The Fifth Gospel

by Ian Caldwell

  The presiding judge says drily, “Did you ask him for a bribe? Two tickets to Doctor Nogara’s exhibit?”

  The old judge peers cruelly down. Guido squirms like a hurt puppy.

  “Well . . . I mean . . .” Guido Canali actually turns to me, as if for help. “It wasn’t like that. I just said . . .”

  Mignatto jots a note on his legal pad. It’s pure gibberish. He just doesn’t want to be seen gloating.

  “Signor Canali,” says the presiding judge with disgust, “you’re excused. This tribunal is done hearing your testimony.”

  Guido lifts himself from his chair. He adjusts his belt and smooths his necktie on his belly with a stunned look. He leaves without a sound.

  * * *

  “OFFICER, THE NEXT WITNESS.” The judge looks at the roster in front of him. “Please call Signor Pei.”

  This is one of the two unfamiliar deponents from Mignatto’s list.

  Who’s that? I write on the pad between us.

  Mignatto ignores me.

  The man identifies himself as Gino Pei, driver in the pontifical car service. I take him to be a previously unscheduled witness, since Gianni never mentioned a driver being called to testify. Mignatto watches attentively.

  “Signore,” the lead judge asks once the oaths are finished, “it says here that your job is shift coordinator. What does that mean?”

  “It’s not a job, Monsignor, just a perk of seniority. It means I’m the driver who assigns pickups to my coworkers as the requests come in.”

  “In other words, you’re familiar with all the incoming requests.”

  “On my shift. Correct.”

  “And how long have you been a driver in the service?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “How many passengers have you driven in twelve years?”

  “Hundreds. Thousands.”

  “So if we were to ask you about a specific passenger, how well could we expect you to remember him?”

  “Monsignor, I don’t need to remember. We keep records of everything. Time in, time out, pickups, locations.”

  The judge scans a sheet of questions that must have come from the prosecutor, the promoter of justice. “Very well. I’d like to ask you about the day of Ugolino Nogara’s death.”

  I wonder if anyone else realizes this line of questioning is about to hit a roadblock.

  “I’m sorry, Monsignor,” Gino says in a nervous voice. He gestures at the promoter. “But like I told him last night, I can’t answer that question.”

  “Why not?”

  “There aren’t any records from that day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were ordered not to keep any logs.”

  “Ordered by whom?” the old judge grumbles.

  Gino Pei hesitates. “Monsignors, I can’t answer that.”

  The promoter of justice watches the judges. He seems to be weighing the tribunal’s reaction.

  The presiding judge is the first to realize what the court has just encountered. “Are you under a prior oath not to discuss this?”

  “That’s correct.”

  The monsignor removes his dark-framed glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The promoter of justice is tense in his seat. Judges have no power to undo oaths. The pool of available questions has just evaporated.

  “What’s this nonsense?” the old one hisses. “Who swears drivers to secrecy?”

  The promoter of justice bobs his head, as if this is exactly the right question. I glance at Mignatto. He’s watching the promoter tensely.

  “Is there anything you are able to tell us about the accused?” says the presiding judge.

  “No,” Gino says.

  “Then can you tell us about what you saw at Castel Gandolfo?”

  “Monsignor, I can’t.”

  The silence is filled only by the typing of the notary.

  The judges confer for a moment on the bench. Then the presiding judge says, “Enough. You’re excused. The tribunal will hear the next witness.”

  * * *

  AS PEI LEAVES, I glance at Mignatto excitedly, feeling the trial inch nearer to Simon’s exoneration. The atmosphere in the courtroom has changed. The judges look impatient. One rubs a pen between his hands, back and forth, back and forth.

  A sleepy-looking layman strides in. He has purses of skin under his sad eyes, and a drumstick of a nose. He bows to the judges before taking the oaths, then identifies himself as Vincenzo Corvi, forensic analyst with the Rome police. Mignatto, hearing that title, frowns.

  The young judge says, “Signor Corvi, your office was consulted by our Vatican police in this case. Why?”

  “For professional analysis of two items found at the scene, and verification of one voice recording.”

  “Could you identify these pieces of evidence?”

  “The two items from the crime scene are a spent 6.35-millimeter bullet and a human hair. The recording is a voice mail message.”

  “Let’s begin with the evidence from Castel Gandolfo. Were the bullet and the human hair found together?”

  “No. Found separately.”

  “Would you explain your findings to the tribunal?”

  Corvi produces a pair of glasses and glances at a report. “The bullet was located near the body of the deceased and has deformations consistent with the entry and exit wounds in the deceased’s skull.”

  “You’re saying this was the gunshot that killed Doctor Nogara?”

  “Almost certainly. It’s the same caliber fired by the weapon in question, a Beretta 950.”

  Mignatto’s eyes widen. He looks from Corvi to the judges to the promoter of justice. Then he rises to his feet. “The defense wasn’t aware that the murder weapon had been discovered.”

  The judges seem equally surprised. “The tribunal,” one says sternly, “wasn’t either.”

  Corvi avoids their glances, shuffling papers and pretending to search for something. He looks mortified. No good Catholic wants to disappoint a Church court inside these walls.

  The lead judge adjusts his tone. “Signore,” he says peaceably, “if our gendarmes are withholding information from us, we would appreciate knowing what it is.”

  The words thrill me. If the gendarmes’ version of events is in doubt, then we’re even closer to Simon’s freedom.

  For almost a minute, Corvi says nothing. He keeps studying the pages before him. During that entire silence, Mignatto stares at the promoter of justice.

  Finally Corvi pulls a sheet from the pile. “Ah,” he says. “Here it is. Yes, I was right. The weapon was a Beretta 950.”

  From the bench comes a sound of disbelief.

  “When did the gendarmes find it?” the lead judge asks.

  Corvi looks up. “As far as I know, they didn’t. This isn’t an evidence inventory; it’s a firearm registration.” He lifts the paper in the air. “A Beretta 950 was the weapon Ugolino Nogara registered with the state.”

  Mignatto turns to me breathlessly. “Nogara had a gun? ”

  I falter. “Not that I know of.”

  “Signore,” the old judge says hoarsely, “you’re telling us the man was shot with his own rifle?”

  “Not a rifle,” Corvi says. “A handgun.”

  “You mean a military pistol?”

  Corvi shuffles his papers again and raises a manufacturer’s stock photograph. It shows a small black weapon in a man’s outstretched hand. The Beretta is shorter than the man’s palm and fingers combined.

  “How is that possible?” the presiding judge asks.

  Very few Italians own guns like these.

  “Italian permits are overwhelmingly for hunting weapons,” Corvi says, lifting a second page. “Nogara’s permit was for a self-defense handgun. That’s another reason the identification is fairly sure.”
>
  I think of the notation in Ugo’s medical file. Fears being followed, harmed. I jot a note on the legal pad in front of Mignatto: Can you ask when he applied for the permit?

  Before Mignatto can respond, the lead judge reads my mind.

  “The date on the application,” Corvi replies, “is July twenty-fifth.”

  Michael was beaten up in the airport only one week earlier. Ugo must’ve decided to arm himself after finding the photo of Michael in his mailbox.

  “So you’re suggesting,” the young judge says, “that someone took Nogara’s handgun, killed him with it, and then did what with the weapon?”

  Corvi raises his hands in the air. “That’s for your police to establish. All I can tell you is the forensic analysis and the database results.”

  Mignatto is moving sheets of paper across the defense table. When he finds the list of deponents, he scans the column of names again, as if to reassure himself that no gendarmes will be called today.

  “You mentioned a second piece of evidence you were called to analyze,” the lead judge says, glancing down at his own notes. “What was it?”

  Corvi nods. “Your police found a human hair in the deceased’s car. They sent it to us for identification.”

  Mignatto begins to object. Simon was in Ugo’s car many times. The hair proves nothing. But for once, the judges ignore him. The car tugs at their imaginations. Ugo wouldn’t have carried a gun into a meeting of priests at Castel Gandolfo, so the car’s broken window looms larger.

  “Where was the hair found?” the judge asks.

  “By the driver’s seat.”

  This is odd. Ugo didn’t let anyone else drive his car.

  “The hair was Father Andreou’s?” the judge asks.

  “It was.”

  Yet there’s an odd hitch in the way he says it. And in that hitch, a dark intuition slips through me. I have made an immense mistake.

  Corvi stares at the lab report. “We were able to match it to a blood sample given at Rebibbia Prison three years ago.”

  Dread falls over me like a shadow.

  “The name on the blood sample,” Corvi says, “is Alexander Andreou.”

  Mignatto’s brow pinches. He looks up, registering what he believes is an error. Then he turns on me, ashen.

  I’m mute. The judges are staring.

  “A recess,” Mignatto coughs out. He turns to the judges. “Please, Monsignors. I need a brief recess.”

  * * *

  IN THE COURTYARD, MIGNATTO paces silently. Glaring down from the niches of Saint Peter’s are marble saints taller than two-story buildings.

  “Monsignor, I needed to see the car,” I say. “I didn’t know—”

  “You broke into the impound garage?” he says, still pacing.

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  I won’t drag Gianni into this. “Yes.”

  Mignatto chops the air with his hand, dividing each moment into particles of time. “When you were there, you took Nogara’s phone from his car?”

  “No.”

  He stops. “Then where did it come from?”

  “Health Services.”

  He’s nearly speechless. “What have you done?”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought what? That no one would notice?”

  “I was trying to help Simon.”

  “Enough! Was this your plan all along? You and your uncle? To decide the outcome of this trial yourselves?”

  “Of course not.”

  He steps closer. “Do you understand what the promoter of justice is doing to us in there?”

  I don’t know what he means. The prosecution got nothing out of Guido and Gino Pei.

  When I say as much, though, Mignatto explodes.

  “Don’t be naïve! He got exactly he wanted out of Canali. And what he did with the driver was ingenious.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who ordered the drivers not to keep their logs? Who would’ve put drivers under oath? Well, who else? The car service reports to your uncle.”

  “You’re reading too much into this.”

  “Then tell me: what was the point of Guido Canali’s testimony? Canali saw nothing. He never laid eyes on your brother or Nogara or the crime scene. So why call him as a witness?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because he saw you, Father. Because he could testify that your brother’s first reaction wasn’t to call the police but to call his family. The incident report says the gendarmes thought you both called for help, because you arrived before they did. You bribed Canali using tickets from your uncle. Don’t you see the scenario the promoter has begun to paint?”

  I’m speechless.

  “What’s the only question the judges are asking themselves? The security footage is missing. The carpool logs are gone. Witnesses are under oath not to speak. The salient fact of the trial is the silence. The judges want to know where the pressure is coming from, and that’s exactly what the promoter of justice is answering for them. Your brother called you for help. Your hair in the car suggests you helped him clean it out. Your uncle swore all his drivers to secrecy, then let your brother edit Nogara’s exhibit as he saw fit. The exhibit is no longer permissible as a topic of testimony. Where do the silences point, Father? What does it say when your brother refuses to testify? Our possession of Nogara’s mobile phone only confirms everything the prosecution is hinting at.”

  “Monsignor . . . I’m sorry.”

  He extends an arm in the air. “Enough. Go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Do you really think,” he snaps, “that I’m going to let you sit beside me while the tribunal considers the evidence of your own complicity? You’ve put me in the position of having to tell the court, in bad faith, that the hair is probably from some other time you drove with Nogara in his car. I have to invent excuses for the phone call, the bribe, the exhibit, the mobile phone. Get out of my sight! The only reason I’m letting you stay on as procurator is that I can’t risk having you testify.”

  “Monsignor, I don’t know what to say. I—”

  But he swings his briefcase up and gives me his back as he walks away.

  In the doorway to the palace stands the promoter of justice. He’s too far away to have overheard anything, but he sizes me up. Mignatto passes him, and they exchange no words. But the prosecutor continues to stare.

  CHAPTER 29

  I WAIT. LONG AFTER Mignatto and the promoter have returned inside the palace, I stay in the courtyard. Pacing. Hovering in sight of the courtroom doors. No one comes out. I don’t expect them to. But the illusion that I’m waiting for something is all that keeps this reckless feeling in check. This angry, anxious tension that shouts for me to do something.

  I start making calls. Michael Black doesn’t answer. So I try again, then a third time. He’s ignoring me, but I’ll wear him down.

  On the sixth try I leave a rambling message.

  “Michael, pick up your phone. Pick up your phone. If you’re too scared to come to Rome, then you need to talk to Simon’s lawyer. He has to know what happened in that airport.”

  As I talk, I stare down the road to the papal palace, looking for Simon. In vain.

  Twenty minutes later, Corvi, the forensic analyst, emerges. A gendarme escorts him to the border and out the gate into Rome. Still no sign of Simon.

  Then a sedan with tinted windows pulls up in front of the courthouse. I jump to my feet. When the driver gets out to open the rear door, I hurry over.

  The back seat is empty. The driver motions me away, but I sidestep him to look into the passenger seat. Empty, too.

  A moment later, the courthouse doors open. Archbishop Nowak exits the palace and shuffles to the open car door. I step back.

  Nowak’s eyes are downcas
t. He doesn’t even look at my face. But he extends an arm in front of him to let me pass by first. “Please,” he says.

  “Your Grace.”

  He repeats the gesture with his arm, waiting for me to pass.

  “Your Grace, may I speak to you?”

  He’s a large, stooped man, several inches taller than I am. His cassock is untailored. In his face is a faraway sadness, an abstraction that prevents him from looking up and recognizing me as a familiar face from the courtroom. People say that his father, a police officer in Poland, was killed by an oncoming truck at a traffic stop when he was a boy. Now he’s driving home to a second dying father in John Paul. It seems impossible to bring up Simon’s plight with a man who considers suffering a fact of life, but I have to do something.

  “Please, Your Grace,” I say. “It’s important.”

  Nowak doesn’t move. He says, “Yes, I know, Father Andreou.” And one last time, he makes the gesture, extending his arm.

  Finally I understand. He’s inviting me into his car.

  * * *

  MY HEART DRUMS AS I crawl inside. My cassock is unwieldy. I pull it tight around me and slide to the far edge of the back seat to leave room for His Grace. The driver offers him a hand. I remember when my father would grab me by the shoulder and point out Nowak as he passed us on the village streets. The archbishop was almost as young then as Simon is today. Now he is sixty-five. His body has the same leaden heaviness as John Paul’s, the barrel-like neck and cumbrous volume about the face, the eyes that haven’t surrendered but have somehow retreated. He still smiles, but there’s a sadness even in those smiles.

  He says nothing as the driver closes the door after him. Nothing as the car gets under way. Just for an instant I see Mignatto leaving the courtroom. His eyes meet mine through the windshield as the sedan pulls away, and I see his mouth open.

  “I remember you,” Nowak says at last, in a fatherly voice. “As a boy.”

  I try my best not to be awed, not to feel like a child again.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “I remember your brother, too.”