Reasonable Doubts gg-3

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  “How’s it going, Guerrieri? Everything OK?”

  I said yes, thanks, everything was fine. As I said this I rummaged in my briefcase, pretending to be busy. It was a vain attempt: Castellano didn’t even notice. He started telling me that he had a case being heard this morning involving two old clients of his who had been given four years each for a series of bag snatches. He asked me if I knew who the judges were going to be. If they were good he’d go ahead with the appeal, if not he would plea-bargain. I told him who the judges were and he thought about it for a moment, then said it wasn’t worth taking a risk with them. He would plea-bargain, that way he’d get it over with quickly. And what did I have on for this morning?

  Oh, a drug trafficker? How much had he got at his trial? Sixteen years? Fuck, what had he done to get sixteen years? Who the fuck was he, the head of the Medellin cartel? Anyway, who the fuck cares who these bastards are as long as they pay?

  Having exhausted the topic of our respective cases, Castellano changed the subject. “Guerrieri, you know I’ve got a broadband connection in my office now? It’s incredible, you can even download films.”

  I was pretty sure I knew what kind of films Castellano downloaded.

  “Yesterday I downloaded this porn movie you wouldn’t believe. Then a client came in and while he was talking I was watching the film. With the sound off, obviously.”

  Then he explained in detail, in case I wasn’t a man of the world, the use he made of these films, when there was no one around to piss him off, in the office or at home. And the ideal thing was a laptop, you could even have it with you when you were in bed, I don’t know if I’m making myself clear.

  I’ll be good, I said in my head. If someone or something arrives right now to save me from this pervert, I swear I’ll be good. I’ll eat my spinach, I won’t say bad words, I won’t let off stink bombs in the catechism class any more.

  This time my wish was granted. His mobile phone rang and he moved away to answer it.

  A couple of minutes later – it was now ten – the assistant prosecutor entered the courtroom.

  Montaruli. He was good. Before being transferred to the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, he’d been a front-line assistant prosecutor for many years, responsible for the arrest and conviction of hundreds of common criminals and white-collar thieves. Some of them had been my clients.

  It wasn’t a job you could do for too long. Everyone has a breaking point, when you realize you’ve had enough. It had happened to him, too, and so, having passed fifty, he had decided to have an easier life in the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions. An office where – how shall I put this? – no one kills themselves with work.

  I stood up to say hello.

  “Good morning, Consigliere.”

  “Good morning, Avvocato. How are you?”

  “Very well. It’s my client who’s in a bit of trouble.”

  “Which is your case?”

  “Paolicelli. The drugs from Montenegro.”

  The face he made spoke volumes. Yes, my client was definitely in trouble, it meant. We were going to plea-bargain, obviously. No? Now he was starting to look at me with a certain curiosity. What on earth was I planning to do with an open-and-shut case like that? After a moment’s hesitation, I told him – omitting a few details – what I was thinking of doing. I told him that Paolicelli claimed he was innocent and had been framed, and that I believed him and wanted to try to get him acquitted.

  He listened to me politely, and didn’t say anything until I’d finished.

  “If your client is telling the truth, then he’s really in a tough spot. And I wouldn’t like to be in his lawyer’s shoes.”

  I was about to reply that I wouldn’t like to be in his lawyer’s shoes either, when the hum of the courtroom was interrupted by the sound of the bell. The judges were coming in.

  30

  The three judges entered after having the bell rung a second time. It wasn’t what you’d call a band of youngsters. The youngest – Girardi – was over sixty, and the presiding judge – Mirenghi – was just over a year away from retirement.

  The third one – Russo – would normally fall asleep a few minutes after the beginning of a hearing and would wake up when it was time to go. He was quite well known for this, and didn’t rank very high in my personal league table of judges.

  As far as I was concerned, these three were neither good nor bad. Basically, they liked an easy life, but there were worse appeal court judges. Better ones, too, to tell the truth, but I really couldn’t complain.

  They quickly got through the cases that had to be adjourned, and a couple of cases involving plea-bargaining, including that of my colleague Castellano. Then Mirenghi asked the clerk of the court if the escort had arrived from the prison with the defendant Paolicelli. The clerk of the court said yes, they had arrived and were waiting in the holding cells.

  The holding cells are located in the basement of the courthouse.

  Every time I hear them mentioned, I recall the only time I’ve ever been in them. A client of mine had asked to speak to me urgently before the hearing started. The prosecutor had authorized me to go down with the escort and talk to him down there. My client was a robber who had decided to turn State’s evidence, but wanted to talk to me before he took the plunge.

  I remember an abstract, secret world. There was a corridor with a defective neon light that went on and off intermittently. On either side, cells that looked like cages for battery animals. Nightmarish ravines from which a clawed hand might suddenly emerge and grab hold of me. A smell of damp, mildew and oil. Muffled, menacing noises. Filthy, peeling walls. A feeling that the normal rules didn’t apply down here. That there were other rules, unknown and disturbing.

  It struck me that we were only a few yards from the so-called normal world, and I wondered how many other terrifying secret worlds like this one I had come close to in my life.

  It wasn’t a pleasant sensation and I didn’t feel better until I was back in the familiar shabbiness of the courtroom.

  The guards led Paolicelli to his cage and, once he was inside, took off his handcuffs through the bars. I went up to him to say hello, and as I shook his hand I asked him, as was customary, if we were still agreed about our strategy. Yes, he said, we were agreed. Mirenghi said we could start, I returned to my place, put on my robe, and just before the opening formalities got going I thought of Natsu and her little girl and the walk in the park. And what had happened after that.

  Judge Mirenghi read out the preliminary report. It didn’t take more than five minutes. Then he turned to me and the assistant prosecutor and asked if by any chance there were any requests for plea-bargaining.

  Montaruli opened his hands a little and shook his head. I stood up, adjusting my robe on my shoulders.

  “No, Your Honour. We have no requests for plea-bargaining. I do however have a request for new testimony to be considered.”

  Mirenghi frowned. Girardi looked up from the file he was examining. Russo was looking for the best position in which to doze off and gave no indication that he had heard anything.

  “Signor Paolicelli, in accordance with a questionable strategy on the part of his counsel, declined to testify during his original trial. We consider now that this was an erroneous choice. We consider that it is vital for the court to hear the defendant’s own story, both as regards the events which form the basis of the charges against him and those which took place subsequently. From the same perspective, and with the same aim, we also request that testimony be heard from Paolicelli’s wife, Signora Natsu Kawabata.”

  I paused for a few moments. Mirenghi and Girardi were listening to me. Russo was slowly tilting to one side. Everything was going well, so far.

  “Apart from the request to examine both the defendant and his wife, we also have another request. It is a request I do not make lightly; you will soon understand why. In the last few days my client has revealed to me certain factors pertaining to his rel
ationship with his previous defence counsel, pertaining in particular to the substance of certain conversations with said counsel. According to Signor Paolicelli – as he will of course relate in his testimony – the previous counsel implied to him that he knew the people responsible for the illegal operation for which Paolicelli was first arrested and then sentenced. The significance of such information is obvious, and it will naturally have to be subjected to careful scrutiny as to its reliability. But just as naturally, in order for it to be evaluated, it will have to be elicited from the person directly concerned, that is, Avvocato Macri. I therefore request that Avvocato Macri be called as a witness.

  “Needless to say, these requests for the admission of new testimony were not anticipated when the appeal was originally drawn up, since this was done by the previous counsel, within the framework of a radically different defence strategy. But as the court will be able to ascertain, they clearly fall within the paradigm laid down in Article 603, Paragraph 3, of the code of criminal procedure. And on the basis of the statements which the defendant will make in his examination, you will be able to verify for yourselves the absolute necessity for the admission of Avvocato Macri’s testimony, as requested.”

  It was done. Only after I’d finished speaking, when Mirenghi asked the assistant prosecutor to give his response to my requests, did I become fully aware of what I had set in motion.

  Quite apart from the written rules – those in the code and in the rulings interpreting that code – there are a great many unwritten rules regarding the conduct of court proceedings, and they’re much more strictly obeyed. There’s one that goes something like this: a lawyer doesn’t defend a client by hanging a colleague out to dry. It isn’t done, and that’s it. Anyone who violates this rule usually pays for it, one way or another.

  Or at the very least, someone tries to make him pay.

  Montaruli rose to give his response.

  “Your Honour, this seems to me – at least as far as the request to call the previous counsel as a witness is concerned – a somewhat unusual hypothesis on which to base a request for the admission of new testimony. Quite apart from the question of merit, I think there are several legal obstacles to admission of testimony from the former counsel. I shall briefly list these possible legal obstacles. Firstly, if I have understood correctly, from the sketchy indications provided by Avvocato Guerrieri, there seems to be a suggestion that the previous counsel conducted his defence in order to serve interests other than his client’s. If this is the case, it would be impossible to examine said counsel as a witness since, ultimately, he would be asked to make statements that might incriminate him. Secondly, I think that there would in any case still be a conflict of interest, according to Article 197 of the code of criminal procedure. Finally, and conclusively, I consider that in any case said counsel could invoke lawyer-client confidentiality in accordance with Article 200. For all these reasons I oppose the admission of testimony from Avvocato Macri. I have no objections to the other requests regarding the examination of the defendant and his wife.”

  Mirenghi whispered something in Girardi’s ear. He didn’t even turn to Russo. I got to my feet and asked permission to speak.

  “Your Honour, I’d like to make a few observations on what the assistant prosecutor had just said.”

  “On what in particular, Avvocato Guerrieri?”

  “On the assistant prosecutor’s outline of the presumed inadmissibility of Avvocato Macri’s testimony.”

  “If necessary, you can make these observations at another time. For the moment we agree to the examination of your client and of his wife. We will decide on the other request once these are over.”

  Then, before I could add anything else, he dictated his ruling to the clerk of the court. “Having considered the admissibility of the examination of the defendant and of his wife, and having considered that it is not possible at the present time to come to a decision as to the admissibility of testimony from Avvocato Macri, it being necessary to hear said examination in order to evaluate its bearing on this case, the court admits the examination of the defendant and of his wife, and reserves any possible further decision until it has been completed.”

  All things considered, it was the right thing to do. I would probably have done the same in their place.

  Mirenghi again addressed me. “Avvocato Guerrieri, how long do you think the examination of your client will take? If it is something we can get through in a few minutes, we’ll proceed now. If not, as we have to close today’s session early due to a personal engagement of my own, it would be better to adjourn.”

  “Your Honour, I don’t think it will take long, but I doubt that a few minutes would be enough. It may be better to have a short adjournment.”

  Mirenghi made no comment on this. He put it on record that the next hearing would take place in a week’s time, and then said that there would now be a recess of five minutes.

  I was on my way to tell Paolicelli that things were going more or less as I’d expected, when I saw his eyes moving towards the door of the courtroom. I turned and saw Natsu coming in.

  I found myself blushing, in a way I hadn’t since I was a child. This was the first time, since this whole business had started, that we were all together in the same place. Natsu, her husband and I.

  Paolicelli called me. I hesitated for a few moments, hoping the blushing would disappear or at least fade a little, and then walked to the cage.

  He wanted to say hello to his wife and needed his guards to let her come closer. I asked Montaruli, and he authorized the defendant and his wife to have a brief conversation. As a rule this isn’t done – only a limited number of such conversations are allowed and they can only take place in prison – but in practice prosecutors who aren’t complete bastards bend the rules a little during the pauses between cases.

  Natsu leaned against the cage and he took her hands through the bars. He squeezed them in his, and said something which luckily I couldn’t hear. I felt a twinge of jealousy, and a simultaneous pang of guilt. They were very different but both hurt equally.

  I had to leave the courtroom to overcome the feeling that everyone was looking at my face and could see in it what was happening inside me.

  A few minutes later the escort passed me, taking Paolicelli away in handcuffs. He greeted me with a kind of weak smile and raised his fettered hands.

  31

  The afternoon before the second hearing I went to visit Paolicelli in prison. I told him what would happen the following morning-I would begin with his wife’s testimony and then I would examine him – gave him advice on how to conduct himself in court, and went over the questions I was going to ask him and the answers he should give me.

  It didn’t take very long. We finished in less than half an hour.

  As I was putting my papers in my briefcase, getting ready to leave, Paolicelli asked me if I didn’t mind staying another ten minutes or so for a chat. Those were his exact words: You couldn’t stay another ten minutes or so for a chat?

  I couldn’t help the look of surprise on my face, and obviously he noticed.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous, I don’t know what came over me

  …”

  I interrupted him with an awkward gesture of the hand, as if to tell him he didn’t need to apologize. “It isn’t ridiculous. I know how alone you can feel in prison.”

  He looked me in the eyes, then covered his face with his hands for a few seconds and gave an almost harsh sigh, heavy with suffering but also a kind of relief.

  “Sometimes I think I’m going mad. I think I’ll never get out of here. I’ll never see my little girl again, my wife will meet someone else and make a new life for herself-”

  “I met your daughter. Your wife brought her into the office one evening. She’s really beautiful.”

  I don’t know why I said that. To interrupt what he was saying, I guess, and make my guilt more bearable. Or maybe there was another reason. Whatever it was, the words jus
t came out, and I couldn’t control them.

  I couldn’t control anything in this situation any more.

  He was looking for something to say in reply but couldn’t find it. His lips were tight and he was on the verge of tears. I didn’t look away, as I would have done as a rule. Instead I reached an arm across the table and put my hand on his shoulder. As I did so, I thought about how many times I’d fantasized about getting my hands on him one day.

  None of this makes sense, I thought.

  “How do you spend your time in here?” I asked him.

  He rubbed his eyes and sniffed before replying. “I’m quite lucky. I work in the infirmary, and that helps. Part of the day passes quickly. Then in my free time…”

  As he said this, he became aware of the paradox. Free time. He seemed about to make a joke out of it, but then must have thought it wouldn’t be funny or even original. So he just made a tired gesture and continued talking.

  “… well, anyway, when I’m not working I try to do a little exercise, you know, press-ups, stretching, that kind of thing, and apart from that I read.”

  Right, I thought. That was the only thing missing. A Fascist who reads. Do they have the works of Julius Evola in the prison library? Or maybe highlights from Mein Kampf?

  “What do you read?”

  “Whatever I can find. Right now I’m reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, A Long Road to Freedom. It’s a good title, for someone in my position. Do you like reading, Avvocato?”

  I thought of telling him he didn’t have to keep calling me Avvocato. It was a bit absurd, considering – how shall I put it? – everything there was and had been between us. Only he didn’t know what there was and had been, between all of us. He would probably never know.

  “Yes, I like it a lot.”