Castroni tried to object, but didn’t sound very convincing. Even he was starting to realize that something was wrong – very wrong – in this affair. “First of all, this is an inadmissible line of questioning. Questions should be about facts, not speculation. Secondly, I’d like to know how counsel for the defence comes to be in possession of this information.”
Basile looked at him and turned towards me. He didn’t say anything. Castroni’s objection made sense, but it was obvious that the witness would have to answer the question anyway.
“Your Honour, the defence has conducted investigations, strictly according to our legal prerogatives. The ways in which we have used the results of these investigations are fully compatible with the defence’s powers of discretion. I reserve the right to provide documentation, where necessary, at the end of the cross-examination. May I proceed?”
“You may, Avvocato, but try to make it clear where you’re going with this.”
“It will all become clear very soon, Your Honour. Signora, I repeat: that phone call from Signor Bronzino’s mobile to the Hotel Royal coincides with your partner’s stay in Milan, in that very hotel. If you’ll forgive a direct question, could it be that you were the person who made that call?”
The pause that followed was a really long one.
“All right, then, let’s go on to something else. Was your relationship with your partner happy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you agree about things, or did you quarrel? Did you quarrel often, or just occasionally? Did you have problems?”
“The same as any couple.”
“Did your partner ever hit you?”
I noticed that she was holding the hem of her skirt between the fingers of her left hand and crumpling it convulsively. “Just the occasional slap.”
“Did you ever lodge a complaint following these occasional slaps?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
The judge got in ahead of me and in a sharp tone ordered her to answer.
She seemed to shrink, and I felt sorry for her. “Once I went to the carabinieri, but then I withdrew everything.”
“Can you tell us what you told the carabinieri?”
“That there’d been a quarrel.”
“Did you say that you’d been hit?”
“Yes, but I withdrew—”
“You withdrew everything, yes. What else did you tell the carabinieri?”
“I just wanted him to stop.”
The way she said that made me think of a landslide. No, that’s not right, it made me think of the word landslide. The fragile structure of her testimony, which had held up because nobody up until then had asked her to account for it, was collapsing beneath her like loose earth or clay.
“To stop what?”
“His fits of jealousy. Sometimes he hit me even when I hadn’t done anything.”
“Why did you withdraw everything?”
“He said he would change.”
“And did he?”
“In a way…”
“After the dropping of the complaint, after you withdrew everything, were there other acts of violence?”
She didn’t reply. She was staring into space now, her face very pale, her lips dry and colourless.
“Signora, I’m sorry to insist, but were there other acts of violence?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever need medical attention?”
“Maybe a couple of times.”
“Did you go to accident and emergency?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell the doctors there that your injuries were caused by your partner?”
She shook her head.
“Your Honour, can it be entered in the record that the witness shook her head to indicate no?”
Basile gestured to the stenographer, meaning that she could write what I had asked.
“Would it be correct to say that you were afraid of your partner?”
“Objection, Your Honour,” Castroni said, leaping to his feet. “The witness is being asked for a personal opinion.”
“Objection sustained. Avvocato, let’s try and get to the point.”
“Signora, you said you met Bronzino outside your office building, where he was waiting for you, and that you accepted a lift home in his car. Can you tell us what time you left the office?”
“The usual time.”
“And what time might that be?”
“Five.”
“And you found the defendant waiting for you outside your office building?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honour, I have to challenge the witness on the statements she made at the time she lodged her complaint.”
“Go ahead, Avvocato.”
“When you were questioned by the carabinieri the morning after, you stated: ‘I left the office at six and met Antonio Bronzino, who had been pursuing me for some time and was obviously waiting for me.’ You told the carabinieri six, now you’re saying five. Which is the correct time?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember. If I said six, it must have been six.”
“But when did you usually leave your office?”
“At five.”
“At five. In that case, how did the defendant know that on that particular day you would be leaving at six?”
She was about to reply instinctively, but must have realized the trap concealed in the question. “Maybe I got it wrong. I probably did leave at five.”
“You probably did leave at five. I still have here the records of Signor Bronzino’s mobile phone. That day there was a thirty-three-second call at 5.18. The other number must have been yours, Signora. If you like, I can show you the records.”
She moved her hand in a sign of denial, but it looked more like a gesture of self-defence.
“I point this out because if you met soon after five, it’s hard to figure out why Bronzino should have called you on his mobile at 5.18.”
It wasn’t a real question, it was an explanation of what was happening, intended for the judges.
“Was your partner away on business that day, by any chance?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I put it to you that you had an appointment with Signor Bronzino that day. In other words, that meeting wasn’t a chance one at all.”
“No, I—”
“I put it to you that your partner was due to be away that day, and that when you got home fairly late that evening, you discovered that he hadn’t left.”
She didn’t say anything. It was time to bring this to an end. I turned to the judge.
“Your Honour, if it can be entered in the record that the witness hasn’t answered the last two questions, I’ve finished.”
The judge was just doing as I had asked when the woman spoke again, without warning. Her voice was thin, diaphanous, seeming to come from somewhere else. It was as if her face had dried up in the course of the half-hour she had been in the witness box, as if the skin had stuck to the bones. Occasionally, as if in some terrible time machine, her face looked like an old woman’s.
“I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
Startled by the sound of her voice, the judge broke off, looked at her and asked her if she wanted to add anything. He, too, without realizing it, lowered his voice. But she didn’t say anything else. She was looking somewhere else, outside that courtroom.
3
The judge told Di Cosmo that she could go. He said it in a tone that was meant to be stern, but he couldn’t quite manage it. The sense of unease, of defeat that she conveyed had prevailed over his indignation. I turned to watch her while Basile was saying that we would adjourn for fifteen minutes. It’s something I usually avoid: watching the actors of the drama (or the comedy) as they leave the stage. I was just in time to see her leave the courtroom, as silent and insubstantial as a ghost.
It was only then that I noticed Annapaola in the public seats. The investigation we had relied on for the cross-examination of t
he witness was hers. Most private detectives are men: retired former police officers or carabinieri. Usually somewhat elderly gentlemen.
Annapaola Doria doesn’t correspond to the stereotype. Firstly, she isn’t a man, and secondly, she isn’t elderly. She’s thirty-seven years old, and has a face like a rebellious schoolgirl, which makes her look younger. Above all, she isn’t an ex-cop. She used to be a freelance crime reporter. A very good one, maybe even too good. She managed to gather information where others had to give up, even though it has to be said that she wasn’t too bothered about journalistic ethics or the criminal code. I had defended her in a number of trials, some for libel and one actually for receiving stolen goods. The Prosecutor’s Department had charged her with obtaining copies of documents relating to a pending criminal case that was still confidential, documents stolen – by persons unknown, as they say – from the clerk of the court’s office, the said clerk having left it unattended because of a sudden urgent need for a cappuccino and a croissant.
According to the Prosecutor’s Department, receiving three copies of improperly obtained documents was equivalent to buying a stolen TV set or jewellery taken in a robbery, and had therefore to be punished with a prison sentence of between two and eight years. A somewhat singular theory, which the judge did not share. Annapaola was acquitted, and I earned myself a few paragraphs in the papers.
Soon after that trial and that acquittal, Annapaola disappeared. For months, almost a year, there was no sign of her in the courthouse or at police headquarters. When she reappeared she was equipped with a new haircut, an expression that was both harder and more fragile, and a private detective’s licence. The first time I needed an investigation to be carried out for a case of mine, I turned to her. The work was rapid and impeccable, even though it wasn’t clear where and how (and breaking what rules, or even what locks) she had got hold of her information.
It had been Annapaola who had got me the data on Di Cosmo’s partner’s stays in Milan; how, I didn’t want to know.
When our eyes met, she made me a sign and, as the judges went back into their chambers, she stood up, came towards me and embraced us in turn, first Consuelo, then me.
“Excellent work. If I hadn’t felt sorry for the stupid girl, I might even have enjoyed it.”
“You did excellent work, we just used it,” I replied.
“Okay, let’s stop right there before things get really treacly. That should be the end of the case, shouldn’t it?”
“I think so. We just have to see if they deal with it today or decide on yet another postponement.”
“I think the judge will deal with it today,” Consuelo said. “He seemed almost embarrassed at the end of the cross-examination. I got the impression he wanted to get it all out of the way as soon as possible.”
That was probably true, I thought.
We decided to go for a coffee. I even invited the prosecutor but he said no thanks, he’d rather use that time to look at his other briefs. He seemed on the verge of adding something, maybe a comment on what had just happened, then changed his mind.
Out of the four cafés in the vicinity of the courthouse, we chose the one where the coffee most resembles medicine that’s past its expiry date. They manage to make it weak and burnt at the same time, which takes a certain talent. But the barista weighs 260 pounds, and can lift as much again in the gym, so nobody complains.
Consuelo said it was on her, because this was her first and probably also last trial for sexual assault, at least as defence counsel. My colleague doesn’t exactly look at cases dispassionately. If she doesn’t like the client, if the offence he’s charged with strikes her as horrible, and if it isn’t clear that the person is innocent, she has no desire to take on his defence. Let’s just say that a practice following her criteria for taking on clients might find it hard to survive.
When we were back outside again, Annapaola quickly rolled herself a cigarette and we set off again, walking past the cemetery opposite the courthouse. Some winter evenings, when the hearings go on until it’s dark, it’s comforting to leave the courthouse and find yourself facing a myriad of grave lights. “In case you’d forgotten,” they appear to say, although almost everyone – lawyers, police officers, clerks of the court and judges – has got used to it. The lights, the cypresses and the niches have become part of the landscape.
We passed a small group of carabinieri. Annapaola stopped to hug a couple of them with a warmth reserved for former comrades in arms. As so often before, I noticed the masculine way she moved and related to the outside world.
We went back into court. A few minutes later, the judges emerged from their chambers and the hearing resumed.
“First of all, I ask defence counsel if they wish to examine the defendant.”
“No, Your Honour. The statements made by the defendant under questioning and already admitted in evidence appear more than sufficient following the outcome of the cross-examination of the injured party.”
“Then if there are no further observations or motions, we declare that the testimony contained in the case file is admissible, including that made before the previous judges. Therefore at this point—”
“Your Honour, I’m sorry, I have a motion,” Castroni said.
Basile looked at him for several seconds without saying anything. Not only had he not appreciated the interruption, he could also imagine the reason and didn’t like it.
“He’s asking for a postponement,” I whispered to Consuelo. “If there’s an acquittal he wants the other bastard to get it in the neck.”
“Go on, prosecutor,” the judge at last conceded, although his tone was far from cordial.
“I ask for a postponement in order to have a chance to examine the results of today’s hearing, which has… well, which has contained a few surprises. Considering today’s developments, it may be appropriate that the conclusions should be drawn by the prosecutor whose case this originally was because—”
“Prosecutor, in the first place don’t force me to remind you that your office is impersonal. In the second place, I don’t see any reason to grant a postponement. The trial has been going on for too long; the defendant was actually arrested at the time of the events and is entitled to a verdict within a reasonable length of time. You have been present at a crucial stage in the proceedings and are best qualified to draw the right conclusions from them. If you need half an hour to reread the documents, to think about them and then make your decision, I would have no objection to that.”
Castroni was about to reply. Then it must have struck him that it wasn’t a good idea. Mechanically, he leafed through the file he had in front of him, but without looking at the papers. Equally mechanically, he adjusted his robe over his shoulders and made his closing speech. It didn’t take long.
“Your Honour, the evidence against the defendant, which at the time of his arrest, and to tell the truth up until today, has appeared solid, seems less so now. On cross-examination, the injured party has highlighted contradictions and hesitations. It does not seem to the prosecution that it is possible to reach a guilty verdict in the light of these contradictions. The evidence is ambiguous and, in a way, tainted, and therefore we have no option but to ask for an acquittal in accordance with article 530, paragraph 2 of the code of criminal procedure on the grounds of insufficient evidence to support the prosecution case.”
The judge nodded and turned to Consuelo and me. “I don’t want in any way to limit the prerogatives of the defence, but” – he clearly articulated the words that followed – “I ask you to take the prosecutor’s motion into account. The court will appreciate a brief summing up, entrusted if possible to only one of the defenders.”
The translation of that phrase was as follows: We will acquit him, don’t make us waste any time, and let’s all go home as soon as possible. Don’t get on my nerves. I exchanged a rapid glance with Consuelo and stood up.
“Thank you, Your Honour, it is always a pleasure to hear your instructions.
I will therefore conclude equally on behalf of my colleague, Avvocato Favia. The prosecutor’s request for acquittal is the correct one, even though maybe a little timid. In his closing remarks, he did indeed speak of tainted and contradictory evidence, which ought to result in an acquittal according to article 530, paragraph 2: what used to be called acquittal due to insufficient evidence. While it will make no difference in practical terms – the defendant will have to be acquitted and his unfortunate experience of our courts brought to an end – I believe that what happened in today’s hearing requires the final ruling to be all the more explicit and well argued. I maintain that the law owes it to the defendant, as a kind of moral compensation.”
I had my eye on them. According to my calculations, I had between five and ten minutes to say a few things before Basile lost patience.
“It is not enough to say that the evidence in this trial is contradictory and insufficient, as the prosecutor has just done. No, the evidence is consistent and more than sufficient to prove the defendant’s innocence. His innocence emerges in the light of the injured party’s embarrassing testimony. It emerged clearly, as it did in the defendant’s statements when he was first questioned, that the two of them had a relationship following their encounter at the famous party. They would meet whenever Di Cosmo’s partner was away on business. The call from Bronzino’s mobile phone to the hotel where the witness’s partner was staying demonstrates that. Given that Bronzino had no reason to call that hotel, let alone the man, we may easily infer that the call was made by Di Cosmo, using the defendant’s phone, when the two of them were together. It seems a minor detail, but in fact it is the key point in demonstrating, as I said, a pre-established relationship, one that was never admitted by the witness.”
I know a pre-established relationship is a horrible expression. Many of those we lawyers use are. I try to limit myself, but often it’s inevitable. There are judges – or colleagues – with whom you can’t avoid speaking in a horrible way. If you speak in correct Italian when addressing the court, they don’t recognize you as a member of the profession. You lack credibility. Legal jargon is the foreign language they – we – learn at university in order to become part of the team. It is a language which is all the more appreciated, the more capable it is of excluding those outside the profession from understanding what is happening in courtrooms and what is written in legal documents. A language that’s both priestly and ragged, in which mysterious and ridiculous formulas are accompanied by systematic violations of grammar and syntax.
A Fine Line Page 3
