A Walk in the Dark (3 page)

Whenever the police or the carabinieri needed to find accommodation for any of these women, they knew the door of Safe Shelter was always open. Even at night or on public holidays.

Tancredi spoke, I nodded, Sister Claudia looked at me. I was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable.

“So how can I be of service?” Even as I was finishing the sentence, I felt like a complete idiot. Like when I find myself saying things like “Hi!” or “How’re you doing?” or “Are you all right?”

Tancredi ignored that and came straight to the point.

“There’s a woman who works as a volunteer at Sister Claudia’s community. Or rather, she used to. Right now she isn’t exactly in a fit state to do so. Anyway, let me tell you the story as briefly as I can. A few years ago this woman met someone. She met him after she’d been through a difficult period, though in fact she’s never had an easy life. This guy seemed like Prince Charming. Kind, affectionate, loving. Rich. Handsome too, the women say. Practically perfect. Anyway, after a few months, they started living together. Fortunately, they didn’t get married.”

I’d heard this kind of story before, not just in my work. So when Tancredi paused for a moment, I cut in. “After they started living together he changed. He wasn’t as nice to her as he used to be, then he started
to turn violent. Just verbally at first, but after a while physically too. To cut a long story short, their life together became hell. Am I right?”

“More or less. As far as the first part of the story goes. Maybe Sister Claudia would like to tell you the rest.”

Good idea, I thought. That way she’ll stop staring at me like that, which is making me nervous.

Sister Claudia had a soft, feminine, almost hypnotic voice. In complete contrast to the way she looked. I bet she’s a good singer, I thought, as she began her story.

“In my opinion, he didn’t change after they started living together. He was like that before too. He just stopped acting because he thought he didn’t have to any more. From now on, she was his property. He started insulting her, then hitting her, then doing other things she can tell you herself, if she wants to. Then he started hanging around the place where she worked, convinced she had a lover. Trying to catch her. Of course, he never did catch her, because it wasn’t true. But that didn’t calm him down. It just made him worse. One night, she told him she couldn’t stand it any more and if he didn’t stop all this nonsense she’d leave him, and he beat her up.”

She broke off abruptly. I could tell from her face that she’d have liked to be there when those things had happened. And not just standing and watching.

“The next day, she packed a few of her things, just the things she didn’t need any help with, and moved to her mother’s. She’d had her own apartment before, but she’d let it go when she went to live with him. And now the harassment started. Outside her office. Outside her mother’s place. Morning, noon and night. He followed her. Called her on her mobile phone. Called her at home. At all hours of the day, and especially at night.”

“What did he say?”

“All sorts of things. Twice, he beat her in the street. One morning she found her car scratched all over with a screwdriver. One evening, she got home to find her bicycle, which was in the entrance hall of the apartment block where her mother lives, all smashed up. Of course, there’s no proof it was him. Anyway, to cut a long story short, as you said, Avvocato, her life became hell. The girls in the community and I have been trying to help. Whenever possible we go with her to and from work. For a few weeks she even came and worked in the refuge, which at least is somewhere he doesn’t know and can’t find her. But that’s no solution. She doesn’t have a life, she can’t go out in the evenings, can’t go for a walk, can’t go shopping in a supermarket, can’t do anything for fear she’ll run into him. Or that he’ll be following her. So she doesn’t go out any more. She stays at home, shut in, as if she’s in prison. But he can move around without anyone bothering him.”

“Has she reported him?”

It was Tancredi who replied. “Three times. Once to the carabinieri, once to us at police headquarters, and the third time directly to the Public Prosecutor’s department. Fortunately, the case was assigned to Prosecutor Mantovani, who’s been working on it. She investigated as much as she could, listened to the woman, got hold of the medical reports, and then put in a request for the bastard to be arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“Actual bodily harm and threatening behaviour. But it was useless. The judge rejected the request, saying there were no grounds for arrest. This is where things get interesting. Sister Claudia is here to ask you if you’re prepared to take on the woman’s case and bring
a civil action. Two of your colleagues have already refused. A malicious gossip might say for the same reason the judge refused to arrest the man.”

I asked him to explain, and he told me a name. I made him repeat it, to make sure I’d understood. When I was certain we were talking about the same person, I let out a kind of whistle, but didn’t say anything.

Tancredi told me the rest. As soon as her request for the man to be arrested had been rejected, Assistant Prosecutor Mantovani had asked for him to be committed for trial. When he’d received the summons to appear, he’d gone and waylaid the woman outside her mother’s apartment building.

He had told her she could report him as many times as she liked, nothing would happen to him. Because nobody would ever have the courage to touch him. And he’d added that he’d pull her to pieces in court.

That was why she needed a lawyer. Because she was scared but didn’t want to turn back now.

Tancredi also told me the names of the two colleagues of mine the woman had turned to before me. One of them had said he was sorry, but on principle he didn’t take on civil cases. I knew him well and wondered if he even knew the meaning of the word
principle
.

The second one had said he had too much work on at the moment and so, unfortunately, he couldn’t take on the case. Unfortunately, of course.

By now, the woman was desperate and terrified. She didn’t know what to do. She had talked to Sister Claudia, and Sister Claudia had talked to Tancredi. To get his advice. He’d mentioned my name and they’d come to see me. Without the woman. They hadn’t even told her about this meeting, because if I refused too, Sister Claudia didn’t want her to know.

That was the story so far. I shouldn’t feel obliged to
take on the case, Tancredi said. If I refused, they’d understand. And they were sure that if I did refuse I wouldn’t talk about questions of principle or having too much work.

Silence.

I looked at Sister Claudia. She didn’t look like someone who’d
understand
. No way.

I passed my hand over my face, against the grain of my beard, which had grown a bit since morning. Then I pinched my cheek four or five times, between index finger and thumb, still scratching my beard.

In the end I gave a self-satisfied grin and shrugged my shoulders. No problem, I said. I was a lawyer and one client was just like another. As I said it, I knew I was talking bullshit.

It seemed to me that Sister Claudia’s features relaxed almost imperceptibly, with something like relief. Tancredi smiled slightly, looking like someone who’d never had any doubt how the game would turn out.

There wasn’t much else to say for the moment. The woman had to come to the office in order to sign the forms agreeing to have me represent her. And in order for us to meet, obviously, seeing as I was about to become her lawyer. Then I would go to the Public Prosecutor’s department to make copies of the file. I wouldn’t have long to study it all. The trial was due to start in three weeks’ time. I asked Sister Claudia to leave me a telephone number, and after a moment’s hesitation she wrote the number of a mobile phone on a piece of paper.

“It’s my number. The telephone’s always on.”

When they’d gone, I leaned back against the door and looked up at the ceiling. I made the gesture of searching in my pockets for the packet of cigarettes that wasn’t there.

In normal circumstances I should have gone too. It was already well after office hours. I hadn’t been home even for five minutes since I’d left in the morning, and I needed to have a shower and maybe eat something.

But I stayed in the office. I sat down at my secretary’s desk. To think, or something like that.

Gianluca Scianatico was a notorious idiot. A typical, well-known representative of the so-called respectable classes of Bari. A bit taller than me, a one-time Fascist thug, a poker player. And a cokehead, so they said.

He was a doctor and worked in a teaching clinic at the general hospital. No one familiar with those circles in Bari thought he’d got where he had – graduating, specializing, passing competitive exams, and so on – on merit.

His father was Ernesto Scianatico, principle judge of one of the criminal sections of the appeal court. One of the most powerful men in the city. Everyone talked about him, his friendships, his extracurricular activities. Always in whispers, in the corridors of the courthouse and elsewhere. Anonymous petitions were said to have circulated, relating to a whole series of matters he was directly or indirectly involved in. It was said that some lawyers and even some magistrates had tried to report him.

Everyone knew that none of these petitions, whether anonymous or signed, had ever resulted in anything.
Judge Scianatico was someone who knew how to watch his back.

For someone in my line of work-a criminal lawyer in Bari – to go up against him was just about the stupidest thing you could do. About half of all cases, after the initial sentence, were referred to his section on appeal. In other words, about half
my
cases were referred to his section on appeal. I was laying myself open to a glorious professional future, I thought.

“Congratulations, Guerrieri,” I said out loud, as I’d been doing ever since I was a child, whenever my thoughts clamoured to be heard, “once again you’ve found a jam to get into. You’ve crossed the difficult threshold of forty but your tendency to get involved in problems of every size, shape and description is still completely intact. Bravo.”

I sat there for a while, getting increasingly anxious, letting my eyes wander over the shelves and the box files that filled them.

Then I got annoyed.

A constant factor in my life is that after a while I always get annoyed about everything.

Good things and bad things.

Almost everything.

Anyway, as my anxiety diminished, I remembered some of the things Tancredi had just told me. About how he’d gone to see her after receiving the summons. What had he said? Oh, yes. That she could report him as many times as she liked, nothing would ever happen to him. Nobody would ever have the courage to touch him. Not him.

So when my anxiety vanished, I started getting angry. It didn’t take much to get me to the right point.

“Fuck Scianatico. Father and son. Fuck both of them. We’ll see if nothing ever happens to you, you bastard.” Out loud again.

Then I told myself it really was time to go home now.

I told myself that mentally. A sign that the din in my brain was fading.

Martina Fumai came to my office about seven o’clock the following evening, with Sister Claudia. Maria Teresa showed them in, and I asked them to sit down on the two chairs in front of the desk.

Martina was a very pretty woman with short brown hair. She was wearing quite a bit of make-up, and there was something evasive in her eyes and her manner. She was very thin. Unnaturally thin, as if she’d been on a diet and hadn’t stopped when she should. She was wearing a sweet-smelling perfume, and maybe she’d put on more than was necessary.

She spoke in a quiet voice, and as soon as she sat down she asked me if she could smoke. Yes, of course, I said, and she took a thin cigarette out of a white packet with a floral design and lit it. An unfamiliar brand. The type of cigarette I’ve always hated. She had a cylindrical lighter with the face of Betty Boop on it. That must mean something, I thought.

She thanked me for taking the case. I told her I couldn’t see any problems – using those very words, which I usually hate:
I can’t see any problems
– and then I asked her to sign the papers agreeing to have me as her attorney.

She asked me if she was doing the right thing, bringing a civil action.

Of course not. It’s madness. We’ll both be slaughtered. You and especially me. All because when I was a child I read comics featuring Tex Willer and now I’m
incapable of turning back when that would be the most intelligent thing to do. Like right now, with this case. As my more pragmatic colleagues have done.

I didn’t say that. Instead, I reassured her. I told her not to worry, of course this wasn’t a simple case, but we’d do the best we could, we’d be resolute but at the same time tread carefully. And a whole lot of nonsense like that. The next day I would go the Prosecutor’s department, talk to the prosecutor and get the papers. Fortunately, I said, the prosecutor, Dottoressa Mantovani, was someone you could trust. That much was true.

I told her we’d meet again a few days before the hearing, after I’d had a look at the papers. I preferred not to talk about the case until I had an idea of what was in the file.

The meeting lasted at least half an hour. Sister Claudia didn’t say a word the whole time, just kept looking at me with those inscrutable eyes.

As they left, I threw a glance, almost involuntarily, at her tight jeans. Just for a moment, until I remembered she was a nun, and that wasn’t the way to look at a nun.

It was the weekend again.

We’d been invited to a party by two friends of Margherita’s, Rita and Nicola. They were nice people, a bit eccentric, who in order to have more space at their disposal had moved to a villa just outside the city, on the old road that runs south between the sea and the countryside.