“Do you know who this Mafioso is?”
“A man named Capodacqua.”
“Never heard of him. But I don’t do organized crime, I don’t take that kind of client as a rule, so the fact that I’ve never heard of him doesn’t mean anything. Is he somebody important?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and as he did so a grimace of disgust – of which he probably wasn’t aware – drew back his lips and crinkled his nostrils. The expression of someone who has suddenly become aware of a bad smell.
“I don’t know much about criminal hierarchies. The police and the Prosecutor’s Department say he’s a very big fish. I think he’s just a dealer who’s gone up in the world.”
“Did you handle his case?”
“A couple of years ago.”
“What was the outcome?”
“Two separate sentences for drugs offences. In both cases the sentences were upheld.”
“Fine. That means he didn’t get any favourable treatment. So maybe he has it in for you. What could this man have said to the prosecutor? And who’s the examining magistrate who’s questioning him?”
Larocca passed a hand over his forehead, as if to wipe away sweat, even though there wasn’t any. A mechanical gesture, or maybe a metaphorical one. He glanced at the empty glass, thought about it for a few moments, then must have decided that it was better to stop.
“Berardi and Padula are questioning him. So you can already see how objective they are.”
Filippo Berardi and Daniela Padula were assistant prosecutors working for the regional anti-Mafia directorate. They had the reputation of being good, competent people and, a year earlier, had been involved in an argument about how easy it was to be released by the court of appeal. In other words, Pierluigi Larocca’s division. It was understandable that he didn’t care for them.
“What could this Capodacqua have said?”
“My friend didn’t see the transcript. As I told you, he just received a few tip-offs from this person, a female trainee he’s having a relationship with. I’m not sure if she read the transcript because she was authorized to do so or if she glanced over it when she shouldn’t. Anyway, what she told him – and what he then told me – is simple: Capodacqua claims that Judge Larocca took money to have someone released.”
“Do you know when these statements were made?”
“It must have been a few months ago.”
“Is the fact that this Capodacqua is cooperating well known? Do you know if his statements – not those concerning you, obviously – have been used to apply for custody orders or cited in any trials?”
“I don’t know.”
“So the idea that a case is already pending against you in Lecce is only your conjecture?”
“Yes, but a very reasonable one. When a judge is accused of an offence, the information is passed on immediately. Not to do so exposes those involved to the risk of disciplinary procedures.”
We sat there in silence for a long time. I was thinking about what he had told me, trying to figure out a possible course of action. The only thing that occurred to me was to petition the Prosecutor’s Department in Lecce to be informed of the possible existence of the proceedings, although there was no guarantee I’d get an answer I could use.
“How long have you known?” I asked at last.
“A week. And for a week I haven’t slept, I’ve barely even been alive.”
“It’s an unpleasant situation, but I wouldn’t overdramatize it, because—”
He interrupted me almost angrily. As if he’d been expecting me to say something like that in order to come out with what was really eating him up inside. “Guido, I don’t trust my colleagues, especially not those in the Prosecutor’s Department. The way I’ve presided over the years hasn’t endeared me to them. They like judges who agree with them, more or less. They don’t like anyone who follows the rules too strictly. It’s always been like that. I’ve always been afraid they’d find some willing ex-Mafioso to help them teach me a lesson. To make me pay for all the times I’ve acquitted someone, quite rightly, all the times I’ve demolished their absurd theories based on flimsy evidence. It’s an idea that’s obsessed me for years, since before I began presiding over the appeal court.”
“But I don’t think that—”
“Please let me finish. Let’s be clear about this, I’m not saying it’s an accusation made up out of thin air. That would be too banal. The likeliest scenario I can imagine – the one that emerges from reading the statements of lots of criminals who’ve turned state’s evidence, and from an analysis of the modus operandi of those in the Prosecutor’s Department – is more complicated than that.”
It struck me that he had used the term modus operandi to talk about the work of the Prosecutor’s Department. Modus operandi is the expression usually used in police and criminological contexts to indicate the operating style and characteristic features of a criminal or category of criminals. I don’t know if he’d done it consciously, but he couldn’t have chosen a more effective way of expressing his own contempt.
“One of these criminals decides to cooperate, usually because his is a hopeless case and he’s likely to receive a heavy sentence, or because some of his former friends have decided to kill him. The prosecutor and the police who interrogate him ask him what kind of things he’s able to tell them, given that, as you know, the possibility of gaining an advantage from cooperating really depends on the nature of the information he can supply, especially on whether it’s something they haven’t heard too much before. And among the most sought-after information is anything that implicates politicians, public officials, administrators, police officers, carabinieri, and – last but by no means least – criminal court judges. Anyone looking to cooperate knows perfectly well that the degree of consideration he’ll get from the investigators, his importance, and therefore the likelihood of his having benefits and the power to cut deals increase if he talks about things like votes for favours, fiddled contracts, and corrupt policemen and judges. But he often doesn’t know anything – or at least nothing specific – because these things, assuming they happen, even here, are known only by the bigwigs, the criminal bosses. So although he has nothing concrete to say about these subjects, but is being – how shall I put it? – urged to talk about them, he digs into his memory, and if he digs deep enough, he’s bound to come up with something. Even if it’s just some wretched piece of gossip he heard in prison. Or maybe the result of influence peddling on the part of some crooked colleague of yours.
“So he says that Judge So-and-So is corrupt because his cellmate or his lawyer told him. The prosecutor nods – it’s just what he wanted to hear – and the criminal realizes he’s on the right track. When he’s questioned again and asked to go further into the subject, which his interrogators – the investigators on whom his future depends – obviously consider important, he tries to remember more, embellishes it, and adds a few speculations of his own, passing them off as actual knowledge. They end up with a flimsy but credible accusation, which they have to investigate in order to find corroborating evidence. Investigating and finding corroborating evidence takes time. I’ll be caught up in this business for God knows how long and with my reputation soiled forever. Because even when the case is closed – with either a dismissal or an acquittal – everyone will remember that I was the judge accused of releasing prisoners in return for money.
“Among other things, the position of president of the court falls vacant in the next few months. As you can imagine, I stand a good chance of getting it. Or maybe I should say: I would have stood a good chance. With this thing pending, unless we deal with it very soon, my chances are close to zero.”
Again that uncontrolled grimace of disgust.
It was my turn to pour myself some more wine, after refilling his glass.
“What would you do?” he asked as he drank.
“We could present a motion in accordance with article 335 and see what they reply. Just a try, obviou
sly.”
According to article 335 of the code of criminal procedure, anyone who supposes he is being investigated can present a motion to the prosecutor asking if his name appears on the register of those under investigation. The prosecutor is obliged to divulge the information unless the investigation is in any way confidential, in which case he can take advantage of this confidentiality for three months.
Larocca shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. I think if we present a motion, all we’ll do is put them on the alert. They’re bound to claim confidentiality, and for at least three months I’ll be sat here stewing, wondering what nasty surprise they might have in store for me. It’d drive me mad.”
“An alternative would be to take it as read that the process is under way – we don’t have to indicate any source – and ask for you to be examined.”
I had barely finished speaking before he had already started shaking his head again.
“You’re not convinced by that either.”
He didn’t reply immediately. He pushed back his smooth, thin brown hair, which was falling over his forehead, breathed in greedily, almost violently, as if suddenly hungry for air, then put his hands together. “I heard about that remarkable cross-examination of yours in the second division court, when you demonstrated that the charge was a slander. My colleague Basile says you must have carried out a very thorough investigation. He doesn’t see how you could have gathered certain information without help from the police.”
“Oh yes, it was a trial for sexual assault. A case that should never have come to court. The investigation was a good one, I agree.”
“I don’t want to ask you anything that will interfere with professional confidentiality, but I imagine you must have used a private detective.” He let a few seconds go by before continuing: “Or else you have some… useful contacts?”
“I know a very good private detective. She’s the only one I trust. And I think she has… useful contacts, as you put it. Including among the police.”
“Is she an ex-policewoman?”
“No. She’s not your average detective. She used to be a journalist. You may remember her, she was always hanging around the courthouse years ago, as a crime reporter: Annapaola Doria.”
“Doria, of course I remember her. Pretty face, good figure. Now that you mention it, it’s true, I haven’t seen her around for a while. Why on earth would a journalist become a private detective?”
“I tried asking her once, and I soon realized it was best to drop the subject.”
“But you say she’s good?”
“Very good. She gets results others don’t even dream about.”
“What would you say if I asked you to carry out a preemptive investigation, using this woman, to find out more about what’s going on before we take any formal steps with the Prosecutor’s Department in Lecce?”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t have any specific ideas. Anything we manage to find out – about the Mafioso and about the case they’re building – will help us to decide what to do next. I know several people in the police. In theory, I could ask any of them, but I don’t think they can be trusted any more about these things. It’s a tricky business. You talk to someone you consider a friend, and the first thing he might do is write a duty report and take it to the Prosecutor’s Department. Better to strangle it at birth, don’t you think?”
Strangle it at birth. The expression bothered me. I had to make an effort to suppress my disquiet and say, all right, I’d talk to Annapaola and ask her if she was in a position to carry out that kind of investigation. I wasn’t sure it was possible, I wasn’t sure what she’d reply, but I’d try.
“To be on the safe side, I’d like to formalize this, if you have no objection.”
“Of course not.”
“Then I’ll immediately prepare a proxy document giving me authority to carry out investigations – I’ll make it general, without going into details – and you can sign it now. That way you won’t need to come back here. I’ll call Annapaola tomorrow.”
“Don’t discuss it with her on the phone.”
“Don’t worry.”
Ten minutes later, I was walking Larocca to the door. On the threshold he hesitated for a moment.
“Guido…”
“Go on.”
“I want to be treated like any other client. You’ll incur expenses with your detective. Can I pay you an advance? I insist on it. If you can tell me how much—”
“You will be treated like my other clients. But right now, it’s after eleven and I think it’ll be a bit difficult for me to take the money and write you a receipt. For the moment, it’s time to go home.”
8
The next morning was full of things to do at the courthouse, the kind I hate. Engaging an expert for a pretrial hearing; examination of an individual in the police cells; hearings related to building violations. As far as possible, when there are tasks of this kind I delegate Consuelo and Maria Teresa, my other colleague, or, for simpler things, one of the trainees. That morning, however, there were too many things to do. We all went to the courthouse together at nine and got back to the office around lunchtime.
“Who drank a whole bottle of wine?” Maria Teresa asked, a few moments after going into the kitchen to make herself a salad.
“A client. A new one. We drank the bottle between us, talking about his case. I’ll tell you about it later. I didn’t take any girls to the sleeping quarters, I swear.”
Maria Teresa rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.
“I can’t find Annapaola Doria’s phone number,” I said, dismissing the subject of my nocturnal drinking bouts in the office with my clients. “Can you get it for me, please?”
“Do you want me to call her for you?”
“No thanks. I’ll do it.”
Annapaola answered at the second ring. “Guido Guerrieri!”
“Am I disturbing you? Is this a bad time?”
“On the contrary. At moments like this, it’s great to get a phone call.”
“What you mean by moments like this?”
“I’ve been stuck in a van for the past two hours, glued to a pair of binoculars and a camera with a telephoto lens. My only company is a flask of water and mineral salts. I thought it’d be better than grappa in the circumstances.”
“So maybe you can’t talk?”
“Yes, I can. I’m a hundred metres from the target. I can talk and watch. Especially as I have to be here for quite a while. Dammit.”
“The target?”
“I’m waiting for a guy to come out of a place where he shouldn’t be. One of those cases that puts food on my table, even though they aren’t really my passion.”
“Marital infidelity.”
“Technically, no. Not until there’s a law on gay marriage.”
It took me a couple of seconds to get my head round this. “They even ask you to investigate infidelity in homosexual couples?”
“Much more than you might imagine.”
“Why? It can’t be used in court.”
“Even hetero couples often don’t know what to do with these investigations, legally speaking. You know as well as I do they can only be used to reduce the amount of alimony in a divorce settlement. They want proof their suspicions are correct, they want photos, they want things they already know to be confirmed. They want to feed their resentment. It’s just another form of masochism. Then, of course, they throw the photos in their partner’s face or throw them out of the house or walk out themselves, it all depends. An expensive and rather crazy kind of satisfaction. But it’s fortunate for me, because at least fifty per cent of my income comes from crap like this.”
There were a few moments’ silence. I was thinking about what she had said, while she was catching her breath.
“Sorry to go on like that, but I was about to go out of my head. The guy still hasn’t come out and I’d like to be somewhere else. A long way away. But I assume you wanted t
o tell me something, you didn’t call to give me moral support.”
“I need to talk to you about a possible assignment. It’s a rather delicate matter. When can we meet?”
“Are you in the office in the afternoon?”
“I’ve been in the office in the afternoon for over twenty years.”
“Excellent. Then you won’t mind waiting for me. I don’t know what time I’ll be free, it depends on this bastard. As soon as I’m done, I’ll go home, take a shower, and come to see you. If you’re busy with clients, I’ll wait. That’s what I’m best at, after all.”
“Waiting?”
“Waiting. Bye, Avvocato, I’ll see you later.”
The job must have lasted quite a while because it was after seven by the time Annapaola got to the office. She wore faded jeans and a black leather jacket, and was carrying a menacing-looking wraparound black helmet.
“How did the surveillance go?”
“I took at least a hundred photos, then a really long shower. Sometimes I wonder why it’s so hard for me to find an honest job.”
“But you enjoy it, don’t you?”
“I did at first, but I get bored easily. What did you want to talk to me about?”
I told her about the case. She sat motionless in the armchair, listening attentively without so much as a nod, until I had finished.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’d like me to make some enquiries, ask a few questions, talk to—”
“I don’t want to know who you talk to, assuming you’re able to talk to someone, and also assuming you accept the assignment.”
“Okay. You want me to ask someone you don’t want to know the name of if there are proceedings pending at the Prosecutor’s Department in Lecce against Judge Pierluigi Larocca for the offence of corruption, if they originated in the statements of an ex-Mafioso named Capodacqua who’s cooperating with the law, and… what else? It’s okay to smoke in here, isn’t it?”
“Sure. It reminds me of the good old days when I used to smoke. This office has never had the privilege of being immersed in the bluish smoke that hovers in the light of evening. I quit some time ago, when I was still in the old place.”
A Fine Line Page 6
