All of them would have liked to get out of here as quickly as possible. Me too.
Sister Claudia was sitting on a bench, staring at a grimy wall. In the usual leather jacket, and militarystyle trousers with big pockets. Nobody had sat down next to her. Nobody was standing too close to her either. For a second or two, the written words Keep your distance flashed through my mind.
I don’t know how it was that she saw me, because she really did seem to be staring at that wall in front of her and I was coming from the side, through the crowd. The fact is, when I was about six yards away from her, she turned her head as if obeying a silent command and immediately stood up with that sinuous, dangerous, predatory movement of hers.
I stopped in front of her, not much more than a foot away. Encroaching into that bubble where nobody else dared enter. I nodded my head in greeting and she responded in the same way.
“What are you doing here?”
For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw something like embarrassment on her face, even a slight blush. It was only a fraction of a second, and maybe I only imagined it. When she spoke, her voice was the way it had been the other times: grey, like the steel of a knife.
“Martina isn’t coming. You told her not to. So I’ve come to see how it goes and then tell her about it.”
I nodded and told her we could go into court. The hearing would be starting soon, and it was a good idea to be there to hear what time our case would be dealt with. As I said it, I realized I hadn’t yet seen Scianatico, or even Delissanti.
19
Sister Claudia sat down behind the rail separating the space intended for the public from that reserved for the lawyers, the defendants, the public prosecutor, the clerk of the court and the judge. In other words, where the trial takes place.
After briefly explaining to her what was about to happen, I went over to the clerk of the court, who was already in his place. In front of him he had two stacks of files: the cases that were due to be dealt with during the hearing.
In theory, at least. In practice, there would be adjournments, annulments, postponements, either at the request of the defence attorneys or else “due to the excessive number of cases in today’s hearing”. In practice, by the end of the hearing, the judge would only have ruled on three or four of the cases at the most.
Caldarola didn’t think it was dignified for a judge to do too much work.
I asked the clerk of the court if I could see the file. I wanted to check the list of prosecution and defence witnesses. I hadn’t submitted a list because I took it for granted that Alessandra Mantovani had indicated all the relevant witnesses.
The clerk of the court gave me the file and I went and sat down on one of the lawyers’ benches. All still empty, despite the crowd outside.
Alessandra, as predicted, had listed all the requisite witnesses. Martina, obviously. The police inspector who had been in charge of the investigation. A couple of girls from Safe Shelter. Martina’s mother. The doctors. No surprises.
The surprises – unpleasant ones – were in the defence list. There were a dozen witnesses, who would testify: (1) as to the relations between Professor Scianatico and the plaintiff Martina Fumai during the period of their cohabitation; (2) in particular, as to what they noticed on occasions during which they frequented the residence of Professor Scianatico and the plaintiff; (3) to the best of their knowledge, as to the physical and mental problems of the plaintiff and the behavioural implications of such problems; (4) as to the reasons known to them for the cessation of cohabitation.
But the real problem wasn’t those witnesses. They were only there to make an impression. The problem was the last name on the list. Professor Genchi, professor of legal medicine and forensic psychiatry. He was listed as an expert witness who would testify “as to the conditions of mental health of the plaintiff in relation to the witness statements and the documents whose admission will be requested, with the purpose of ascertaining the plaintiff’s mental fitness to testify and, in any case, with the purpose of ascertaining the admissibility of said testimony”.
I knew the professor: I had seen him in a lot of trials. He was a man you could trust, not like some of his colleagues, who produce accommodating – and well-paid – evaluations of defendants. Claiming that they have serious mental illnesses, that being ill they absolutely cannot remain in prison and must therefore be transferred as soon as possible to house arrest. Needless to say, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, these gentlemen are as healthy as can be. Needless to say, these expert witnesses are perfectly well aware of that, but with a nice fee in sight they prefer not to make fine distinctions.
Genchi, though, was someone you could trust, someone judges listened to. Quite rightly. He would never lend himself to coming into court and talking nonsense or giving false testimony. Delissanti had chosen someone who would never let his hand be forced to exaggerate his evaluation. Which meant that he must be feeling very confident.
As I was reading, and getting increasingly worried, I felt a presence behind me. I turned and looked up. Alessandra Mantovani, already wearing her robe. She greeted me in a professional manner – Good morning, Avvocato – and I replied in the same way, Good morning, Dottoressa.
Then she went and sat down in her place. Her face was a touch tense. Small lines at the corners of her mouth, her eyes partly closed. I was certain she’d already read Delissanti’s list.
The assistant who was with her placed two dusty folders on her desk, full of files with discoloured covers. A few minutes passed, and at last Delissanti came in, with his usual retinue of secretaries, assistants and trainees. Almost immediately after, the bell sounded to signal the start of the hearing.
They’d arrived virtually at the same time. The defence attorney and the judge.
It had to be a coincidence.
20
The preliminaries did not take too long.
The judge declared the proceedings open and asked the clerk of the court to read the charges – in full, as required by law. In practice, it isn’t usually done. The judge asks the parties, “Shall we take the charges as read?” Then he usually doesn’t even listen to the answer, and carries on. He takes it for granted that nobody is interested in hearing the charges read out, because they already know them perfectly well.
That day, Caldarola didn’t take the charges as read, and so we had to listen to all of them in the nasal voice of Clerk of the Court Filannino from Barletta, with his strong accent. A thin man, with greyish skin, not much hair, and a sad, unpleasant grimace at the corners of his mouth.
I didn’t like that. Caldarola was someone who, more than anything else, liked to get on with things. It was a bad sign that he should waste time on formalities. It must mean something, but I wasn’t sure what.
After the charges had been read out, Caldarola asked the public prosecutor to make her requests for the admission of evidence. Alessandra stood up, her robe dropping perfectly along her body as she did so, without her needing to pull it up over her shoulders. Unlike almost everyone else, including me.
She didn’t speak for very long. Basically, all she said was that she would prove the offences indicated in the charges by means of the witnesses on her list and the documents that would be shown in evidence. From the way she looked at the judge, I realized she was thinking the same thing as me. That something was going on behind our backs.
Then it was my turn, and I said even less. I referred to the public prosecutor’s requests, asked for the defendant to be examined, if he consented, and reserved my observations on the defence’s requests until I had heard them.
“Counsel for the defence.”
Delissanti stood up.
“Thank you, Your Honour. Here we all are, even though we shouldn’t be. The fact is, there are some cases that should never be brought to trial. This is one of them.”
First pause. He turned his head to the bench where Alessandra and I were sitting. Trying to provoke us. Alessandra’s face was devo
id of expression: she was looking into space, somewhere behind the judge’s bench.
“A professional man, a reputable academic, a member of one of the most important and respected families in our city, has been dragged through the mud by false accusations based purely on the resentment of an unbalanced woman and-”
I almost leaped to my feet. I had risen to the bait.
“Your Honour, counsel for the defence cannot be allowed to make such offensive comments. Especially at this stage, when he should be limiting himself to requests for the admission of evidence. Please advise Avvocato Delissanti to keep scrupulously to the provisions of the law: to indicate the facts he intends to prove and to ask for the admission of evidence. Without comments.”
Caldarola told me there was no need to get excited. Anyway, it made no difference. The game was out of my hands.
“Avvocato Guerrieri, you mustn’t take things amiss. Counsel for the defence needs to explain the context and the reasons for his requests. How else can I tell if these requests are relevant? Please carry on, Avvocato Delissanti. Avvocato Guerrieri, let’s try to avoid any further interruptions.”
Son of a bitch. I thought it, but would have liked to say it out loud. Bloody great son of a bitch. What have they promised you?
Delissanti continued, at his ease.
“Thank you, Your Honour, you have caught my meaning perfectly, as always. It is indeed obvious that in order to introduce the aspects of the case to which our evidence relates, I must make certain preliminary remarks regarding these aspects. In essence, if we want to make – as in fact we will – a request for an expert psychiatric witness to be heard, then it is important to say, and to be allowed to say, that we are doing so because we consider the plaintiff to be suffering from serious mental disturbances, which compromise her credibility and even her ability to testify. Where such things are concerned, especially when the honour, the freedom, the very life of a man like Professor Scianatico are at stake, there is no point in beating about the bush. Whether the public prosecutor and counsel for the plaintiff like it or not.”
Another pause. Again he turned his head to our bench. Alessandra was as still as a sphinx. Though if you looked carefully, you could detect a very small, rhythmic contraction of her jaw, just below the cheekbone. But you really did have to look very carefully.
“And so before anything else we request the admission of evidence demonstrating” – he hissed the words, almost spat them – “that the plaintiff is suffering from psychiatric problems, which will be explained in greater detail by our expert witness, properly indicated on the list, Professor Genchi. A name that requires no introduction. In addition, we ask to be able to prove the continued existence of such problems, the reasons for the separation as verified at the time, and more generally a condition of severe social maladjustment and personal inadequacy on the part of the plaintiff, by means of the witnesses indicated on our list. We also request the examination of Professor Scianatico, who, I inform you as of now, gives his consent to being examined and to answering questions in order to provide further proof of his innocence. We have no comment to make on the public prosecutor’s requests for the admission of evidence. Nor those of counsel for the plaintiff, who doesn’t, in fact, seem to be making any significant ones. Thank you, Your Honour, I have finished.”
As soon as Delissanti stopped talking, Caldarola started to give his ruling.
“The judge, having heard the requests from both parties, and having noted-”
“I’m sorry, Your Honour, I have some observations to make on counsel for the defence’s requests for the admission of evidence. If you will allow me.”
Alessandra had spoken in a low but sharp voice, in which her slight Veneto accent was just noticeable. Caldarola looked a bit embarrassed, and I thought I also noted a touch of redness on his usually grey face. As if he had been caught doing something vaguely shameful. Which indeed he had.
“Go on, Prosecutor.”
“I have no observations on the request to admit the many witnesses indicated on the list. There seem to me to be too many of them, but that is not a matter I intend to raise. At least not for the moment. However, I should like to say something about the request to hear the testimony of Professor Genchi, referred to by counsel for the defence as an expert witness, a psychiatric specialist. I should like to raise a couple of points about this request. One specifically concerns the case with which we are starting to deal today. The other is of a more general nature, regarding the admissibility of such requests. Has Professor Genchi ever visited Signora Martina Fumai? Has the professor ever at least seen Signora Martina Fumai? Counsel has not informed us of the fact, even though he has told us with great, emphatic, indeed offensive certainty that Signora Martina Fumai is unbalanced. If, as I believe to be the case, Professor Genchi has never visited the plaintiff, I wonder what he could possibly base his expert testimony on. Because counsel for the defence, infringing the essence of the duty of disclosure, has not told us. And this remark brings us to the second point I should like to raise. Is it possible to request a psychiatric evaluation of a witness – or even a defendant – without there being any element in the documents which may allow one to presume that such an evaluation is necessary? I believe this general point needs to be addressed before any decision can be made on counsel’s request. Because, Your Honour, to admit such a request without it being based on any factual element of the case creates a dangerous precedent. Every time we don’t like a witness, for whatever reason, good or bad, we will be able to ask for a psychiatrist to tell us about his or her most private, most personal problems. And who among us does not have personal problems, depression, addictions? To alcohol, for example. Do these problems not concern only themselves and should they not legitimately remain of concern only to themselves?”
As she uttered these last words, she turned to look at Delissanti sitting there on his bench. Among the various rumours about him, one concerned his inclination for strong alcohol. Even at unconventional times, such as early in the morning, in one or other of the bars near his office. He did not turn. He had a nasty expression on his face, and his jaws were clenched. The atmosphere was turning leaden.
“And so, Your Honour, I strongly object to the testimony of the expert witness named by the defence being admitted. At least until there has been a concrete explanation as to what this testimony relates to, and in what way the things to which it may relate have any bearing on this particular case.”
I seconded the public prosecutor’s objection. Then Delissanti asked to be allowed to speak again. His tone was not as breezy as before.
“Your Honour, I really can’t understand what the public prosecutor and counsel for the plaintiff are afraid of. Or rather, to be honest, I do understand, but I’d like to avoid squabbles. There are two possibilities here. Either Signorina Martina Fumai doesn’t have any problems of a psychiatric nature, and so there’s no reason to get upset at the prospect of hearing the testimony of a specialist like Professor Genchi. Or else Signorina Fumai does have problems of a psychiatric nature. In which case these problems – to refer to them in deliberately reductive terms – should be brought up, so that we may assess how they affect her ability to testify, and more generally, the reliability of her testimony. And in any case, Your Honour, with the aim of avoiding any further squabbles and kneejerk objections, I am able, as of now, to produce photocopies of the plaintiff’s medical and psychiatric records.”
Delissanti picked up a sky-blue folder and waved it vaguely in the judge’s direction. One of his two trainees leaped to his feet, took the folder and placed it on the judge’s bench.
At that point I stood up and asked to be allowed to speak. “Keep it short,” Caldarola admonished me: he was starting to get impatient.
“Just a few words, Your Honour.” I heard myself speaking and my voice was tense. “First of all, we would like to know how counsel for the defence came into possession of these photocopies. Or rather, we would first like to exami
ne these photocopies, since Avvocato Delissanti has not had the courtesy to place them at the disposal of either the public prosecutor or myself. As should have been dictated by the rules of courtesy, even before the rules of procedure.”
Delissanti, who had only just sat down on a chair that barely contained his huge backside, stood up again with surprising agility. His face and neck turned very red. The redness made a strange contrast with the white collar of his shirt, which held his brutal neck like a vice, a neck almost twice the size of mine. He yelled that he would not take lessons in procedure, let alone in courtesy, from anyone. He yelled other things, offensive things I assume, but I didn’t hear them because I too raised my voice, and it didn’t take long for the hearing to be transformed into what’s known as an unholy row.
It sometimes happens. The so-called halls of justice are rarely a place for gentlemanly debates. Not the ones I’ve been in, anyway. And not Caldarola’s courtroom that morning.
The outcome was as bad as it could be. At least for me. The judge said he was forbidding me to speak. I said I would like parity of treatment with counsel for the defence. He cautioned me not to make offensive insinuations and repeated – “for the last time” – that he was forbidding me to speak. I didn’t stop speaking, I didn’t calm down, and I didn’t lower my voice. I knew I was screwing up. But I couldn’t stop. Just like when I was a little child, playing football in the school championship, I’d respond to the stupidest provocations, get into fights, and be regularly sent off.
The outcome was more or less the same as in those football matches. The judge called a five-minute recess. When he came back in, he didn’t look very friendly. To keep to the rules, he consented to Alessandra and myself consulting Dellisanti’s file. It was a copy of the medical records from a private nursing home in the north, where Martina had spent a few weeks.
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