A Walk in the Dark

by Gianrico Carofiglio

That, more or less, was what I said. I said that if it was necessary to evaluate the plaintiff’s personality, in order to be sure she was reliable, then the same requirement existed with regard to the defendant, given that he had agreed to be examined and, among other things, had made a series of defamatory and offensive statements about my client.

  Caldarola allowed the question, and told Scianatico to answer. He looked at his lawyer, searching for help. He didn’t find it. He shifted on his chair, which seemed to have become very uncomfortable. He was desperately wondering how I could have come into possession of that cassette. Which, he was convinced, contained an embarrassing record of his most private habits. In the end he asked me.

  “Who . . . who gave you that cassette?”

  “Could you please answer my question? If it isn’t clear, or if you didn’t hear it properly, I can repeat it.”

  “It was a game, something private. What has it got to do with this trial?”

  “Is that an affirmative answer? You videotaped sexual relations with—”

  “Yes.”

  “On one occasion? On several occasions?”

  “It was a game. We both agreed to do it.”

  “On one occasion or on several occasions?”

  “A few times.”

  I picked up the video cassette and looked at it for a few seconds, as if reading something on the label.

  “Did you ever videotape sexual practices of a sado-masochistic nature?”

  There was silence in the courtroom. Several seconds passed before Scianatico answered.

  “I . . . I don’t remember.”

  “I’ll rephrase the question. Did you ever request or indeed perform sexual practices of a sado-masochistic nature?”

  “I . . . we played games. Just games.”

  “Did you ever demand that Dottoressa Fumai submit to being tied up, or other practices involving sexual restraint?”

  “I didn’t demand. We agreed.”

  “So it’s correct to say that the sexual practices I’ve mentioned did in fact occur, but you can’t remember if you videotaped them or not.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Honour, I’ve finished cross-examining the defendant. But I have a request to make . . .”

  Delissanti leaped to his feet, in so far as his bulk allowed him.

  “I object very strongly in advance to the admission of cassettes relating to the sexual practices of the defendant and the plaintiff. I still have strong reservations about the relevance of the questions put by the counsel for the plaintiff, but, be that as it may, the fact that certain practices occurred has now been admitted. So there is no need for pornographic material to be admitted in evidence.”

  Exactly what I wanted to hear him say. It had been admitted that certain practices had occurred. Precisely. They had swallowed the bait, both of them.

  “Your Honour, the objection is unnecessary. I had no intention of asking for this or any other cassette to be admitted in evidence. As counsel for the defence has rightly said, the fact that certain practices occurred has been admitted. My request is quite different. In the introductory phase of the trial, counsel for the defence requested – and you, Your Honour, granted the request – that an expert witness be allowed to give evidence of a psychiatric nature about the plaintiff, with the purpose of ascertaining her reliability in relation to an overall picture of her mental state. Applying the same principle, what has emerged from the cross-examination makes it necessary to perform a similar evaluation on the person of the defendant. The psychiatrist you appoint to examine the defendant will be able to tell us if the compulsive need for sexual practices of a sado-masochistic nature, and particularly those which involve restraint, are habitually connected to impulses and actions of a persecutory nature, involving the invasion of another person’s private life. In other words, if both phenomena are – or can be – expressions of a compulsive need for control. Of course, I wish to make it clear that I am not suggesting any evaluation or hypothesis at the moment as to the possible psychopathological nature of these propensities.”

  Scianatico’s face was grey. His tan had drained away, as if the blood had stopped flowing beneath the skin. Marinella Something-or-other was paralysed.

  Delisssanti took a few seconds to recover and object to my request. With pretty much the same arguments I had used to object to his. You certainly couldn’t say we were inconsistent.

  Caldarola seemed undecided about what to do. Outside the courtroom, in the private conversations that had almost certainly taken place, they’d told him a different story. The trial was based on nothing more than the accusations of an unbalanced madwoman against a respected professional man from a very good family. All that needed to be done was to put an end to the whole regrettable business and avoid further scandal.

  Now things didn’t seem so clear-cut any more and he didn’t know what to do.

  For about a minute, there was a strange, tense silence and then Caldarola gave his ruling.

  “The judge, having heard the request of counsel for the plaintiff; having noted that the investigation accepted in the introductory phase has not yet been concluded; having noted that the request by counsel for the plaintiff bears a conceptual relation to the category as under Article 597 of the Code of Criminal Procedure; having noted that a decision on the admission of such evidence can be made only at the end of the investigation; for these reasons reserves his decision on the request for psychiatric evaluation until the outcome of the hearing and stipulates that the proceedings continue.”

  It was a technically correct decision. A decision about all the new requests for the admission of evidence would be made at the end of the hearing. I knew that perfectly well, but I’d made my request at that moment in order to make it absolutely clear where I wanted to go. To make it clear to the judge exactly why I was asking these questions about sexual practices and that kind of thing.

  To make it clear to everyone that we had no intention of sitting there and getting slaughtered.

  Delissanti didn’t like this interim ruling. It left a door dangerously open to an objectionable investigation, and to a scandal that might, if possible, be even worse than the trial itself. So he tried again.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Honour, but we would like you to reject this request as of now. This further defamatory sword of Damocles cannot be left hanging over the defendant’s head—”

  Caldarola did not let him finish. “Avvocato, I would be grateful if you did not dispute my rulings. In this instance I will decide at the end of the hearing, that is, after having heard your witnesses, including your expert witness. A psychiatrist, as it happens. I think we have finished for today, if you yourself have no further questions for the defendant.”

  Delissanti remained silent for a few moments, as if looking for something to say and not finding anything. An unusual situation for him. In the end he gave up and said no, he had no further questions for the defendant. Scianatico’s face was unrecognizable as he rose from the witness stand and went back to his place next to his lawyer.

  Caldarola fixed the next hearing for two weeks from then. At that time, he would “hear the witnesses for the defence, as well as any further requests for the admission of additional evidence in accordance with Article 507 of the Code of Criminal Procedure”.

  As I took off my robe, I turned to Martina and Claudia, and it was then that I became aware of how many people there were in the courtroom. On the public benches, there were at least three or four journalists.

  Scianatico, Delissanti and the cortège of trainees and flunkeys left quickly and silently. Just for a few seconds, Scianatico turned towards Martina. He had a strange – very strange – look on his face, a look I couldn’t decipher, even though, with those mad, staring eyes, it reminded me of a broken doll.

  The journalists asked me for a statement, and I said I had no comment. I was forced to repeat that three or four times, and in the end they resigned themselves. After what they’d seen and heard to
day, they already had plenty to write about.

  I folded the two sheets of paper containing the copies of my old notes and put them in my briefcase with the video cassette. I didn’t want to run the risk of forgetting it. I’d recorded it one night years earlier, when I couldn’t sleep, and I liked to watch it from time to time. It contained an old film by Pietro Germi, with a brilliant performance by Massimo Girotti. A great film, hard to find these days.

  In the Name of the Law.

  After that afternoon I didn’t have to go to the bedroom many more times.

  It was as if he’d lost interest. I don’t know if it was because I always resisted him now, or because I’d grown and wasn’t a little girl any more. Or more likely both.

  Whatever the reason, at a certain point he gave up.

  And then I noticed the way he looked at my sister.

  I was filled with anxiety. I didn’t know what to do, who to talk to. I was sure that soon, very soon, he’d call her into the bedroom.

  I stopped going into the yard unless Anna came down with me. If she said she wanted to stay at home reading a comic book or watching TV, I stayed with her. I stayed really close to her. With my nerves on edge, waiting to hear that voice, thick with cigarettes and beer, calling. Not knowing what I would do when it came.

  I didn’t have to wait long. It happened one morning, the first day of the Easter holidays. The Thursday before Good Friday. Our mother was out, at work.

  “Anna.”

  “What do you want, Daddy?”

  “Come here a minute, I have something to tell you.”

  Anna stood up from the chair in the kitchen, where we both were. She put the two dolls she’d been playing with down on the table and walked towards the small, narrow, dark corridor, at the end of which was the bedroom.

  “Wait a minute,” I said.

  31

  I’ve often thought about that day in court, and what happened later. I’ve often wondered if things could have gone differently, and to what extent it was all down to me, my behaviour at the trial, the way I questioned Scianatico.

  I’ve never found the right answer, and it may well be better that way.

  There were several witnesses, and they all told more less the same story. Which doesn’t often happen. I spoke personally to some of these witnesses. In the case of the others, I read the statements they’d made at police headquarters, in the hours immediately after the events.

  Martina was coming back from work – it was fivethirty or a little later – and had parked less than fifty yards from the front entrance of her mother’s apartment building.

  He’d been waiting for her for at least an hour, according to the owner of a clothes shop on the other side of the street, who’d noticed him because “there was something strange about his behaviour, the way he moved”.

  When she saw him she stopped for a moment. Maybe she thought she’d cross to the other side and get away. But then she continued walking towards him. She seemed determined, the shop owner said.

  She had decided to confront him. She didn’t want to run away. Not any more.

  They spoke briefly, getting more and excited. They both raised their voices, especially her. She shouted at him to go away and leave her alone once and for all. Immediately after, there was a kind of scuffle. Scianatico hit her several times, slapping her and punching her. She fell, maybe she lost consciousness, and he dragged her bodily into the entrance hall.

  Tancredi’s phone call came while I was talking to an important client. A major entrepreneur being investigated by the tax authorities for a series of frauds, who was scared stiff at the thought that he might be arrested. One of those clients who paid on time and paid well, because they had a lot to lose.

  I told him I had a major emergency on, and asked him to excuse me: we’d see each other tomorrow, or rather no, better make it the day after tomorrow, sorry again, I have to go, goodbye. When I left my office he was still there, standing in front of the desk. Looking like someone who doesn’t understand, I suppose. And wondering if it might be a good idea to change lawyers.

  As I was hurrying to Martina’s, which was fifteen minutes from my office at normal walking pace, I phoned Claudia. I don’t remember exactly what I said as I ran, breathless. But I do remember that she hung up while I was still talking, just as soon as she understood what I was talking about.

  By the time I got there, there was a tremendous commotion. Outside the crush barriers, a crowd of onlookers. Inside them, a lot of uniformed policemen and a few carabinieri. Men and women in plain clothes, with the gold badges of the investigative police on their belts or jackets or hanging round their necks like medallions. Some of them had pistols tucked into their belts, at the front. Others were holding them in their hands, pointed downwards, as if they might have to use them at any moment. A couple of them were holding bulletproof vests, which hung like half-empty bags. They looked as if they might be about to put them on at any moment.

  I asked Tancredi who was in charge of operations – assuming you could talk about operations or anyone being in charge, in all that confusion. He pointed to a nondescript man in a jacket and tie, who was holding a megaphone in his hand but didn’t seem to me to know what to do with it exactly.

  “He’s the deputy head of the Flying Squad. It would have been better if he’d stayed at home, but the chief is abroad, so, in practice, we have to get on with it ourselves. We also called the assistant prosecutor on duty and he told us he was a magistrate, and so it was none of his business. He doesn’t want to have to deal with the man, let alone decide whether or not to go in. But he’s told us to keep him informed. A lot of help that bastard is, eh?”

  “Have you managed to talk to Scianatico?”

  “On the landline, yes. I talked to him. He said he’s armed, and we shouldn’t try to go any closer. I’m not really sure it’s true – that he’s armed, I mean. But I wouldn’t like to bet on it.”

  Tancredi hesitated for a few moments.

  “I didn’t like the sound of his voice. Especially when I asked him if he’d let me talk to her. I said maybe he could just let her say hello to me and he said no, she couldn’t right now. His voice sounded quite unpleasant, and immediately after that he hung up.”

  “Unpleasant in what way?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Cracked, as if it might break at any moment.”

  “Where’s Martina’s mother?”

  “We don’t know. I mean, we don’t think she’s at home. I asked him if her mother was there and he said no. But where she is we don’t know. She probably went out to do some shopping or whatever; she’ll be back any moment now and get the shock of her life. We also tried to find his father, the judge, to get him to come and talk to that fucking madman of a son of his. We managed to contact him, but he’s in Rome for a conference. The Rome Flying Squad sent a car to pick him up and drive him to the airport to catch the first plane. But the earliest he can be here is in five hours. Let’s hope by then we don’t need him any more.”

  “What do you think? What should we do?”

  Tancredi lowered his head and pursed his lips. As if he was searching for an answer. Or rather, as if he had an answer ready but didn’t like it and was looking for an alternative.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last, looking up. “This kind of situation is unpredictable. To decide on a strategy, you need to understand what the son of a bitch wants, in other words, what his real motivation is.”

  “And in this case?”

  “I don’t know. The only thing I’m thinking, I don’t like at all.”

  I was about to ask him what it was he was thinking that he didn’t like at all, when I saw Claudia’s van arrive. In chronological order: a squeal of tyres as she came round the corner, the noise of gears suddenly changing, the back wheels mounting the pavement, the bumpers hitting a rubbish bin. She made her way through the crowd, in our direction. A uniformed policeman told her she couldn’t go beyond the crush barrier which demarcated the
area of operations. She brushed him aside without saying a word. He tried to block her way, but just then Tancredi ran up and told him to let her pass.

  “Where are they?”

  “He’s barricaded himself in Martina’s apartment,” Tancredi said. “He’s probably armed, or at least he says he is.”

  “How is she?”

  “We don’t know. We haven’t managed to talk to her. He was waiting for her outside the building. When she arrived they talked for a few seconds, then she shouted something like, ‘Go away or I’ll call the police, or my lawyer’, or both. It was then that he hit her, several times. She seems to have lost consciousness, or to have been stunned, because they saw him dragging her inside, holding her from behind, under the armpits. Someone called 113, a patrol car arrived immediately, and a few minutes later we got here.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I don’t know. In a couple of hours the special forces should arrive from Rome, and then someone will have to take responsibility for authorizing them to go in. In a case like this, nobody knows what to do. I mean if it has to be a judge, the head of the Flying Squad, the chief of police or who. The alternative would be to try and negotiate. Easier said than done. Who’s going to talk to that madman?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Claudia said. “Phone him, Carmelo, and let me talk to him. I’ll ask him if he’ll let me in to see how Martina is. I’m a woman, a nun. I’m not saying he’ll trust me, but he may be less suspicious than with one of you.” Her tone of voice was strange.

  Strangely calm, in contrast to her face, which was distraught.

  Tancredi looked at me as if he was seeking my opinion, but without asking me anything. I shrugged my shoulders.