Reasonable Doubts (15 page)

The young Guerrieri said he would have defended the prisoner for free, without payment in kind, and someone told him he was an idiot and would sing a different tune if something like that ever happened.

Whoever said that was right.

And then I thought of Macrì, and the idea that had come to me the night before. On how I could use the information Colaianni had passed on to me to help Paolicelli out of the mess he was in. Gradually, with my mind going back and forth like a ping-pong ball between these two thoughts - what a shit I was, and what to do with my honourable colleague
Macrì to save my oblivious client Paolicelli - the professional side gained the upper hand.

My idea was to call him as a witness.

It was a crazy idea, because you don’t call a lawyer as a witness for the defence. Apart from the fact that there could be an objection on the grounds of lawyer-client confidentiality, calling a lawyer is something that just isn’t done, and that’s it.

I’d never actually seen it done. I didn’t even know if having previously been the defendant’s counsel constituted a formal impediment to being a witness - what they called a conflict of interest.

So first of all I took a look at the code. It turned out there was no
a priori
conflict of interest. It could be done, theoretically anyway.

It was the kind of situation in which you really need a second opinion. Not for the first time, I realized I didn’t have a single colleague I could turn to. I didn’t trust many of them, and none of them were really my friends. For something like this, I needed a friend who knew what he was talking about. And could keep his mouth shut.

I could only think of two people. Curiously, both were prosecutors. Colaianni and Alessandra Mantovani.

I didn’t really want to call Colaianni again, but it struck me that this was a good opportunity to talk to Alessandra again after all this time. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since she’d left Bari to work in the Prosecutor’s Department in Palermo. She’d been escaping from something, like many people. Only she had done it more decisively than most.

She answered after a lot of rings, just when I was about ready to hang up. We exchanged a few jokes, the kind you tell to re-establish contact, to revive the old familiarity.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Guerrieri. I sometimes think you and I should have got together. Things might have gone better for me. Instead, the only men I meet are losers, which starts to be a bit of problem when you’re already forty.”

I am a loser. I’m a bigger loser than any of the men you go out with. I’m also an idiot and if you knew what I did last night you’d agree with me.

I didn’t say that. I said we still had time, if she really liked lawyers with a dubious past and an uncertain future. I’d go to Palermo, she could dismiss her police escort, and we’d see how it worked out.

She laughed. Then she repeated that it was nice to hear from me, and maybe it was time to tell her the reason I was calling. I told her. She listened carefully, stopping me only to ask if I could clarify a few points. When I’d finished, I asked her what she thought of my idea.

“It’s true that in theory a defence counsel’s testimony is admissible. In practice, I very much doubt they’ll allow you to call him unless you can give them a good reason-a
very
good reason - to do so. And your suspicions aren’t a very good reason.”

“I know, that’s my problem in a nutshell. I need to find a way to get that testimony admitted.”

“You need to put the defendant on the stand first, and his wife. Let them tell the story of how this lawyer came to be involved. Then you can try, though I wouldn’t bet on the result. Appeal court judges don’t like to go to too much trouble.”

“Let’s suppose they admit the testimony. In your opinion, can he refuse to answer on the grounds of lawyer-client confidentiality?”

She thought for a few moments before replying. “In
my opinion, no. Lawyer-client confidentiality is there to safeguard the interests of the client. He could claim it if he thought his testimony would be prejudicial to his former client. When you put it like that ... I don’t know if there are any precedents.”

“Of course, I could get my client to state that he releases his former counsel from the obligation to observe lawyer-client confidentiality.”

“Yes. That should clinch it. But if I were you I’d read up on this thoroughly and buy a bulletproof vest before I started down this track.”

By the time the call was over, I felt better than I had a few minutes earlier, and my idea seemed a lot less ridiculous.

24

In the afternoon I cycled over to the prison. I had to make a real effort, because the idea of seeing Paolicelli, less than a day after what had happened, didn’t do much to increase my self-esteem.

But I had to go, because my plan of action was a risky one. And he was the person who’d be taking most of the risks. So I had to explain everything to him, make sure he understood, ask him if he wanted us to try that strategy.

As he entered the interview room, a few scattered images from the previous night suddenly sprang into my head, but fortunately it was only for a moment. When we started talking the images vanished.

I explained to him what the idea was. I told him it was worth a try, but he shouldn’t be under any illusions: it was unlikely that the judges would admit Macrì’s testimony, and even if they did, it was very unlikely that it would make much difference to the outcome. But in the situation we were in, it was the only alternative to plea-bargaining - although the option of plea-bargaining should be kept open until the day of the hearing.

He made a simple gesture with his hand, as if swatting away a midge or moving a small object. No plea-bargaining, it meant.

I liked that gesture. I liked the dignity of it. I felt an odd kind of solidarity with him.

Maybe it was my way of processing my sense of guilt. I’m going to end up liking the guy, I thought. And that really would be too much.

So I went on explaining to him how we could proceed, how we could try to play the few cards we had in our hands.

“This would be the sequence: first I ask to examine you, then your wife. The judges will allow that, there shouldn’t be any problems. You state that you know nothing about the drugs. It’s true that you admitted responsibility when you were arrested, but only because you wanted to keep your wife out of it. You suggest a hypothesis on how the cocaine came to be in your car. Then I ask you about your lawyer and you tell us how that relationship started. Your wife tells us the same story, from her point of view.”

I looked him in the eyes. He sustained my gaze, with an interrogative undertone in his. What did my look mean? I told him what it meant.

“Obviously this is a dangerous game we’d be playing. We’re on a knife-edge. The only way it has any chance of working is if you’ve told me the whole truth. If you haven’t, then both you and I are running very serious risks. In court and especially outside court, remembering the kind of people we’re probably dealing with.”

“I’ve told you the truth. The drugs weren’t mine. I did some stupid things in the past, but those drugs weren’t mine.”

What
stupid things? The question flashed for a moment in my head and then disappeared, as quickly as it had come, to give way to the same feeling I’d had a little earlier. A liking for him that I didn’t want to feel, but which was seeping in like smoke through the cracks in my conscience.

OK. Better to go on.

“I’ll have to question you about what you and this lawyer
talked about. In particular, and this is the most important thing, I’ll have to ask you if you ever asked him to account for his being there.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

“I’ll ask you this: when you met Avvocato Macrì, either the first time or any of the subsequent times, did you ask him who had suggested him to your wife? Do you understand why I have to ask that?”

“Yes, yes. I do now.”

“In fact, while we’re at it, answer the question now. That way we can start to memorize it.”

He concentrated, touching his chin. The room was silent and I could hear the noise of his fingers rubbing his stubble the wrong way.

“I think it was the second time we met. The first time was just after my arrest, I hadn’t seen my wife yet and so she hadn’t told me how she’d been advised to appoint him. And anyway I was still in shock, I wasn’t thinking clearly. After the custody order was confirmed, I had my first visit from my wife and she told me about the man who’d stopped her in the street. So when Macrì came to visit me again, a few days later, I asked him if he knew who had suggested his name to my wife.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said there was no need to worry about that. He said there were people who wanted to take care of me and they would see to everything. He meant his fee. And it was true, we didn’t pay anything. A few times I tried to ask him when I had to pay, and how much, and he always told me not to worry.”

“Obviously he never told you, or gave you any hint, who these people were?”

“Obviously not.”

“All right. Then you’ll have to tell me about the other conversations you had with him, especially the one where you quarrelled. I need you to remember as many details as you can. They’ll help to make what you say more credible. Keep a notebook in your cell and write down everything you remember. Even if it’s something insignificant. All right?”

The interview was over. We called the guards, who took him back to the bowels of the prison. As I walked back through gates and locks and reinforced doors towards the outside world, I was in a contradictory state of mind.

On the one hand, I still felt like a bastard. But we’re all good at finding excuses, ways of justifying our actions.

So I told myself, all right, I’d made a mistake, but in the overall balance sheet we were more or less equal. Maybe I was even in credit. I might save this man’s life. What other lawyer would have done what I was doing for him?

Getting on my bicycle, I wondered if Natsu would pick me up from my office again, or if she would call me.

Of if I would have the guts to call her.

25

There followed a succession of strange days. Even the texture of them was strange. Packed, and at the same time suspended, as if time had stood still.

Every now and again I would think about Margherita. Sometimes I wondered what she was doing. If she was seeing anyone, if she would ever come back. My thoughts stopped at that point. I never wondered what would happen if she came back. Whenever I thought she was going out with someone I would feel a twinge of jealousy, but it didn’t last long. Sometimes, in the evening, I would get the desire to call her, but I never did.

We had talked over the phone during the first months she was away. They had not been long calls and gradually, spontaneously, they had stopped after the Christmas holidays. She had stayed there, over those holidays, and I had thought that must mean something. Congratulations, Guerrieri, good thinking.

I hadn’t wanted to think about it any more than that.

Little by little, I had taken all my things out of her apartment. Every time I went there I felt as if I was being watched, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. So I took what I needed and got out of there as quickly as I could.

In the evening, after work, I’d go to the gym, or else do a bit of training at home. Then I’d have dinner and start reading or listening to music.

I didn’t watch television any more. Not that I’d ever watched it much, but now I just didn’t put it on at all. I could have sold the TV set and I’d never have noticed the difference.

I would read for a straight two hours, and make notes on what I was reading. I’d started to do it after the night I’d gone to Natsu’s apartment and after reading the book on the manumission of words, with the idea that maybe, further down the line, I could try to write. Maybe.

When I finished reading and taking notes I sometimes went to bed, and fell asleep immediately.

At other times - when I felt sure I wouldn’t get to sleep - I’d go out for a walk and a drink. I went to places where no one knew me and avoided those I’d been to with Margherita. Like the Magazzini d’Oltremare, where I might meet someone who asked me what I was doing, where I’d been all this time, why Margherita wasn’t with me, and so on.

Sometimes I’d meet people and spend a few hours listening to strangers telling their stories. I was in a strange place, an unknown area of my consciousness. A black-and-white film, with a dramatic, melancholy soundtrack, in which ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ by Green Day stood out. I often listened to that song, and it echoed almost obsessively in my head during my nocturnal walks.

Once, in a little bar in the old city, I met a girl named Lara. She was twenty-five, short, with a pretty, irregular face, and insolent, occasionally restless eyes. She was doing a research doctorate in German literature, she spoke four languages, her boyfriend had just left her, and she was getting drunk, determinedly, methodically, downing straight vodkas one after another. She told me about her boyfriend, herself, her childhood, her mother’s death. The atmosphere in the bar was slightly unreal. There weren’t many people, the few
there were were talking almost in whispers, the stereo was playing Dvořák’s
New World
Symphony at low volume, and there was a slight smell of cinnamon in the air, though I had no idea where it was coming from.

After a while, Lara asked me to take her home. I said OK and paid the bill: one vodka for me, five for her. We walked through the city to her place, which was in Madonnella.

Madonnella is a strange neighbourhood. There are beautiful houses there and horrible municipal housing blocks, millionaires’ residences and shacks inhabited by pushers and other members of the underclass, all cheek by jowl. In some parts of Madonnella you have the impression you’re somewhere else entirely.