I made a gesture that meant, more or less: if you like, you can tell it to me now.
“No, not now. Not tonight.”
After a brief hesitation, she gave me a quick kiss. On the cheek, very close to the mouth. Before I could say anything else she was already in the van, and driving away into the night.
I walked slowly back home, choosing the darkest, most deserted streets. I felt absurdly light-headed.
Before I went to bed, I searched through my discs. Out of Time was there, so I put it in the player and pressed the skip button to the second track: “Losing my religion”.
I listened to it with the booklet of lyrics in my hand, because I wanted to try to understand.
That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough.
I’ve said too much. I haven’t said enough.
30
Honorary assistant prosecutors aren’t magistrates by profession. They’re lawyers – mostly young lawyers – on temporary assignment, and they’re paid per hearing. Their fee is the same whether there are two or twenty cases during the hearing. Their fee is the same whether the hearing lasts twenty minutes or five hours.
As you can imagine, they generally try to get through things as quickly as possible so that they can get back to their studies.
As was to be expected, Alessandra Mantovani was replaced by an honorary assistant prosecutor. She was a recently appointed young woman I’d never seen before.
She, though, evidently knew me, because when I entered the courtroom she immediately came up to me with a very worried look on her face.
“Yesterday I had a look at the files for this hearing.”
Brilliant idea, I thought. Perhaps if you’d looked at them a few days earlier you could actually have studied them. But maybe that was asking too much.
I gave her a kind of rubbery smile, but said nothing. She took our case file out of her folder, placed it on the desk, touched the cover with her index finger, and asked me if I realized who the defendant was.
“Is this Scianatico the son of Judge Scianatico?”
“Yes.”
There was a look of alarm on her face. “How could they have sent me to cover a case like this? For God’s sake, this is only my fourth case since I was appointed. What’s it all about, anyway?”
Bloody hell, didn’t you tell me you’d looked at the files? Being an idiot isn’t compulsory if you want to be a lawyer. Not yet, anyway. However, having said that, you’re right. How could they have sent you to cover a case like this?
I didn’t say that. I was really nice to her, explained what it was all about, told her it was Prosecutor Mantovani’s case, but she’d been transferred to Palermo. Evidently, whoever had drawn up the schedule for the hearings hadn’t noticed this was no ordinary hearing.
Hadn’t she noticed?
As I was giving her these polite explanations, I was thinking I was in the shit. Up to my neck. We were about to play something like a Cassano Murge-Manchester United match. And my team wasn’t Manchester United.
“And what exactly do I have to do today?”
“What you have to do, exactly, is examine the defendant.”
“Damn it. Look, I won’t do anything. You know this case really well and you can do it all. I’d only spoil things.”
Well, you’re right about that. Damned right.
“Or maybe we could ask for a postponement. Let’s tell the judge we need a robed magistrate for this case and ask him to postpone it to another session. What do you think?”
“What’s your name?”
She looked at me, puzzled. Then she told me her name was Marinella. Marinella Something-or-other, because she spoke quickly and swallowed her words.
“All right, Marinella, listen to me. Listen carefully. You just sit there calmly in your seat. As you said before: don’t do anything. This is what’s going to happen. Counsel for the defence will examine the defendant. When it’s your turn the judge will ask you if you have any questions, and you’ll say no, thank you, you don’t have any questions. None at all. Then the judge will ask me if I have any questions and I’ll say yes, thank you, I have a few questions. In an hour, maybe more, it’ll all be over, before you’ve even realized it. But don’t even think about asking for postponements or anything like that.”
Marinella looked at me, even more scared than before. The expression on my face, the tone in which I’d spoken, hadn’t been pleasant. She nodded, looking like someone talking to a dangerous madman, someone who’d rather be somewhere else and hopes it will all be over really soon.
Caldarola took off his glasses – he was long-sighted – and looked towards Delissanti and Scianatico.
“Now then, at today’s hearing, we are due to hear the examination of the defendant. Does he confirm his intention to undergo this examination?”
“Yes, Your Honour, the defendant confirms his willingness to testify.”
Scianatico stood up resolutely, and within a second had covered the distance between the defence bench and the witness stand. Caldarola read out the ritual caution. Scianatico had the right not to answer, but proceedings would still follow their course. If he agreed to answer, his statements might be used against him, and so on, and so forth.
“So do you confirm that you wish to answer?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
“In that case, counsel for the defence may proceed with the examination.”
The early stages of the examination were fairly tedious. Delissanti asked Scianatico to tell the court when he had met Martina, and in what circumstances, how their relationship had started, that kind of thing. Scianatico replied in an almost affable tone, as if trying to give the impression that he didn’t bear a grudge against Martina, in spite of all the harm she had so unjustly done him. A role they had rehearsed over and over in Delissanti’s office. For sure.
At a certain point he broke off in the middle of an answer. For a moment, I saw his eyes move towards the entrance to the courtroom, I saw him wince slightly, I saw that damnably smug expression of his crack just a little.
Martina and Claudia had arrived. They sat down behind me, and I turned and greeted them. Martina, following the instructions I had given her the day before when she had come to my office, handed me a package in such a way that nobody in the courtroom could fail to notice. In such a way that Scianatico, above all, couldn’t fail to notice.
From the shape and size, it was clear the package contained a videocassette.
Delissanti was forced to repeat his last question.
“I repeat, Professor Scianatico, can you tell us when, and for what reason, your relationship with Signorina Fumai started to break down?”
“No . . . I can’t pinpoint a particular moment. Little by little Martina’s – that is, Signorina Fumai’s behaviour changed.”
“Can you tell us in what way her behaviour changed?”
“Mood swings. Increasingly sudden and increasingly frequent. Verbal attacks, alternating with bouts of weeping and depression. On a couple of occasions she even tried to attack me physically. She was beside herself. I had the impression—”
“Objection, Your Honour. The defendant is about to express a personal opinion, which, as we all know, is not allowed.”
Caldarola told Scianatico to avoid personal opinions and stick to the facts.
“Tell us what happened when Signorina Fumai was having one of her attacks.”
“Mostly, she shouted. She said I didn’t understand her problems and being with me would make her ill again.”
“Excuse me if I interrupt. She said that she would become ill again? To what illness was she alluding?”
“She was alluding to her psychiatric problems.”
“Go on. Continue telling us what happened during t
hese attacks.”
“As I’ve already said, she shouted a lot, wept hysterically, tried to hit me and . . . oh yes, then she accused me of having lovers. It wasn’t true, of course. But she was jealous. Pathologically jealous.”
“It isn’t true,” I heard Martina whispering behind my back. “The bastard. It isn’t true.”
“. . . increasingly often, she told me I’d pay for it. Sooner or later, one way or the other.”
“Was it during one of these arguments, in front of a number of mutual friends, that you used the words ‘you’re a compulsive liar, you’re unbalanced, you’re unreliable and you’re a danger to yourself and others’?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I lost my temper as well. I shouldn’t have said those things in front of other people. The sad thing is, they were true.”
“Let’s try to analyse these words, which you would have preferred not to have said in front of other people, but which you couldn’t hold back. Why did you say she was unreliable and a danger?”
“She’d have these violent tempers. On two occasions she attacked me. On others she went so far as to mutilate herself.”
“Why did you tell her she was a compulsive liar?”
“She made things up. I don’t like to say this, in spite of what she did to me. But she made up the most incredible stories. That time in particular, she told me she knew for a fact that I was having an affair with a lady who was there that night at our friends’ house. It wasn’t true, but there was no way to make her see reason. She told me she wanted to leave, I told her not to behave like a child, not to make a scene, but the situation soon degenerated.”
I had to resist the temptation to turn to Martina.
“Did you ever threaten Signorina Fumai?”
“Never. Absolutely not.”
“Did you ever use physical violence against her, during or after the period when you lived together?”
“Never of my own accord. It’s true that on two occasions when she attacked me I had to defend myself, to stop her, try to neutralize her. Those were the two times she had to have emergency treatment. I hasten to add that I took her to hospital myself. And I took her to hospital on another occasion too. After she’d mutilated herself particularly badly. As I said, it was a habit of hers.”
“Could you tell us exactly what form this self-mutilation took?”
“I can’t remember exactly. Certainly when she lost her temper during arguments, because she couldn’t get her own way, she’d slap herself, even punch herself in the face.”
“After you stopped living together, did you have any contact with Signorina Fumai?”
“Yes. I called her many times on the phone. A couple of times I also tried to speak to her in person.”
“On these occasions, either on the phone or in person, did you ever threaten Signorina Fumai?”
“Absolutely not. I was . . . I feel embarrassed saying it, but the thing is, I was still in love with her. I was trying to convince her that we should get back together. Apart from anything else, I was very worried that her mental condition might deteriorate and she might do something rash. I mean self-mutilation or worse. I thought that if we could get back together we might be able to patch things up and help her to solve her problems.”
It was a moving story. A real tear-jerker. The son of a bitch should have been an actor.
“In conclusion, Professor Scianatico, you are aware of the charges against you. Did you in fact commit any of the acts attributed to you in those charges?”
Before answering, Scianatico gave a kind of bitter smile. A smile that meant, more or less, that people and the world in general were bad and ungrateful. That was why he was here, being tried unjustly for things he had not done. But he was a good person, so he didn’t feel any resentment towards the person responsible. Who, apart from anything else, was a poor unbalanced woman.
“As I’ve said, we had two small fights during the time we were living together. Apart from that, as I’ve also said, I did make a lot of phone calls, some of them at night, to try to convince her that we should get back together. As for everything else, no, of course not. None of it is true.”
Of course not. He couldn’t deny the phone calls, because there were records. The madwoman had made up the rest out of her destructive delusions.
That was the end of the examination. The judge told the public prosecutor that she could proceed with the cross-examination. Marinella Something-or-other, obeying my instructions, said, No, thank you, she had no questions. From the tone of her voice and the look on her face, you’d have thought the judge had asked her, “Excuse me, do you have AIDS?”
“Do you have any questions, Avvocato Guerrieri?”
“Yes, Your Honour, thank you. May I proceed?”
He nodded. He also knew that this was where the hassles started. And he didn’t like hassles. Tough luck for you, I thought.
No point in leading up to things in a roundabout way, not with this case. So I got straight to the point.
“Am I correct in saying that you made a photocopy of Dottoressa Fumai’s medical records during the time you lived together?”
“That’s correct. I made a photocopy because—”
“Could you tell us exactly when you made this copy, if you recall?”
“You mean the day, the month?”
“I mean the period, roughly speaking. If you can also recall the day . . .”
“I can’t give you an exact answer. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t early on during the time we lived together.”
“Did you ask Dottoressa Fumai’s permission to make these photocopies?”
“Look, my intention—”
“Did you ask her permission?”
“I wanted—”
“Did you ask her permission?”
“No.”
“Did you subsequently inform Dottoressa Fumai that you had made a copy of her private records without her knowing it?”
“I didn’t inform her because I was worried and I wanted to show these records to a psychiatrist friend of mine. So that we could both see exactly what Martina’s problems were and how we could help her.”
“To recap, then. You made this copy without asking Dottoressa Fumai’s permission, in other words, secretly. And you didn’t subsequently inform her that you’d done it. Is that correct?”
“It was for her own good.”
“In other words, for Dottoressa Fumai’s good, you were prepared to do things without her knowing it, invading her private space without permission.”
“Objection, Your Honour,” Delissanti said. “That isn’t a question, it’s a conclusion. Inadmissible.”
“Avvocato Guerrieri,” Caldarola said, “please keep your conclusions for your closing speech.”
“With all due respect, Your Honour, I consider this a genuine question, regarding what the defendant was prepared to do according to his own quite subjective idea of what was for Dottoressa Fumai’s good. But I’ll happily withdraw and move on to another question. Did Dottoressa Fumai tell you herself where she kept her medical records?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Did Dottoressa Fumai tell you, ‘Look, the copy of my medical records is in such and such a place’?”
“No. At any rate, I don’t remember.”
“So you had to search for these records in order to photocopy them? You were forced to rifle through Dottoressa Fumai’s private effects. Is that correct?”
“I didn’t rifle through anything. I was worried about her, so I searched for those papers to show them to a doctor.”
Scianatico no longer seemed so at ease. He was losing his cool, and his image of manly, serene patience. Exactly what I wanted.
“Yes, you’ve already said that. Could you tell us the name of the psychiatrist to whom you showed these papers, after you had photocopied them clandestinely?”
“Objection, objection. Counsel for the plaintiff must avoid comments, and the word clandestinely is a comme
nt.”
That was Delissanti again. He was perfectly well aware that things weren’t going very well. For them. I spoke before Caldarola could intervene.
“Your Honour, in my opinion the word clandestinely exactly describes the way in which these records were obtained by the defendant. However, I’m quite happy to rephrase the question because I’m not interested in getting into an argument.” And because I got the result I wanted anyway, I thought.
“So, could you tell us the name of the psychiatrist?”
“In the end I didn’t use the records. Our relationship quickly deteriorated and then she left. So in the end I didn’t do anything with them.”
“But you kept the photocopies?”
“I put them away and forgot all about them, until this . . . this business started.”
There was rather a long pause. I unwrapped the package Martina had given me, and took out the video cassette and a couple of sheets of paper. For almost a minute I pretended to read what was written on these sheets. It was just a sideshow, and had nothing to do with the trial. The sheets of paper were photocopies of old notes of mine, but Scianatico didn’t know that. When I thought the tension had risen enough, I looked up from the papers and resumed my questioning.
“Did you ever force Dottoressa Fumai to make a video recording of your sexual relations?”
Exactly what I had expected happened. Delissanti rose to his feet, shouting. It was inadmissible, outrageous, unprecedented, to ask such questions. What did the things that happened between consenting adults in the privacy of the bedroom have to do with this case? And so on, and so forth.
“Your Honour, will you allow me to clarify the question and its relevance?”
Caldarola nodded. For the first time since the start of the trial, he seemed annoyed with Delissanti. He’d pried into the most intimate and painful aspects of Martina’s life. In order to ascertain the plaintiff’s reliability, he’d said. And now he’d suddenly remembered that a couple’s private life was sacrosanct.
A Walk in the Dark Page 14
