CB19 A Question of Belief (2010) (21 page)

The air was motionless, as were the people who leaned back against the walls or sat in the corridor. All of the chairs were taken; some people had turned their briefcases into chairs or hassocks and sat on them; one man perched on a pile of string-bound legal files. The doors to the offices were all open to allow air to circulate, and occasionally people emerged from them and made their slow way down the crowded hallway, stepping over feet and legs, moving around slumped bodies as best they could.

At the far end they found
aula
17 D. Here, as well, the door stood open, and people moved in and out at will. Brunetti stopped a clerk he recognized and asked him where
Avvocato Penzo was: his case was being argued now, the clerk said, then added, ‘against Manfredi’, a lawyer known to Brunetti. They walked inside, and in the same instant both of them removed their jackets. Not to do so was to risk their health.

At the far end of the room, the judge sat on a dais that was itself set on a raised platform. He wore his cap and robe, and Brunetti was amazed that he could endure it. He had once been told that, during the summer, some judges chose to wear nothing but their underwear under the gowns: today he believed it. The windows to the canal were open, and the few people in the room all sat in the chairs nearest to them, except for the lawyers, who stood or sat facing the judge; they too were dressed in their formal black robes. One woman lawyer sat at the end of the row of chairs farthest from the windows with her head fallen against the back of the chair. Even from a distance, Brunetti could see that her hair looked as though she had just stepped from the shower. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open: she could as easily have been unconscious as asleep, overcome by the heat as dead.

Like magnets to a file, he and Vianello moved towards the windows and found two empty chairs. There was some sort of sound system in the room, and there were microphones in front of the judge and on the lawyers’ tables, but there was something wrong with the connection, for the voices that emerged from the two speakers set high on the walls were distorted to incomprehensibility by static. The court stenographer sat just beneath the judge: she was either able to understand through the noise or close enough to the voices to hear them. She typed away at her machine as though she were on some other, cooler, planet.

Brunetti watched, familiar with the scene and the actors in it. He told himself he was on a plane and this was another scene to observe without headphones. He watched the theatrical tossing back of the sleeve of a gown, the wide arc of
an arm as the speaker hammered home a conclusive argument, or chased away a fly. The other lawyer splashed a look of astonishment across his face; the first lawyer shot his hands up in the air, as if incapable of finding a better way to express his disbelief. Brunetti let himself wonder if the judges ever tuned out the sound and simply observed the gestures, if they learned to discern the truth or falsity of what was being said by the gestures that accompanied the unheeded words. Further, in a city this small, each of those lawyers had a reputation according to which his honesty could be calibrated, and so perhaps all an experienced judge needed to do was read the name of the accusing and defending lawyers to know where truth lay.

After all, much of what was being said was lies, or at least evasions and interpretations. The business of the law was not the discovery of the truth, anyway, but the imposition of the power of the state upon its citizens.

Brunetti’s eyes returned to the woman lawyer, who had not moved, and then the heat overcame them, and they closed. A nudge from his left startled him awake. He looked at Vianello, who turned his eyes in the direction of the judge’s table.

Two gowned figures approached the judge, who leaned forward and said a few words which did not come through, in however distorted a fashion, the loudspeakers. As if wanting to cooperate with Brunetti’s conceit that this was all a mime, the judge tapped the face of his watch. The two lawyers spoke simultaneously; the judge shook his head. He reached to the left and gathered up some papers, stood, and walked from the courtroom, leaving the lawyers in front of the dais.

They turned to face one another and spoke briefly. One opened a case file and showed the other a paper. The second lawyer took it and read it, both of them undisturbed by the sound of chairs being pushed back as the spectators got to
their feet and started to file out of the courtroom. Brunetti and Vianello also stood, the better to let people move past them, then sat again when their row was empty.

The second lawyer moistened his lips, then raised his eyebrows in a gesture of reluctant acceptance. He took the paper and went back to where his client was sitting. He placed the paper on the desk in front of the man and pointed to it. The other man placed a finger on the paper and moved it back and forth along the lines, as if expecting his finger to transmit the text to him. At a certain point, his finger gave up and his hand fell flat on the surface of the sheet covering – accidentally or intentionally – the text that he had just read.

He looked at his lawyer and shook his head. The lawyer spoke, and the man glanced away. Time passed, the lawyer said something else as he grabbed up the paper and took it back to his colleague. He handed him the now-wrinkled sheet of paper, and the two lawyers turned and left the room, leaving the second lawyer’s client sitting alone at the table.

Brunetti and Vianello got to their feet and moved towards the door. ‘The loser was Manfredi,’ said Brunetti, ‘so that means Penzo won.’

‘I wonder what was on the paper,’ Vianello said.

‘Manfredi’s as crooked as they come,’ Brunetti said in a voice heavy with long experience, ‘so it was probably something that proved he or his client has been lying.’

‘And Penzo can prove it.’

‘One would like to think,’ said Brunetti, reluctant to believe in the integrity of a lawyer until he had had direct experience of the person. ‘Let’s talk to him.’ They found the lawyer at the end of the corridor, where he stood looking out of a window, his robe tossed on the windowsill, his arms lifted from his body in what Brunetti was sure was a vain attempt to find relief from the heat. Seeing Penzo from the back, Brunetti was struck by how thin the man was: hips no wider than a boy’s, his shirt puffed in damp, empty folds from shoulder to waist.

‘Avvocato Penzo?’ Brunetti said.

Penzo turned, a look of mild inquiry on his face. Like his body, his face was narrow, an effect created by the hollows under his cheekbones, which in turn made his nose, quite a normal nose, seem disproportionately large. His eyes were the colour of milk chocolate and were encircled by the sort of small wrinkles that come from years of squinting into the sun.

‘
Sì
?’ he inquired, glancing from Brunetti to Vianello and back again, recognizing them immediately as policemen. ‘What is it?’ the lawyer asked politely, and Brunetti liked that he did not make a joke about their being policemen, as many people would.

As if he had not noticed Penzo’s expression, Brunetti said, ‘I’m Commissario Guido Brunetti, and this is Ispettore Lorenzo Vianello.’

Penzo turned, retrieved his robe from the windowsill, and draped it over his arm. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked.

‘We’d like to talk to you about a client of yours,’ Brunetti said.

‘Of course. Where shall we do it?’ Penzo asked, glancing around the corridor. It was no longer crowded now, during lunchtime, but there were still people walking by now and again.

‘We could go to Do Mori and have a drink,’ Brunetti suggested. Vianello breathed an audible sigh of relief, and Penzo smiled in agreement.

‘Could you give me five minutes to get rid of this,’ Penzo said, raising the arm that held the robe, ‘and I’ll meet you at the entrance?’

It was agreed and Brunetti and Vianello turned away towards the stairs.

As they walked down, Brunetti asked, ‘Who do you think he’s calling?’

‘His wife, probably, to say he’ll be late for lunch,’ Vianello said, declaring his partisanship for the lawyer.

Neither of them spoke again until they stood outside. The sun had blasted all life from Campo San Giacometto. The florist’s and the two stands that sold dried fruit were closed; even the water trickling from the fountain looked beaten down by the heat. Only the stall that huddled under the protection of the long arcade was open.

Brunetti and Vianello stepped into the shadow of the arcade and waited. Penzo arrived quickly, carrying a briefcase.

‘What did you show your colleague, Avvocato?’ Vianello asked, then excused himself for his curiosity.

Penzo laughed out loud, an infectious sound. ‘His client was claiming damages for whiplash he says he experienced in a road accident. My client was driving the other car. My colleague’s client claimed he was incapacitated for months and couldn’t work and because of that lost the chance of promotion at his job.’

Curious now, Brunetti asked, ‘How much was he claiming?’

‘Sixteen thousand Euros.’

‘How long was he out of work?’

‘Four months.’

‘What did he do?’ Vianello interrupted.

‘Excuse me?’ Penzo asked.

‘What sort of work did he do?’

‘A cook.’

‘Four thousand a month,’ Vianello said appreciatively. ‘Not bad.’

The three men had begun walking towards Do Mori, automatically turning right and left and right again. Outside, Penzo halted, as if he wanted to conclude this part of their conversation before they went inside, and said, ‘But his union saw that he was paid while he was out. This was damages for pain and suffering.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. Payment every week for pain and
suffering. Far better than working. ‘What did you show him?’

‘A statement from two cooks who worked in a restaurant in Mira who said the man had worked with them for three of the four months he was claiming compensation.’

‘How’d you find out?’ Vianello asked impulsively, even though he knew this was something lawyers were always unwilling to divulge.

‘His wife,’ Penzo said with another loud laugh. ‘She was separated from him at the time – they’re divorced now – and he started being late with the child support. He used the accident as an excuse, but she knew him well enough to be suspicious, and so she had him followed when he went out to Mira. When she found out he was working there, she told me about it, and I went and spoke to the other cooks, got their statements.’

‘If I might ask, Avvocato,’ Brunetti began, ‘how long ago did this happen?’

‘Eight years,’ Penzo answered in a cool voice, and none of them, each well versed in the workings of the law, found this in any way unusual.

‘So he loses sixteen thousand Euros?’ Vianello asked.

‘He doesn’t lose anything, Ispettore,’ Penzo corrected him. ‘He simply doesn’t get the money he doesn’t deserve.’

‘And still has to pay his lawyer,’ Brunetti observed.

‘Yes, that’s a lovely touch,’ Penzo allowed himself to comment. That topic resolved, he waved them through the double doors that stood ajar and waited while Brunetti and Vianello went in ahead of him.

Some of the same people Brunetti had seen in the courtroom stood in front of the counter, wineglass in one hand,
tramezzino
in the other. A steady current of relatively cool air flowed from the open doors at both ends of the narrow bar: it was a relief to step inside, and not only because of the abundance of wonderful things on display in front of them. What kept Sergio and Bambola at the bar near the Questura from imitating what was on offer here? The
tramezzini
they made seemed, in contrast to these, pale representatives of the species. Looking at Vianello, Brunetti asked, ‘Why couldn’t the Questura be closer to here?’

‘Because then you’d eat
tramezzini
every day, and never go home for lunch,’ Vianello said and ordered a plate of artichoke hearts and bottoms, some fried olives, shrimp, and calamari, explaining, ‘It’s for all of us.’ He also asked for an artichoke and ham
tramezzino
and a shrimp and tomato; Penzo chose bresaola and ruccola, Speck and Gorgonzola, and Speck and mushroom; Brunetti practised moderation and asked for bresaola and artichoke and Speck and mushrooms.

They all chose Pinot Grigio, and large glasses of mineral water. They carried the glasses and plates to the small counter behind them, set them out, and handed round the sandwiches. When each had eaten his first
tramezzino
, Vianello raised his glass; the others joined him.

Penzo stuck a toothpick into one of the fried olives, bit off half of it, and asked, ‘What client is it you want to ask me about?’

Before Brunetti could answer, a man passing by patted Penzo on the back and said, ‘They feeding you or arresting you, Renato?’ but it was said, and taken, as a joke, and Penzo returned his attention to finishing his olive. He tossed the toothpick on to the plate and picked up his wine.

‘Zinka,’ Brunetti said. He was about to explain how it was that he came to be curious about the woman when the flash of pain that shot across Penzo’s face stopped him. The lawyer closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them again and took a sip of wine.

He set his glass down, picked up his second sandwich and turned to Brunetti. ‘Zinka?’ he inquired, voice light. ‘Why would you be interested in her?’

Brunetti drank some of his water and reached for his second sandwich, as casually as if he had not noticed Penzo’s reaction. ‘We’re not really interested in her but in something she said.’

‘Really? What?’ Penzo asked in a voice he had mastered and that sounded entirely calm. He raised the sandwich to his lips but set it back on the plate untasted.

Vianello glanced across at Brunetti and raised his eyebrows as he finished his glass of wine. ‘Anyone want another?’ he asked.

Brunetti nodded; Penzo said no.

Vianello went over to the bar. Brunetti put down his empty glass and said, ‘She mentioned an argument her employer had had with one of his neighbours.’

Penzo looked at his sandwich and, keeping his eyes lowered, asked politely, ‘Ah, did she?’

‘With Araldo Fontana,’ Brunetti said. By now, Penzo should have glanced up or looked at him, but he continued to study his sandwich, as though it, and not Brunetti, were speaking to him. ‘And she said that Signor Fontana also had an argument with the man on the top floor.’ Brunetti let some time pass and then said, ‘Since the ground floor’s empty, one could say that Signor Fontana argued with everyone in the building.’