Involuntary Witness - Страница 11

Cervellati filed the request for committal on the twenty-first day. Obsessive punctuality was typical of him. You could accuse him of practically everything, but not of letting documents stack up on his desk.

The preliminary hearing was fixed for early May. The judge was Ms Carenza, and all in all it could have been worse.

Among us defence lawyers La Carenza was considered one of the good ones. The shortened procedure became an increasingly interesting possibility. Abdou really did have a chance of getting off with twenty years.

In about 2010, with good conduct, he would be out on parole.

While I was having these thoughts, still holding the note with the date of the hearing, I had an uneasy feeling. A feeling that stayed with me all day long, without my being able to find a reason for it.

The same uneasy feeling took hold of me when, a week later, I had to visit Abdou in prison to explain to him why it was to his advantage to accept the shortened procedure, take twenty years or so instead of life, and begin chalking up the days on the wall of his cell.

Abdou was, or seemed, thinner than last time. He didn’t want to tell me how he had come by the enormous bruise on his right cheekbone. As he listened to what I had to say, he looked at the grainy lines in the wooden table, without making a single gesture suggesting that he’d understood or wondered what I was talking about. Not so much as a nod. Nothing.

When I had finished explaining what was the best solution for his case, Abdou remained silent for several minutes. I offered him a Marlboro but he didn’t take it. Instead he pulled out a packet of Diana Red and lit one of those.

He spoke only when he had finished the cigarette and the silence was becoming unbearable.

“If we choose the shortened procedure, have I any chance of being acquitted?”

He was just too intelligent. With the shortened procedure he would be found guilty for sure. I had not told him that but he knew implicitly.

I felt awkward as I replied.

“Technically, yes. Theoretically, yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that in theory the judge could acquit you, but on the basis of what is in the documents produced by the public prosecutor, which is what the judge will base her decision on if we opt for the shortened procedure, it is extremely unlikely.”

I paused, and came to the conclusion that I didn’t feel like beating about the bush.

“Let’s say that it’s practically impossible. On the other hand, with the shortened procedure you’d avoid-”

“Yes, I’ve understood that. I’d avoid a life sentence. In other words, if we choose the shortened procedure I am certain to be convicted but they’ll give me a discount. Isn’t that it?”

My embarrassment grew. I felt the blood rising to my face.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And if we don’t choose this shortened procedure, what happens then?”

“You will be committed for trial before the Court of Assizes. This means you will be tried in public before two judges, and six jurors, who are ordinary citizens. If you are found guilty by the Court of Assizes, you are in danger of life imprisonment.”

“But I do have a chance of being acquitted?”

“A slender one.”

“But more than with the shortened procedure?”

I didn’t answer at once. I took a deep breath. I passed a hand across my face.

“More. Not much more, but more. Bear in mind the fact that with the shortened procedure you are practically certain of being found guilty, whereas before the Court of Assizes something can always happen. All the witnesses have to be questioned by the public prosecutor and then we can cross-examine them. That means that I, as your counsel, can cross-examine them. One of them might not confirm his evidence, one of them might contradict himself, some new factor might arise. But it is a very grave risk.”

“What are my chances?”

“Hard to give a figure. A 5 or 10 per cent chance at the best.”

“Why do you want to choose the shortened way?”

“What do you mean, why? Because it’s the thing that suits the case best. With this judge you get off with the lightest possible sentence, and in-”

“I didn’t do what they say I did.”

I took another deep breath, got out a cigarette. I didn’t know what to say, so naturally I said the wrong thing.

“Listen, Abdou. I don’t know what you’ve done. But for a lawyer it can be better not to know what his client has done. This helps him to be more lucid, to make better decisions without allowing himself to be influenced by emotion. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Abdou gave an imperceptible nod. His eyes seemed to have sunk into their black orbits. Averting my gaze, I continued.

“If we don’t opt for the shortened procedure, if we go before the Assize Court, it’s as if we were playing cards with your life, with very few chances of winning. And then, to play it that way takes money, lots of money. A trial before the Assize Court takes a long time and costs a great deal.”

I realized I had said something stupid even as the words were coming out of my mouth. And at the same time I realized why I was uneasy in my mind.

“You mean that because I can’t pay enough money it’s better to opt for the shortened procedure. Is that it?”

“I didn’t say that.” My tone of voice went up a notch.

“How much money does it take to have a trial before the Court of Assizes?”

“The money is not the problem. The problem is that if we go before the Assize Court you’ll get a life sentence and your life is finished.”

“My life is finished anyway if they convict me for killing a child. How much money?”

I suddenly felt dead tired. An enormous, irresistible weariness came over me. I let my shoulders slump and realized then how tense they had been until that moment.

“Not less than forty or fifty million. If we wanted to make investigations for the defence – and in this case we would probably need them – a good deal more.”

Abdou seemed stunned. He swallowed, with some difficulty, and gave the impression of wanting to say something but failing. Then he began to follow a train of thought from which I was excluded. He looked up, shook his head, then moved his lips in the recitation of some soundless, mysterious litany.

In the end he covered his face with his hands, rubbed them up and down two or three times, then lowered them and looked me in the face again. He said nothing.

I had an unbearable buzzing in my ears and spoke chiefly to drown it.

We didn’t have to decide that very morning. There was still a month left before the preliminary hearing, when we might or might not opt for the shortened procedure. And then we had to talk to Abajaje. The question of money was the least of our problems. I would give the documents another reading, look for other rays of hope. Right now I had to be off, but we’d meet again soon. If he needed anything he could let me know, even by telegram.

Abdou said not a word. When I touched his shoulder in greeting I felt a body totally inert.

I escaped, pursued by his phantoms. And my own.

13

When I left home the next morning I realized there was a removal in progress. New tenants were moving in to our building. I registered the fact in my mind and uttered a quick prayer that we were not getting a family with Pomeranian dogs and rowdy children. Then my thoughts turned to other matters.

That day was to see the beginning of a trial that the newspapers had dubbed “Dogfighting”.

To be exact, it was not the papers which called it that, but the police who had carried out the operation some ten months previously. The papers had confined themselves to repeating the code name for investigations into organized dogfights and the related clandestine betting ring.

It had all started with a denouncement by the Anti-Vivisection League and had continued because the inquiries had been entrusted to a truly exceptional policeman, Chief Inspector Carmelo Tancredi.

Inspector Tancredi had succeeded in infiltrating the clandestine betting ring, had attended the dogfights, made recordings, managed to find out where the breeders kept their animals, and noted how and where the bets changed hands. In short, he had nailed them.

He was a small man with a gaunt face and a large black moustache that looked completely out of place on it. He seemed the most innocuous person on earth.

He was, in fact, the most intelligent, honest and deadly cop I have ever met.

He worked in the sixth section of the flying squad. The one that dealt with sexual offences and everything that the other sections – the more important ones – wouldn’t touch with a bargepole.

He had always refused to leave that job, even though they had often tried to induce him to transfer to the Criminalpol, the anti-drug section or even the Secret Service. All jobs in which he would have worked less for more pay.

On one occasion I’d had a visit from the parents of a nine-year-old child who had been sexually abused by his swimming instructor.

They wanted advice on whether or not to report the incident, on what they would be up against if they did, and especially what the child would be up against. I took them to Tancredi and saw how he spoke to the child, and saw how the child – who until then had answered in monosyllables, never raising his eyes – spoke in turn to Tancredi, looked him in the face and even began to smile.

The swimming instructor ended up behind bars and, what’s more, stayed there. Just as ending up behind bars and staying there was the fate of most of the maniacs, rapists and child abusers who had had the bad luck to cross the path of Inspector Tancredi.