A Fine Line (20 page)

27

I checked that the hearings at the appeal court that morning were being presided over by the head of the court. When I called the clerk of the court's office, I was told that it wasn't a very heavy schedule and would be over by about two o'clock.

It was raining. I prepared two envelopes with almost maniacal care. I wrote the addresses using an old stencil I had been keeping in a drawer of my desk for God knows how long. When I'd finished, I broke it and threw it in the bin. I stamped the envelopes, then put them in my bag together with a stick of glue. Passing Pasquale's command post on my way out, I told him I wouldn't be back in the office that afternoon. I had just one appointment, with a client who was coming to pay and wouldn't be too upset about our meeting being postponed.

I must have sounded like someone justifying himself, and even though I didn't look Pasquale in the face I'm sure he noticed that something wasn't right.

Ten minutes later, I went into a phone and Internet centre used by young Indians, Bengalis and Mauritians. For the price of two euros I typed out what I had to, printed three copies, then deleted the file and left. On the street, I turned the first corner, took the envelopes from the bag, put one of the sheets I had printed into each one and sealed it with the glue, rather than licking it. It may have been paranoia
on my part, or play-acting, or maybe both. The third copy I folded and put in my pocket.

I dropped by the garage, got out my car and drove to the courthouse. The security guard at the entrance, accustomed to seeing me arriving on foot or by bicycle, was surprised and full of admiration.

“Is this your car, Avvocato?”

“No, I just stole it. I'm hiding it here, if you don't mind. Nobody will know.”

He laughed. “A pity you never bring it, it's beautiful. Petrol or diesel?”

“Petrol.”

“It must drink like a whore,” he concluded, laughing like someone who knows what he's talking about. Cars and whores who drink a lot. He let me through, pointing to a rather large free space near the sentry box. When I got out, I noticed that he was looking at me with an expression of respect I'd never seen before.

I dealt with all the chores at the clerk of the court's office that I usually entrust to Maria Teresa, Consuelo or Pasquale. I felt a sense of calm as I withdrew copies of papers, lodged petitions, consulted case files – and even as I queued, which is something I hate. As I went from one office to another, I passed the courtroom where the appeals were being heard and checked how far the hearing had got. At about 1.30, they told me there was only one case left and that they would finish within about fifteen or twenty minutes.

So I got in my car, drove out of the courtyard and parked about fifty yards from the gate of the courthouse, in a position that allowed me to keep an eye on the glass doors. Half an hour later, Larocca came out and immediately went straight down into the underground car park, reserved for magistrates and court staff.

When he reappeared on board his red Giulietta, I started the engine and set off after him, leaving a couple of cars between us in order not to be noticed. I didn't know why I was taking all these precautions, but at that moment it all seemed perfectly natural, almost necessary. Just as it seemed sensible, in the heightened state I was in, to pay obsessive attention to the road.

We got to Corso Vittorio Veneto and drove along it slowly, because of the traffic. When we reached the Castello Svevo, Larocca turned right. I thought I would choose a different route, going past the harbour. A longer way round, but less congested. The Isabella d'Aragona Gardens looked sad and desolate in the rain. I looked at the outside temperature indicator: sixteen degrees, not very high for 2.30 on a May afternoon. Why hadn't I simply phoned him and told him that we needed to talk? Maybe it was a way to gain time, to put off something I had no desire to do. On Corso Vittorio Emanuele, the traffic flowed a little more smoothly. Ahead of me, some hundred yards away, the Teatro Margherita looked like a film set. Come to think of it, I told myself, everything looked fake, as if I were taking part in some kind of
Truman Show
of which I was only just starting to become aware.

Larocca was driving calmly, in a very disciplined manner. He signalled changing lanes with the indicator, stopped at yellow lights, gave way when he had to.

I kept following him along the Di Crollalanza seafront, driving past the big, almost metaphysical buildings built during the Fascist period. The clouds were low and oppressive. We turned onto Via Egnatia, then onto Via Dalmazia. The Giulietta drove into a garage about fifty yards from the front door of his house, opposite RAI. Soon afterwards, Larocca came out on foot. He didn't have an umbrella and was hurrying so as not to get wet.

“Pierluigi!”

He turned with an almost frightened expression, as if he were not used to being called by name anywhere near his house and breaking that rule was a dangerous and destabilizing infraction.

“Guido. What are you doing here?”

28

Near the front door of the building there was a broken gutter, with water gushing angrily from the gap. It seemed as if the rusty metal might burst at any moment. As if that violent, threatening water were a symptom or an omen, as if that leak presaged something else, something worse.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“Has something happened?”

“In a way.”

“Do you want to come up? We're getting wet.”

“Maybe it's better not. Maybe we could go for a ride and talk in the car.”

From the way he looked at me, I realized he thought I was taking precautions because his apartment might be bugged. “All right, I'll go up, leave my bag, and come and join you.”

Five minutes later, we were on the move, first in the direction of the sea, then southward.

“What's happened?”

The rain was beating regularly on the bonnet, on the asphalt and on the sea to our right. The windscreen wipers were dancing, and the liquid being moved to the sides of the windscreen looked more like molten metal than water.

“There's a new development,” I said, sensing something ridiculous and at the same time disturbing in what I was doing.

“What?”

“The information I have is a bit vague, but I've been told about some inquiries into a Swiss bank account you're apparently able to draw on.”

Strictly speaking, I hadn't told a lie: someone – Annapaola – had told me about inquiries – made by her – into an account in Switzerland. I was watching the road, but out of the corner of my right eye, on the extreme edge of my field of vision, I could just about make out, or intuit, that Larocca's face had turned pale and frozen.

“What the fuck have they done?” he said at last. “What the fuck have those sons of bitches done?”

He was breathing in a forced way, conveying a mixture of anger and fear, and rubbing his hands hard together, as if trying to cleanse them of something, to get rid of something so that nobody could find it.

“Can't we go to your office? Talking like this, in a car, in this rain…”

It was only then that I realized why I hadn't called him to tell him I needed to talk to him. I didn't want him in my office. I never wanted him to come there again.

“The office is almost unusable today,” I lied. “There are workers in, doing maintenance.”

Without realizing it, I drove onto SS16, the road that goes south to Lecce. People who like to read symbols and metaphors into everything would have said that I actually wanted to take him to Lecce. I don't know, but when I realized the direction I'd taken I felt bad, and at the first turn-off I turned round and started back towards Bari.

“Let's at least go and sit somewhere,” he said. “We can't talk this way about something so delicate.”

I got back to the city, drove all along the seafront in the opposite direction, past the old town then the Castello again,
the harbour, and finally parked outside a café not far from the Fiera del Levante.

The place was deserted. We sat down at a table from where we could see both the sea and the street. The rain was still falling, silent and stubborn. Some lines of poetry came into my head –
It rains without sound on the lawn of the sea
/
No one passes on the glistening roads
– but I couldn't remember who they were by.

The barman asked us what we wanted and before I could reply Larocca ordered a bottle of chilled white wine.

“Guido, listen to me. I'm sorry if you think I didn't put my full trust in you. I did, and I still do. The problem is that some things aren't all that easy to explain. I didn't know if you would understand. I was afraid that your defence would be less effective knowing… how shall I put this?… the background.”

“Background, that's good.”

He didn't catch the sarcasm. “But tell me, how the hell did they find out about the Swiss account? It's incredible, because it's coded, I've never done any transactions between Switzerland and my accounts in Italy. Nobody knows about it except for a lawyer in Milan and my adviser in Zurich, who are the most discreet people in the world. I really can't imagine how they did it.” He poured himself some wine, drained the glass and refilled it. “How did you find out?”

“I'm sorry, but I don't think that's the point.”

“You're right. You're right, there's a risk you may misunderstand, and I want to explain. I was wrong not to tell you the truth. I've treated you with a lack of respect, and I apologize. I've done a few… thoughtless things, but I want to stress that there's never been any major harm done.”

“What do you mean there's not been any major harm done?”

“On a certain number of occasions, over the past few years, I've accepted some… gifts, so to speak.”

“Before you go any further: did you accept a gift, so to speak, in the Ladisa case? Was Capodacqua telling the truth?”

“Not really, because—”

“I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood for subtle distinctions today. Did you take fifty thousand euros to get Ladisa released? It's quite a simple question. Maybe later we can go into it in more detail.”

“I received a gift, yes. But it's precisely the Ladisa case that allows me to clarify what I mean when I say there's never been any major harm. You've read the ruling in which we – and I emphasize: we, because my colleagues were in agreement, there was no dissenting opinion – released that fellow, haven't you?”

“I've read it. Of course.”

“Did it strike you as correct?”

“It was a plausible interpretation,” I conceded.

“So you understand what I mean when I talk about the lack of major harm. In the case of Ladisa, and in all the others where I accepted gifts from some grateful lawyer—”

“Through Salvagno.”

“Through poor Salvagno, yes. In every case where I've accepted gifts, I've never forced a decision. They were proceedings in which the investigations had been conducted badly, in which there were invalid arguments, legal irregularities, insufficient evidence, unlawful phone taps, and we had to grant release. And sure enough, these rulings have almost always been confirmed by the Supreme Court. There has never been
any
abuse. Only decisions that were right and proper.”

He had assumed a didactic tone that sent shivers down my spine.

“What are you saying? If a judge takes money for a ruling, however well founded, however
right and proper
, that's still judicial corruption.”

He looked at me with a good-natured, almost affectionate expression.

He was mad.

He took another big gulp of his wine. If he carried on like that, he'd be drunk within half an hour.

“You don't understand, Guido. It's my fault, I haven't explained myself well. We agree on the fact that the punishment should fit the crime, don't we?”

“I don't follow you.”

“Let me give you an example to make it clearer. Let's say someone is called to give evidence about a robbery to which he was an eyewitness. During his testimony, in which he relates what he saw on the occasion of the robbery, he also says something that isn't true. For example, let's imagine he does a job he's ashamed of, so he lies about it. Do you follow me now?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“He told the truth about the robbery and a lie about his work. He told the truth about what's relevant to the case and a lie about something completely irrelevant. Technically, his conduct counts as perjury. Article 372 says something like: ‘Anyone testifying as a witness before the legal authorities, who affirms a falsehood or denies the truth, is punished with imprisonment of two to six years.' If that man were tried for perjury and you were the judge, would you feel up to sentencing him to two years' imprisonment?”

“Look, Pierluigi—”

“You'd acquit him if you were the judge. Or you'd get him acquitted if you were his lawyer. And the defence argument would be quite straightforward. Even though from a
technical point of view he's committed an offence, there is no offence against the legal good, as protected by article 372, because that lie has no possible bearing on the verdict in the robbery trial. It's in no way able to influence that verdict. It's a technical violation of the letter of the law. There's no major harm done. There's no perjury.”

“So what?”

“Let's talk about what interests us more closely. Think of a custodial sentence that ought to be overturned because there was insufficient evidence, no need for custody, absence of motive, legal irregularities. Whatever you like. If this sentence is
correctly
overturned, it's of no importance that the judge – who's only done what it was right for him to do – accepts a little gift from the defence lawyer, because that lawyer is pleased about a ruling which in all probability will be upheld in the Supreme Court. And sure enough, as you already know, very few of my rulings are overturned by the Supreme Court. Very few.”

“I admire your clever use of euphemism. Not everyone would call fifty thousand euros a little gift.”

He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and assumed a self-satisfied expression. The expression of someone who's heard a banal observation and doesn't even want to waste his breath refuting it. He has a more important argument to follow through.

“What interest is protected by the rule on judicial corruption?”

He paused briefly, a pause that served merely to give rhythm to his speech. He wasn't interested in my reply, and I wasn't interested in giving it to him. The impulse to tell him to stop talking bullshit was becoming ever more irresistible.

“The interest protected by the rule is the smooth functioning of the judicial office. The rule aims at preventing
the judicial office from being distorted in favour of personal interests. The payment of money, the remittance of other utilities, should not interfere with the correct forming of decisions. That's all.

“Let's apply this to my work in the appeal court. If, in exchange for money, I overturn a custodial sentence which has no irregularities, then clearly I'm committing the offence of judicial corruption. But think of a suspect who's been unjustly arrested, for lack of evidence or procedural irregularities. In this case, the verdict ought to be overturned: that's the duty of the appeal court judge. What happens afterwards – gratitude, gifts, things like that – is irrelevant.”

It struck me that when you find yourself caught up in certain arguments, arguments that have their own erroneous and deadly inner logic, the cold wind of madness touches you, too.

“If they ought to be released,” I said, “they will be released and that's that. It's what you have your salary for.”

“An unjustly arrested suspect who receives justice pays a lot to the lawyer who defends him. If part of that money goes to the person who's the real architect of his freedom, I don't believe there's anything wrong in it.”

That isn't true, as any student of criminal law could have said: article 319c considers
any
collection of money or other utilities on the part of a judge an offence, regardless of whether the decision for which he has been paid is correct or not. The idea is that when there's money involved, the entire mechanism is altered and it becomes impossible to distinguish correct decisions from incorrect decisions. They're all incorrect, because they're influenced by the personal interest of the judge who's prostituting his office.

Larocca the highly experienced jurist knew that perfectly well. Larocca the man, who had lost his sense of balance
and was living in a world of his own lies and justifications, didn't. What was that sentence from
The Brothers Karamazov
? “The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he can no longer distinguish the truth, within him or around him.” My grandfather often quoted it, and said that the rule of moral balance is the opposite of the behaviour described in that sentence. It means not lying to ourselves about the significance of, and the reasons for, what we do and what we don't do. It means not looking for justifications, not manipulating the account we make of ourselves to anyone, including ourselves.

I didn't say these things to Larocca. I was feeling terribly weary. “Why did you do it?” I asked, almost without meaning to.

He sighed. He was about to pick up his glass again, then changed his mind. “Did you know I suffered from gastritis for a long time? Terrible burning sensations, I could eat almost nothing, just horrible thin soups, I couldn't drink wine, I was pumped full of gastric inhibitors. An impossible life. I decided to drop my gastroenterologist and go to see a psychotherapist, because people kept telling me that gastritis is the most psychosomatic of illnesses. To cure it, you really have to identify the cause. The man was good and he explained to me, in a very simple, clear way, that gastritis is caused by anger. By the sense of injustice we feel regarding something, or someone, or life in general. He told me that in order to get at the root of the problem I had to identify who or what was at the basis of my repressed anger. That's when I started to understand.”

“Then help me to understand.”

“Do you remember which of us had the highest marks at university?”

“There was no contest. You never got anything less than top marks, if I'm not mistaken.”

“You're not mistaken. Do you remember what I said I wanted to be?”

“Either a notary or a university professor and lawyer.”

“And then what happened?”

“You took the bench exams immediately after graduation, you passed with flying colours, and you became a magistrate before you were even twenty-four. You must have a quarter of a century's length of service by now.”

“Excellent summary. I like your ability to always get straight to the point, never wasting words. Your arguments are always the best. You're the best lawyer I know. I liked being a magistrate when I wasn't even twenty-four. Not many people have managed that. I admit my weakness: I'm competitive, I like coming first. I thought I'd be able to be a magistrate for a few years, while continuing to study. I thought I'd write articles and essays and then decide whether to be a notary or a university professor.”