A Fine Line (18 page)

“Please don't ask me if you're talking crap or if I know what you mean.”

“It's just that this conversation is making me a bit nervous.”

“You were telling me about the friend who told you these things.”

“He isn't a friend, he's an informant. Very reliable, but an informant, nothing more.”

“All right, I'm sorry. Your informant told you there was a special relationship between Salvagno and Larocca?”

“Yes.”

“And that there have been other cases where Larocca was paid to give favourable rulings?”

“Yes. In some cases Salvagno appeared for the defence, in others he acted as intermediary. In other words, some selected lawyers turned to Salvagno and he, in return for a kind of commission, handled the contact with Larocca without being named and without appearing in the proceedings. Oh, and it appears that Larocca also acted as their adviser.”

“What do you mean?”

“He suggested to them what to write in their appeals in order to have a greater likelihood of success. And if he wasn't able to guarantee the ruling of the court, for example because there was a risk he might be in a minority, he gave instructions on how to write the appeal to the Supreme Court. In these cases, it seems that he entrusted the writing of the ruling to the most incompetent judge so as to make it flimsier and easier to overturn.”

“How did they pay him?”

“I don't know.”

“Where the hell does he put this money?”

“Nothing came out from the financial investigations, I suppose?”

“No.”

“He must use figureheads or foreign accounts. They can't just search blindly. Without a lead they'll never find it.”

He didn't add anything else. He had said what he had to.

Again, the smell of the sea, even stronger. A lady dressed in black, a clear outline between the white of the stone and the amazing blue of the sky. An outburst of yelling: boys playing football in the little field at the foot of the wall, about ten metres below us. The rough surface of the bench beneath my fingers. The noise of a powerful motorbike accelerating along the seafront. A couple of young men passing with rucksacks on their backs, singing a song I didn't know.

Someone once said that the world is a roaring, buzzing mess, made tolerable only by our ability to ignore almost everything that surrounds us.

“What should I do?” I said.

“I don't know.” Then: “Was I wrong to tell you these things?”

“No. I don't think so.”

24

I was in my office, sitting at the desk, with no desire to work – even less than usual. One of those times when I hope that something will happen, that someone will come and disturb me: a dissatisfied client, the manager of the building, a troublesome colleague.

Nothing.

It took more than an hour of unaccustomed silence for the telephone to ring.

“Hi, I'm outside.”

It was Annapaola. I searched for a witty response and couldn't find one. “Outside my office?”

“Outside your office. If you're not too busy, I'll come up and say hello, and maybe you'll let me read the record of that hearing.”

“Of course, come on up.”

I went to open up for her. Before coming in, she gave me a kiss on the corner of my mouth and I had to make an effort not to turn and check if Pasquale had noticed from his command post. Actually, even if he had noticed, he wouldn't have reacted.

She was very pleased to see me, she said. She must have caught the sun, because she was ruddy, almost tanned, and when she smiled, her very white teeth were even more noticeable; she conveyed a sense of adolescence that was both touching and dangerous.

I was very pleased to see her, too, I said. More than was wise, I thought. To hell with wisdom, I also thought.

I was waiting for a client, but when I'd finished – it wouldn't take long – we could have a chat, maybe go outside for a coffee or a fruit juice. In the meantime, she could read the record of the pretrial hearing.

I told Pasquale to show Signorina Doria into the conference room while I received Signor Oronzo Scardicchio.

This Scardicchio was a builder who specialized in public– private partnerships and financial fraud. His method was simple, not too original but effective – until it had been discovered. He drew up contracts of sale indicating a different and lower price than the one that had been agreed. The buyers paid the regular part by bank transfer or by cheque. The substantial difference – around 40 per cent of the total – they paid in cash, off the books. The money ended up in accounts abroad, transported by Scardicchio and his sons in suitcases, bags and rucksacks. The customs police and the Prosecutor's Department had taken an interest in him and had discovered a total fraud of about twenty million euros. That morning, everything of his that could be seized had been seized – apartments, villas, luxury cars – which was still much less than the amount of tax he had evaded, which in turn was less than he had defrauded over the years.

He felt persecuted by an unjust system, tended to see it in political terms – the judges were communists and things like that: a somewhat overused script, to tell the truth – and demanded justice. I was about to tell him that too pressing a request for justice might turn out to be counterproductive because justice might indeed be done, in the form of a heavy sentence and more seizures. Then I decided that he was in no state to appreciate my subtle sense of humour.

After allowing him to let off steam for a quarter of an hour, I assured him that we would do everything possible, that we would contest the seizure – at that moment, for just a few seconds, the unpleasant thought occurred to me that it might be Larocca's court that would deal with this case – but now I had to say goodbye, he could go to my secretary's office and talk about the advance, and no, thanks, no cash, no, unfortunately I couldn't do a discount without issuing an invoice, yes, I knew that other colleagues of mine didn't kick up all this fuss, but unfortunately, as he had been able to observe, the tax authorities were sharp-eyed and dangerous, in any case I wouldn't be offended if he went to one or other of my aforesaid colleagues who weren't too fussy and weren't averse to cash payments without the pointless formality of invoices, good evening, Signor Scardicchio, see you soon, maybe.

I looked into the conference room where Annapaola was engrossed in her reading. She looked up and smiled at me. Again, those white teeth and those tanned cheekbones and confused images of that night at her house. Oh, I wanted to ask you something: would you mind if we went somewhere now and made love? I mean right now. Wherever you like, maybe not your place, it's a bit far, but my apartment is ten minutes from here. Afterwards, if you like, we can talk. Afterwards.

I didn't say that. I returned the smile and sat down a couple of chairs away from her. The strategy of insecurity.

“You did a good job with Capodacqua,” she said, tapping her fingertips on the sheets of paper she had in front of her. “That prosecutor woman can't have been well pleased.”

I shrugged. I longed to tell her what Tancredi had told me, and was wondering if now was the right time.

“If nothing new happens they'll have to ask for a dismissal.”

I replied with a monosyllable and another shrug of the shoulders.

“If you like, I can also use sign language. What's the matter?”

It took me a few more seconds, but I had decided. Actually, I had decided immediately after finishing talking to Tancredi, but I hadn't known it at the time.

“I saw Carmelo Tancredi two days ago.”

I told her everything. By the end, I felt at least a little bit relieved. The good old therapy of words, in the sense of telling someone what's eating away at you, always works. Letting everything out. A kind of flushing of the emotions. Opening the floodgates, something like that.

When she was sure that I'd finished, she gave a kind of whistle.

“Well, if it's true, it's a bit annoying.”

“A bit annoying strikes me as quite an understatement.”

“Tancredi was right to tell you. He acted as a friend.”

I nodded. “I feel like a shit.”

“That strikes me as rather excessive. Why a shit?”

“Maybe that's not quite right. I can't think of the specific word, but I feel as if I've been made to look a fool.”

“To whom?”

“To myself. Probably to him, too. I've displayed all the most hackneyed prejudices.”

“I don't follow you.”

“You know there are certain kinds of client I don't take on. I don't take people accused of being paedophiles, I don't take Mafiosi, and when it comes to people accused of corruption, embezzlement and similar offences I'm a bit choosy, I decide on a case-by-case basis. I know some might tell me – some colleagues do – that by doing that, I'm refusing to defend the people who might need me most, that is, people unjustly accused of the crimes I find most horrible. It's true, and in fact there have been occasions, rare ones, when I've agreed
to defend people on those kinds of charges. It happens when I'm sure – and maybe sometimes I'm wrong – that they're innocent. Do you follow me?”

“I follow you.”

“So, if someone comes to me and asks: do you want to defend a corrupt judge, someone who take bribes in order to have people released or for other favourable rulings, my answer is no. In your opinion, why do I do that?”

“For various reasons. I'll tell you one, if you're not offended.”

“If I'm offended, I won't show it.”

“Vanity.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don't take on certain clients out of vanity. That's not the only reason, but it's part of it.” She smiled again. One of those smiles – a mixture of provocation, joy, seductiveness, false innocence, real innocence – that some women give at times, and that make you feel irredeemably inferior.

“I am offended. But since the deed is done, tell me more. I assume it's free.”

“Each of us, over the years, creates a character for ourselves. One we identify with, which corresponds to a positive idea of ourselves, which encapsulates the qualities we like to think we have. Your character, the one you've created for yourself, the one you identify with, has, among its various characteristics, one that could be described like this:
He's a criminal lawyer, therefore he defends criminals, but not those who've committed heinous and disgusting crimes
. Am I making myself clear?”

“All too clear.”

“In this case – apparently – something has happened that's making you doubt the correspondence between reality and the character you like to resemble. That's why you feel this
sense of disorientation. Guido Guerrieri isn't someone who defends corrupt judges. It isn't so much his moral sense that won't allow him to do so as his vanity.”

A moment after that sentence, before I could even think of a response, someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” I said, at a higher pitch than intended. It was Pasquale: there were papers I had forgotten to sign that had to be given to a courier. I did so, and he slipped away as he had arrived. The unexpected diversion had given me a chance to recover.

“You mustn't get worked up,” Annapaola said. “I'm an expert on narcissism because I suffer from it myself. Maybe in a worse form than yours.”

“And what form is that?”

“Another time.”

“Shall we go for a walk? I feel like getting out.”

“All right.”

“You don't have your baseball bat, do you?”

“I only carry it in the evening, for after dinner.”

The streets of the old city were packed with people. Tourists off the cruise ships, young people sitting at café tables, local oldsters walking along
their
streets like inhabitants of a territory occupied by an enemy power, children zooming dangerously by on bicycles, a young Bengali selling whirligigs and balloons, police officers from the street crimes squad, looking unmistakably like predators, holsters bulging beneath their T-shirts. The sun was low, getting ready to set and spreading orange light over the white walls. It's a moot point whether May is actually the cruellest month, rather than April.

We were walking side by side, at the natural pace of those who have nothing specific to do and who, in the brief space they've given themselves, can ignore time.

“Avvocato Guerrieri!”

He was a man in his sixties, tall, big-boned, a bit ungainly. I was sure I knew him, but couldn't place him.

“What a pleasure to see you,” he said as he shook my hand. “How are you? I don't think you remember me.”

“I remember your face very well, but if you help me…”

“My name may not mean anything to you either. Seven years ago, you defended my son after he'd got involved in a nasty business…”

“Alessandro. Of course.”

“Alessandro, yes.”

“Did he resume his studies?”

“He graduated last year. He's been working in Milan for the past few months.”

“I'm pleased. When you phone him, say hello to him for me.”

“Without you, he wouldn't be there now.”

I gave an embarrassed smile. I never know how to respond to compliments. The man and I stood there for a while, looking at each other. I could feel Annapaola's eyes on my right. I didn't know how to take my leave of him without being impolite. He seemed to be searching for the words to say something else.

“I've thought many times over the years about going to your office. I've never summoned up the courage because I felt ridiculous. I wanted to thank you, and not only for what you did for my son. You won't remember this, but while the trial was going on my father died. You expressed your condolences and added a sentence I'll never forget.”

“Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped away into the next room.” I remembered it a moment before he said it.

“It's incredible how words can ease suffering sometimes. I'm so glad I ran into you.”

We said goodbye, and for a while Annapaola and I carried on walking without saying anything or looking at each other.

“It's a beautiful line,” she said after a few minutes.

At that moment we again passed the Bengali who was selling the whirligigs. Annapaola bought one and gave it to me. I must have been a sight, in my impeccable grey suit, my blue shirt and my dark blue regimental tie, with my yellow, purple and orange whirligig turning with a slight rustle at every breath of wind.

“I'd like to make something clear.”

“I love it when you do that.”

“I've said that vanity is
one
of the reasons, but not the
only
reason why I think this case is making you so uncomfortable. I want that to be quite clear, otherwise you make me feel like a pedantic schoolteacher.”

“A pedantic, self-important schoolteacher. It seems like an accurate description. But although I hate to admit it, you're right. When Larocca came to me, I immediately took it for granted that he was innocent because I
wanted
to accept the assignment: I was flattered that he had chosen me. To accept it, to satisfy my vanity and remain consistent with my role, as you said, Larocca
had
to be innocent. That's why it never even crossed my mind that he might be guilty.”

We sat down at the tables of a little bar much frequented at night by young people because of the low prices of the alcohol. It was called the Blue Papaya and had only recently opened.

“You're getting too worked up about it.”

“I'm helping to make sure that a corrupt judge gets away with it. Out of vanity, and for a few other reasons, that upsets me.”

“I wouldn't like to dent your self-esteem – I'm sure you did a great job – but even without you and your brilliant
cross-examination, they wouldn't have got anywhere on so little evidence.”

A waitress emerged from the semi-darkness inside the bar. She was very pretty, with a slightly sleepy expression, several piercings – on her lips, on her ears and on her nose – and enormous breasts. We ordered two spritzes, she said no problem and went back inside.

“Do you like her? She's famous, the boys come here for her. Her name is Maya.”

“Maya, gosh. Pretty, maybe a little… overblown. Anyway, I don't suppose she's your type.”