Reasonable Doubts (24 page)

“Yes, I know him. He’s a client of mine.”

“Do you mean you’ve defended him in court?”

“I think so.”

“You think so? In which court?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where was the trial? Reggio Calabria, Rome, Bari, Bolzano?”

“I really don’t remember ... And anyway, what has Romanazzi got to do with any of this?”

This was a tricky moment. If Mirenghi intervened now and asked me to explain, then in all likelihood everything would go pear-shaped.

“So you don’t recall where it was. Are you sure you defended him in court, or is it possible you merely gave him legal advice on some matter?”

“That’s possible.”

“I see.”

“But I repeat, I’d like to know what Romanazzi has to do with any of this. Apart from anything else, you’re asking me
questions about my relationship with a client, and I have no intention of answering such questions.”

I was about to reply but Mirenghi beat me to it. A few moments earlier, I’d seen Russo whisper something in his ear.

“In point of fact, Avvocato Macrì, it isn’t the same thing at all. In this particular case, you are being asked whether or not you know a certain person and under what circumstances. You are not being asked to report anything relating to your professional relationship. There are no grounds for lawyer-client confidentiality. Please answer the question.”

“It’s possible it wasn’t in court.”

“You advised him, then?”

“Yes.”

“When you still worked in Reggio Calabria?”

“No. I’m sure it was later, in Rome.”

“I see. I assume the two of you met in your office.”

He made a movement with his head. It could mean yes, but I wanted it to be in the transcript. In the course of a few minutes, Macrì’s mood had changed a lot. His troubles weren’t over yet. On the contrary.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Is it correct to say that you and Signor Romanazzi met only in your office, and only for professional reasons?”

“I can’t say for certain that we never bumped into each other outside my office ...”

“Naturally. Is it correct to say, though, that the relationship between you and Romanazzi was strictly professional?”

And now there were other emotions on his face besides hatred. Including the beginnings of fear. He didn’t answer the question, but I didn’t mind.

“Could you tell us if Signor Romanazzi has a criminal record?”

“I don’t believe he has.”

“You don’t know if he has ever been charged with cross-border drug trafficking?”

I’d have liked to be able to read his mind, to see what was happening in his head. What frantic acrobatics he was doing to decide how to conduct himself, to figure out what he could deny and what he was obliged to say in order not to run the risk of being proved wrong.

“I think he has been charged with narcotics offences, but has never been sentenced.”

His upper lip was covered in small beads of sweat. He was feeling hounded.

“Now I’d like to ask you if you are aware of the fact that Signor Romanazzi was on board the same ferry on which the defendant Paolicelli travelled before he was arrested.”

How the hell did I know that?

“I know absolutely nothing about it.”

“I see. Have you ever had occasion to spend time with Signor Romanazzi outside your professional relationship? For, shall we say, private reasons?”

“No.”

I took a deep breath, before landing the next blow. Always breathe in before hitting hard, and out again once the punch has hit the target.

“Have you and Signor Romanazzi ever travelled together?”

The blow hit him in the solar plexus and took his breath away.

“Travelled together?”

Answering a question with another question is an absolutely
foolproof indicator of a witness being in trouble. It means he’s trying to gain time.

“Yes, travelled together.”

“I don’t think—”

“Have you ever been in Bari with Signor Romanazzi?”

“In Bari?”

Another counter-question, to gain time. Weren’t you supposed to be destroying me, you son of a bitch?

“Have you ever stayed at the Hotel Lighthouse with your
client
Luca Romanazzi?”

“I’ve been in Bari several times, not just when I was defending Paolicelli, and I think I may have stayed at the hotel you mentioned. But not with Romanazzi.”

As he finished answering, the raincoat slipped from his arm and fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up and I noticed that his movements weren’t as agile as before.

“You know we can easily check the hotel register and find out if your
client
, Signor Romanazzi, spent the night in that hotel at the same time you were there.”

“You can check whatever you like. I don’t know if Romanazzi was in the hotel when I was there, but we didn’t go there together.”

He didn’t even believe it himself. He was like one of those boxers who keep raising their arms mechanically, driven by nothing but instinct. They’re no longer parrying, they’re taking punches all over, and they’re on the verge of going down.

“Would it surprise you to learn that, not just on one, but on two occasions, you and Signor Romanazzi spent the same night in the same hotel, the Lighthouse?”

“Your Honour” - he had raised his voice, but it wasn’t very firm - “I don’t know what Avvocato Guerrieri is talking
about. I’d really like to know where he got this information from, if it was acquired legally and—”

I interrupted him. “Your Honour, I don’t have to tell the court that the defence is allowed to carry out investigations. And this
is
material covered by lawyer-client confidentiality. In any case, to avoid any misunderstandings, the question now is not:
How did Avvocato Guerrieri come by this information?
The question is:
Is this information true or not?”

I looked Mirenghi in the face, waiting to continue.

“Go on, Avvocato Guerrieri.”

“Thank you, Your Honour. So, to sum up: you deny coming to Bari with Signor Romanazzi on two occasions and spending the night, on both occasions, at the Hotel Lighthouse.”

“It could have been a coincidence—”

“It could have been a coincidence that on two occasions when you came to Bari and spent the night at the Lighthouse, Signor Romanazzi was also staying there.”

It must have sounded ridiculous even to him, hearing it said aloud like that. So he didn’t say anything, just held his hands open.

“And can you confirm to us that you didn’t know Signor Romanazzi was on board the ferry on which the defendant Paolicelli travelled before he was arrested?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“So you don’t know that Signor Romanazzi, on returning from Montenegro, spent the night in Bari, once again - as chance would have it - at the Hotel Lighthouse?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I let his last words hang in the air. As if I had been about to ask another question. I kept him dangling for a few seconds, expecting another blow. I savoured the moment, all by
myself. Because I knew that the fight was over, but I was the only person in the courtroom who did.

I’ll destroy you.

Just try.

I wondered if Natsu was still in the courtroom and had seen it all. I suddenly remembered her perfume and her smooth skin, and it made me feel dizzy.

“Thank you, Your Honour. I have no other questions.”

Mirenghi asked the prosecutor if he had any questions for the witness. He said no, thank you, he didn’t have any.

“You may go, Avvocato Macrì.”

Macrì stood up, said goodbye, and walked out without looking at me. Without looking at anyone.

The atmosphere in the courtroom was electric. There was an energy in the air that you sometimes feel when a hearing comes off its pre-ordained rails and travels to unexpected places. It only happens every now and again, and when it does everyone notices.

Even Russo had noticed, maybe even the assistant prosecutor.

“Are there any other requests, before we declare the hearing closed?”

I got slowly to my feet. “Yes, Your Honour. Following the examination of the witness Macrì, I wish to request that certain documents be admitted in evidence. For reasons I don’t think it is necessary to explain, I ask for the admission of Luca Romanazzi’s police file, a copy of the passenger list from the ferry on which my client Fabio Paolicelli travelled, and a copy of the register of the Hotel Lighthouse for the years 2002 and 2003.”

Mirenghi exchanged a few words with the other two judges. He was speaking under his breath, but I could hear him
asking the other two if they should retire to their chamber to come to a decision about my request. I didn’t hear what the others said, but they didn’t retire. Instead, he dictated a brief ruling in which he accepted my requests and adjourned the hearing for another week, to allow time for those documents to be obtained and for closing arguments to be prepared.

44

That week passed very quickly. Before I knew it, it was nearly over.

The day before the hearing, as I was looking through the papers and trying to jot down an outline of what I was going to say in my closing argument, a strange, incongruous thought came into my head. I had the idea that time was a spring inside me that had been squeezed as far as it would go and was now at last to be released. And it would project me somewhere unknown.

I wondered what this image that had appeared so suddenly, so mysteriously and so vividly in my head could possibly mean, and couldn’t find an answer.

At eight o’clock that evening Natsu came to the office. Just a flying visit to say hello and to find out how my preparations for next day were going, she said.

“You look tired. Worn out.”

“Do you mean I’m less handsome than usual?”

A not very good attempt to be witty.

“You’re even more handsome this way,” she replied, seriously. She was about to add something else but then decided it was better not to. “Do you still have a lot of work to do?”

“Yes, I do. We’re on a knife-edge. There are several arguments I could use, and the problem is to select the right ones. The ones that will sway the judges. In an appeal like this it’s not at all clear what those arguments are.”

“What are the possibilities of an acquittal?”

Ah, yes, that was just the question I needed, with my closing argument still to be written, and these incomprehensible, slightly unsettling images popping into my head.

There are cases in which you know for certain that the client will be found guilty, and your work is just a question of damage limitation. There are others in which you know for certain that he will be acquitted however good or bad your work was, and would be acquitted even if he didn’t have a lawyer at all. In these cases your job is to make the client believe that acquittal depends on your amazing skills, in order to justify your fee.

In all other cases it’s better, much better, not to risk making predictions.

“It’s hard to say. The odds certainly aren’t on our side.”

“Sixty to forty against? Seventy to thirty?”

Let’s say ninety to ten. Being optimistic.

“Yes, I’d say seventy to thirty is a realistic forecast.”

Maybe she believed me, maybe she didn’t. From her face there was no way of knowing.

“May I smoke?”

“Go ahead. But on your way out, tell Maria Teresa it was you. Because of the smell, you know. Ever since I quit, she’s been checking up on me like a Salvation Army officer.”

She gave a hint of a smile, then lit her cigarette and smoked half of it before she spoke again.

“I often find myself thinking how things might have been for the two of us. If circumstances had been different.”

I said nothing, tried to keep my face as expressionless as possible. I don’t know if I succeeded, but it was a pointless effort anyway, because she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking somewhere inside herself, and outside that room.

“And I often think of that night when you came home with me. When Midori had nightmares and you held her hand. It’s strange, you know. When I think of you, that’s what I remember most of all. Much more than the times we were together, at your place.”

Great. Thanks for telling me that. It does wonders for my male pride.

I didn’t say that.

I told her that I often thought of that night, too, but that the other thing I particularly remembered was that Sunday morning in the park. She nodded, as if I had told her something she already knew. Something that neither of us could add anything to.

“I have to ask you another question, Guido, and you must tell me the truth.”

I told her to go ahead and ask me the question, thinking as I did so how relative the truth is.

“Is Fabio innocent? Forget about the appeal hearing, the papers, your investigations, your line of defence. I want to know if you’re convinced of his innocence. I want to know if he’s been telling me the truth.”

No, you can’t ask me that. I can’t answer that question. I don’t know. He’s probably been telling the truth, but I can’t completely rule out the possibility that he was in league with Romanazzi, Macrì and God knows who else in the drugs racket. I can’t even rule out the possibility that your husband did even worse things than that, a long time ago when he was a young Fascist.

I should have answered her like that. I should have told her it wasn’t part of my job as a lawyer to find out if a client is telling the truth. But there were other things I’d done that weren’t part of my job as a lawyer either.

“He’s been telling you the truth.”

At that precise moment, I saw our paths, which had touched for that brief time, separate and go off in different directions, getting further and further away from each other. A few minutes passed, and neither of us said a word. Maybe she too had had a vision similar to mine, or perhaps she was only thinking about the answer I had given her.