Reasonable Doubts (21 page)

“Always on the other side of the street.”

“Yes, I already said that.”

“He never crossed the road and approached any of the children?”

“Not during the week we were watching him. Subsequently, we discovered other evidence—”

“I’m sorry, but for the moment we’re interested in what you saw, or
didn’t
see, during that week. Is there a bar near that school?”

“Yes, a bar called Stella di Mare.”

“During the time that you were watching him, did my client ever go into that bar?”

“Obviously I wasn’t personally on duty all the time, but as far as I remember, I saw him go into that bar a couple of
times. Both times, he stayed there for a few minutes and left just as the children were coming out of school.”

“You do know, Inspector, that my client is a salesman, dealing with foodstuffs and other products for bars.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if the manager of the Stella di Mare is a customer of the defendant?”

“No.”

“Can you rule out the possibility that my client was in the vicinity of the school and the bar for reasons connected with his work, rather than those you have surmised in your report and your testimony?”

He was sure he had landed the killer blow.

“Yes,” Tancredi replied simply.

The lawyer was stunned. He seemed to have been thrown almost physically off balance. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, I can rule it out.”

“Indeed? And why is that?”

“You see, Avvocato, we followed Signor Armenise for several days. We followed him even when he was working, when he went into bars and restaurants for reasons connected with his work. He always had with him a leather briefcase and one of those binders in which you can insert and remove pages. You know, the kind that salesmen use to show the range of their products. On the occasions when we observed him outside the school he never had either his case or his binder with him.”

“I’m sorry, but when Signor Armenise entered the Stella di Mare, were you or any of your subordinates inside the bar, so that you could hear the conversations he had with the manager?”

“No. We were on the other side of the street.”

“So it’s on the basis of mere conjecture that—”

The assistant prosecutor intervened. “Objection, Your Honour. Counsel for the defence cannot make statements that are offensive to the witness.”

The fat man was about to reply but the presiding judge got in first. “Avvocato, please confine yourself to asking questions. Any comments you may wish to make you may leave for your closing argument.”

“Very well, Your Honour. So, is it correct to say that during the week that you were watching Signor Armenise you didn’t gather any evidence to confirm the complaints you’d received?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that was correct. When parents report that someone is molesting their children close to a school, and I then discover that this person is in the habit of standing outside another school when the children are coming out, for me that
is
evidence to confirm the reports. Obviously if, during the course of the investigations, we actually witnessed a sexual assault being committed, as sometimes happens, we would then arrest the person involved. But that’s another matter.”

The fat man tried again to argue that these were personal opinions, but this time there wasn’t even any need for the assistant prosecutor to intervene. The presiding judge asked him, in a not very friendly tone, if he had any other questions relating to the
facts
of the case. If not, the cross-examination could be considered closed. The man stammered inaudibly and sat down. The assistant prosecutor had no more questions for Tancredi, so the judge thanked him and told him he could go.

“Let’s get out of here if we want a coffee,” Tancredi said. So we left the courthouse and set off through the streets of the Libertà. As we walked I told him about the latest developments, especially the phone call from my friendly colleague. Tancredi listened without making any comments, but when I told him that Macrì had threatened me, he gave a quick grimace.

“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked me. We were having coffee in a bar frequented by smugglers, whores, lawyers and policemen.

I didn’t like the question. It seemed like a way of asking me if I was thinking of dropping the case.

I replied that there wasn’t much to think about. If Macrì came to court the day he had been summoned to appear, I would examine him and try to extract some evidence useful to my client. If he didn’t come, I would ask for him to be brought to court by the
carabinieri
, and yes, I knew perfectly well he would go crazy, but I couldn’t do anything about that.

“But you can still give me a hand.”

“You want police protection when the Calabrian Mafia send their hitmen to get you, is that it?”

“Very funny. I need some more information about this Macrì.”

“What kind of information?”

“Something to use when I examine him. Something I can spring on him to try and wrongfoot him. Bear in mind that I’m going into this more or less blind. If he sounds convincing I’ve lost the case.”

Tancredi stopped, lit a cigar, and looked me in the eyes. “Well, you’ve really got nerve, I’ll say that for you.”

I didn’t say anything. I knew he was right.

38

The next day Tancredi stopped by the office.

He came into my room, sat down and looked at me without saying anything.

“Well?”

“I don’t know if you’re lucky, or the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know what accommodation records are?”

“To be honest, no. Should I?”

“They’re the records kept in the databank of the Ministry of the Interior, where all overnight stays in hotels and boarding houses, and all apartment rentals, are registered. I did a search for our friend Macrì, and guess what I found?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Granted that Signor Macrì travels a lot - there are a lot of entries in his name-I found that he’s often stayed at hotels in Bari. Both before and after Paolicelli was arrested. The times after the arrest don’t matter very much. The others are more interesting. And two of these in particular are extremely interesting.”

“Why?”

“Guess who stayed in the same hotel on the same two nights.”

“I’m stupid. Who?”

“Luca Romanazzi. And the same Romanazzi slept in the same hotel the night after Paolicelli was arrested.”

Shit. I didn’t say that, but I made a noise as I thought it. “That
is
interesting.”

“Right. Now, though, you have to find a way to use it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t say a friend of yours, a police inspector, did an unauthorized search in the Ministry of the Interior database on your behalf.”

“Right.”

“Find a way to make him admit it when you question him. Make him think you hired a private detective to look at the hotel registers. Make up any story you like.”

“Thanks, Carmelo.”

He nodded, as if to say, you’re welcome, but I really don’t know how much good this’ll do you. Silently, he placed on the desk the sheets of paper he’d been holding in his hand until then.

“Memorize what’s written here and then throw these papers away. Technically, they’re evidence of an offence.”

39

The afternoon before the hearing in which we were due to hear Macrì’s testimony I didn’t even touch the file. I concentrated on other things entirely. I wrote out an appeal which wasn’t actually due for another week. I made out a few bills for clients who were late paying. I updated some out-of-date files.

Maria Teresa realized that something wasn’t quite right, but was wise enough not to ask any questions. When it was time to close the office and she put her head in to say goodbye, I asked her to order me the usual pizza and beer.

I didn’t get down to work until after nine. That’s typical of me. I’m a specialist in leaving things until the last minute. If a task is difficult, or important, or possibly both, I tend to deal with it only when the water is already up to my neck, or even a little higher.

I reread all the papers in the file. There weren’t many of them. I also reread all my notes. Not many of those either. I started to jot down a series of questions. I wrote about twenty of them, according to the strategy I proposed following, as some of the manuals suggest. But then I felt a fool, and I was sure I would feel a fool reading out those questions when I examined Macrì.

You don’t prepare for a fight, I told myself, by writing out a list of the punches and dodges and moves you’re thinking of making in the ring, from the first bell to the last. It doesn’t work like that. In the boxing ring or in court. Or in life.

As I crumpled up my stupid list of questions and threw it
in the waste-paper basket, I recalled the world heavyweight title fight between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman in Kinshasa in 1974.

The most extraordinary fight in the history of boxing.

In the days before the fight, Foreman had said he would knock Ali out in two or three rounds. He was certainly capable of it. He started the fight punching like a madman. It looked as if this wasn’t going to be a long contest, couldn’t be a long contest. Ali tried to dodge, defended himself, was pushed back onto the ropes, and took a lot of punches to his body, punches as heavy as stones.

Without reacting.

And yet he was talking. No one could hear what he was saying, but it was clear to everyone that in the middle of that torrent of violence unleashed by Foreman, Ali’s lips were moving constantly. He didn’t look like someone who’s taking a lot of punches and losing the game.

Contrary to all the forecasts, Ali didn’t get knocked out in the first rounds, or the later rounds either. Foreman kept on hitting him furiously, but his blows were having less and less effect. Ali continued dodging, defending himself, taking the blows. And talking.

In the middle of the eighth round, with Foreman now breathing from his mouth and having to make an effort to lift his arms after hundreds of ineffectual punches, Ali suddenly came off the ropes and landed an incredible combination of two-handed blows. Foreman went down, and by the time he got up again the fight was over.

I closed the file and put it in my briefcase. Then I looked among my CDs for a Bob Dylan collection I remembered leaving in the office. It was there. And among the songs on it was ‘Hurricane’.

I turned out the light, put on the CD, went and sat down in my swivel chair, my feet crossed on the desk.

I listened to the song three times. Sitting in the half-light, thinking about many things.

Thinking that sometimes I was glad to be a lawyer.

Thinking that sometimes what I did really had something to do with justice. Whatever the word meant.

Then I turned out the light and went home. To sleep, or try to.

40

I was outside the courtroom just before ten. As I approached, I’d felt a slight change of rhythm in my heartbeat and a tingling in my throat. As if my pounding heart was about to trigger a coughing fit. That used to happen to me sometimes when I was at university, in the last days leading up to an important exam.

I looked around for Macrì, even though I had no idea what he looked like. But all the people who were there, outside the courtroom, were people I knew, at least by sight. The usual fauna of lawyers, bailiffs, trainees and secretaries.

On the way to the courthouse I’d had a bet with myself on what would happen. Looking around again just before I entered the courtroom I told myself I had lost. Obviously he hadn’t believed in my threat to have him brought in by the
carabinieri
.

I put my briefcase and robe down on the bench. I hoped I wouldn’t have to have Macrì brought in like that. I wondered who the assistant prosecutor would be for this hearing.

Then, as if someone had called me, I turned to the door of the courtroom and saw Macrì. I don’t know how, but I knew straight away it was him, even though he didn’t correspond at all to the physical stereotype I’d imagined on the way to the courthouse: a man of medium height, slightly overweight, with a dark complexion, very black hair, and maybe a moustache.

Corrado Macrì was fair-haired, taller than me and much more robust. Over six feet tall and weighing at least two hundred and twenty pounds, he looked like someone who doesn’t have an ounce of fat, lives on protein-filled milkshakes and spends a lot of time lifting weights.

He was very well dressed - anthracite-grey suit, regimental tie, raincoat over his arm - and considering his size his clothes must have been made to measure.

He came straight up to me. He had an agile way of walking, like an athlete in good shape.

A disquieting thought quickly crossed my mind. How had he known it was me? Who had told him?