.
As I crumpled up my stupid list of questions and threw it in the waste-paper basket, I recalled the world heavyweight title fight between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman in Kinshasa in 1974.
The most extraordinary fight in the history of boxing.
In the days before the fight, Foreman had said he would knock Ali out in two or three rounds. He was certainly capable of it. He started the fight punching like a madman. It looked as if this wasn’t going to be a long contest, couldn’t be a long contest. Ali tried to dodge, defended himself, was pushed back onto the ropes, and took a lot of punches to his body, punches as heavy as stones.
Without reacting.
And yet he was talking. No one could hear what he was saying, but it was clear to everyone that in the middle of that torrent of violence unleashed by Foreman, Ali’s lips were moving constantly. He didn’t look like someone who’s taking a lot of punches and losing the game.
Contrary to all the forecasts, Ali didn’t get knocked out in the first rounds, or the later rounds either. Foreman kept on hitting him furiously, but his blows were having less and less effect. Ali continued dodging, defending himself, taking the blows. And talking.
In the middle of the eighth round, with Foreman now breathing from his mouth and having to make an effort to lift his arms after hundreds of ineffectual punches, Ali suddenly came off the ropes and landed an incredible combination of two-handed blows. Foreman went down, and by the time he got up again the fight was over.
I closed the file and put it in my briefcase. Then I looked among my CDs for a Bob Dylan collection I remembered leaving in the office. It was there. And among the songs on it was ‘Hurricane’.
I turned out the light, put on the CD, went and sat down i
n my swivel chair, my feet crossed on the desk.
I listened to the song three times. Sitting in the half-light, thinking about many things.
Thinking that sometimes I was glad to be a lawyer.
Thinking that sometimes what I did really had something to do with justice. Whatever the word meant.
Then I turned out the light and went home. To sleep, or try to.
40
I was outside the courtroom just before ten. As I approached, I’d felt a slight change of rhythm in my heartbeat and a tingling in my throat. As if my pounding heart was about to trigger a coughing fit. That used to happen to me sometimes when I was at university, in the last days leading up to an important exam.
I looked around for Macri, even though I had no idea what he looked like. But all the people who were there, outside the courtroom, were people I knew, at least by sight. The usual fauna of lawyers, bailiffs, trainees and secretaries.
On the way to the courthouse I’d had a bet with myself on what would happen. Looking around again just before I entered the courtroom I told myself I had lost. Obviously he hadn’t believed in my threat to have him brought in by the carabinieri.
I put my briefcase and robe down on the bench. I hoped I wouldn’t have to have Macri brought in like that. I wondered who the assistant prosecutor would be for this hearing.
Then, as if someone had called me, I turned to the door of the courtroom and saw Macri. I don’t know how, but I knew straight away it was him, even though he didn’t correspond at all to the physical stereotype I’d imagined on the way to the courthouse: a man of medium height, slightly overweight, with a dark complexion, very black hair, and maybe a moustache.
Corrado Macri was fair-haired, taller than me and much more robust. Over six feet tall and weighing at least two hundred and twenty pounds, he looked like someone who doesn’t have an ounce of fat, lives on protein-filled milkshakes and spends a lot of time lifting weights.
He was very well dressed – anthracite-grey suit, regimental tie, raincoat over his arm – and considering his size his clothes must have been made to measure.
He came straight up to me. He had an agile way of walking, like an athlete in good shape.
A disquieting thought quickly crossed my mind. How had he known it was me? Who had told him?
“Guerrieri?”
“Yes?”
He held out his hand, taking me by surprise. “I’m Macri,” he said with a smile. I suspected he was attractive to women – at least some women – and was well aware of it.
I replied to his handshake and, despite myself, to his smile. I couldn’t help it. The man had something about him that made you warm to him. I knew perfectly well who he was – a trafficker disguised as a lawyer – and yet I couldn’t avoid finding him oddly likeable.
“We’ve already spoken on the phone,” he said, and smiled again. He looked and sounded quite apologetic.
“Yes,” I replied. Not knowing exactly what to say. I couldn’t figure out this situation at all.
“We got off to rather a… let’s say, rather a shaky start. Probably my fault.”
This time I didn’t even say yes. I simply nodded. That seemed to be the only thing I could manage.
He paused for a few seconds. “Shall we go for a coffee?”
I would have liked to say no, thanks, better not. The hearing’s about to start, it’s better if we don’t go too far away. And don’t forget I have to examine you and ask you some rather embarrassing questions. I don’t think this is the time or place to become too chummy.
All right, I said, we could have a coffee, the judges wouldn’t be here for another fifteen or twenty minutes.
We left the courtroom and as we walked towards the bar, I noticed a man following a few yards behind us. I turned to look at him, wondering who he was.
“Don’t worry, Guerrieri. He’s my driver. He’s keeping his distance because he knows we have to talk and he’s very discreet. He knows the score.”
As he said these last words – he knows the score – the inflexion of his voice changed significantly. From that moment on, I started to take notice of the carabinieri dotted around the courthouse. The fact that there were so many of them reassured me. A little, anyway.
“All courthouses are the same. The same chaos, the same smell, the same faces. Right, Guerrieri?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it.”
We reached the basement, made our way through the peak-hour crowds, and had our coffees. Macri paid and we went out again. The man who knew the score was still behind us.
“Guerrieri, let me tell you this again. I think we got off on the wrong foot in that phone call. I said some things I shouldn’t have said to a colleague. You’re only doing your job. So am I, come to that.”
I nodded, wondering where he was going with this.
“Since you’re doing your job, I don’t want to give you any trouble. But you shouldn’t give me any either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, the hearing is starting, what kind of things do you need to ask me?”
I shouldn’t have answered him. I should have said he’d find out soon enough. Once he was on the witness stand. Instead, I told him I needed to clarify certain points about how his relationship with Paolicelli had started. I realized I was being almost apologetic, and I didn’t like that at all.
I felt like an idiot.
He looked suddenly intense, in a way that was hardly warranted by my unremarkable answer. He pretended to think about what he was going to say and then, still walking, took my arm.
“Listen to me, Guerrieri. Obviously I’ll only answer questions that don’t force me to violate lawyer-client confidentiality. There are some I won’t be able to answer at all, but you know that, right? But that’s not the important thing. There are people who want to take care of Paolicelli. Forget about whether he’s innocent or guilty. He’s in prison, and he’s going to stay there for a while, even though you’re working very hard on his behalf. Which is good, it does you credit. It means you’re a real professional.”
He stopped for a moment to look me in the face. To see if I was taking in what he was saying. I don’t know if he got the impression from my face that I was following him, but he continued anyway.
“He has a wife-a beautiful wife, I don’t know if you’ve met her – and a daughter. He’s in trouble and needs help. He needs money. He’s bound to get a decent reduction on his sentence on appeal, you’ll see. Then in a few years he’ll get time off for good behaviour. But in all that time, a bit of financial help – real financial help – wouldn’t go amiss, right?”
“No, it wouldn’t go amiss,” I answered involuntarily.
He smiled, turning his head slightly towards me. That answer must have given him the idea that we were starting to understand each other. At last. I was someone who knew the ways of the world, who knew the score.
“Good. Naturally it’s something you and I have to talk about. Right now, we have to talk about it and sort it out. Don’t think I’ve come empty-handed.” So saying, he touched his jacket where the inside pocket was. “And of course we won’t forget you. All the work you’ve done, the time you’ve put in on this case. And don’t forget, these people – the ones I’m talking about, who want to take care of our client – often need lawyers. Good lawyers like you. A sound professional can make a lot of money from certain clients. Obviously you know what I’m talking about, right?”
He kept saying: right? It may have had an implied question mark, but it wasn’t a question.
Questions came flooding through my mind, uncontrollably. How much easier it would be. Money for him, obviously money for me. How much money do you have in that jacket? How much money can a sound professional like me make? I couldn’t block out these obscene questions. Paolicelli inside for a few years. A few more years.
Me outside.
Natsu and the little girl outside, with me.
Someone who knows the s
core. The phrase came back to me. But it no longer referred to Macri’s henchman. It was the new definition of Guido Guerrieri, the good lawyer. Ready to sell a client for money, love and the crumbs of a life he hadn’t been able to make for himself.
Ready to steal another man’s life.
It lasted a few seconds, I think. Maybe a little more.
I’ve rarely, if ever, felt such self-disgust.
Macri noticed that something was wrong. I was standing there, a strange expression on my face, without answering his question.
“I’ve made myself clear, right?”
I told him he’d made himself very clear, yes. Then for a few moments I searched for an appropriate one-liner, but couldn’t find one. So I just said that we’d consider his generous offer if the original sentence was upheld.
Thinking about it now, maybe that was an appropriate one-liner. He stopped and looked at me, questioningly. He was trying to understand. If I was stupid, if I was making idiotic wisecracks, if I was mad.
He couldn’t figure it out from my face, and when he started speaking again, his tone had changed. “Very funny. But since the hearing is about to start, I think we ought to talk seriously. I have here with me-”
“You’re right, the hearing is about to start. I have to be in court.”
I made as if to turn, but he put his big hand on my arm to hold me back. I noticed the man who knew the score taking a few steps towards us. I moved my arm away and looked him in the eyes.
“Be careful, Guerrieri.”
“Careful about what?”
“This is a game in which people can get badly hurt.”
I was calm now. “That’s more like it,” I replied in a low voice, almost a whisper. “I like you better this way. The role suits you.”
“Be careful,” he repeated, “or I’ll destroy you.”
I’d been waiting my whole life for someone – someone like him – to use that line on me. “Just try,” I replied.
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