Involuntary Witness - Страница 17

“I don’t have the money.”

“To hell with the money. If I manage to get you off, which is unlikely, you’ll find a way of paying me. If they convict you, you’ll have more serious problems than a debt to me.”

He turned away his eyes, kept fixed on mine while I was talking. He returned to gazing at the ceiling, but in a different way. I even had the impression of the shadow of a smile, a wistful one, on his lips. At last he spoke, still without looking at me but in a firm voice.

“You are intelligent, Avvocato. I have always thought of myself as more intelligent than other people. This is not a lucky thing, but it’s hard to understand that. If you think yourself more intelligent than others, you fail to understand a lot of things, until they are suddenly brought home to you. And then it’s too late.”

He made a motion to raise his right arm, but it was checked by the strap. I had an impulse to ask him if he wanted to be freed, but I said nothing. He started to speak again.

“Today it seems to me that you are more intelligent than I am. I thought I was a dead man and now, after listening to you, I think I was wrong. You have done something I don’t understand.”

He paused and took a deep breath, through his nose, as if summoning up all his strength.

“I want us to go to trial. To be acquitted.”

I felt a shiver that started at the top of my head and ran all the way down my spine. I wanted to say something, but knew that whatever I said would be wrong.

“OK” was all I could manage. “We’ll meet again soon.”

He set his jaw again and nodded, without taking his eyes off the ceiling.

When I got back to the car, the windscreen bore the white ticket of a parking fine.

20

Two weeks later came the preliminary hearing.

Judge Carenza arrived late, as she always did.

I waited outside the courtroom, chatting with a few colleagues and the journalists who were there especially for my case. Cervellati, on the other hand, was not present.

He didn’t like waiting for the judge outside the courtroom, mingling with the defence lawyers. So he had his secretary tell the clerk of the court to send for him when the hearing was about to begin.

La Carenza entered the courtroom, followed by the clerk of the court and a bailiff pushing a trolley loaded with dossiers. I went in too, sat down in my place at the bench on the right for those facing the judge, and opened my file, casually, just to have something to do and calm my nerves.

A few moments later I noticed that also in court was my colleague Cotugno, who was to represent the boy’s parents. He was an elderly lawyer, a bit of a windbag, deaf and with murderous bad breath.

Conversations with Cotugno were surreal. He, being hard of hearing, tended to move up close. His interlocutor, whose sense of smell was usually in working order, tended to back away. As long as the size of the room and the limits of good manners enabled him to. Then he was forced to endure it.

Therefore, when I saw Cotugno sitting at the public prosecutor’s bench – as is customary for counsel for the civil party – I enacted a complex strategy to avoid his breath. I half stood up, leaning on the desk before me, stretched out my arm to its fullest possible extent, and gave him my hand while maintaining this precarious stance. Plainly incompatible with any conversation. I then sat down again.

The judge told the clerk of the court to call the warders to bring in the prisoner.

At that moment Cervellati materialized on my left. He was wearing a grey suit and brown moccasins with leather tassels. He asked me what I intended to do with this trial.

I lied. My client – I said – had wanted to think about it until the last moment, so I myself would only know that morning whether or not we would ask for the shortened procedure.

Cervellati gave me a look, seemed on the point of saying something, then shook his head and sat down at his place. He hadn’t believed me and he didn’t look exactly friendly.

Two minutes later, through a side door, surrounded by four warders, his wrists handcuffed, in came Abdou. He was wearing khaki cotton trousers and a white shirt; over his arm was some sort of jacket. He had a clean look. He was well shaven and his shirt might have been ironed that very morning.

“Your Honour, may I have a word or two with my client before the hearing begins?”

“Certainly, Avvocato. Please remove the prisoner’s handcuffs.”

The eldest of the warders produced a key and freed Abdou’s hands. When I came up to him he was massaging his wrists. I spoke very quietly.

“Well then, Abdou, if you’ve changed your mind we’re still in time. Only just, but still in time.”

He shook his head. I stood for a moment looking at him, and he gave me a straight look back. Then I returned to my seat, my heart beating faster and fear sweeping over me like a wave.

The opening formalities were quickly dispatched and then came the moment.

“Are there any requests for alternative procedures?” asked Judge Carenza.

I got to my feet, buttoning up my jacket. I darted another look in the direction of Abdou.

“Your Honour, my client and I have considered at length the possible advantages of requesting the shortened procedure, but we eventually decided together that this is a case to be submitted to a full hearing. In view of which, no, there are no requests for alternative procedures.”

I sat down without looking at Cervellati.

The judge then asked the parties to formulate their conclusions.

Cervellati spoke briefly. The case was loaded with evidence against the accused, Abdou Thiam. There were proofs that as a result of the hearing would certainly lead to an affirmation of penal responsibility on all the criminal charges – the very grave, odious criminal charges – set down in the counts of indictment. The preliminary hearing could only lead to the accused being committed for trial before the Court of Assizes, to answer to charges of unlawful restraint and wilful murder. All that was needed was to supplement the charge contained under count B. In accordance with Article 423 of the code of criminal procedure, the public prosecutor intended to alter the murder charge. From simple murder to murder with aggravating circumstances.

Cervellati dictated the new charge for the records.

He had been true to his word. My client was now facing a charge which, if he was convicted, would lead him straight to life imprisonment with hard labour.

The judge asked me if I intended to apply for time for defence. This was a courtesy gesture, she was not bound to do it. I thanked her and said no, I did not so intend.

Then it was the turn of Cotugno, who was even briefer than Cervellati. He associated himself with the requests of the public prosecutor and also asked for a committal for trial.

I had little to say, because in a case like this there was obviously no chance at all of an acquittal in the preliminary hearing.

So I simply said that we had no observations to make on the request for committal.

Then the judge pronounced the ruling.

The trial of Abdou Thiam, born Dakar, Senegal, on 4 March 1968, on the charges of unlawful restraint and murder with aggravating circumstances, was fixed for 12 June, before the Assize Court of Bari.

Part Three

21

I was on my way home from the office, thinking I’d have to do a spot of shopping to avoid eating out yet again when I heard a woman’s voice, slightly throaty, just behind me.

“Could you please give me a hand? I’m about to collapse.”

My neighbour Margherita. It was a wonder she hadn’t collapsed already. She was lugging a bursting briefcase, numerous plastic bags full of food and a long tube of the kind used by architects to carry drawings around.

I gave her a hand, meaning I took over all the shopping. So we set off walking side by side.

“Just as well I met you. A week ago I was in more or less the same straits when I met old Professor Costantini, and he offered to help me. I gave him the shopping bags and after one block he was on the verge of a heart attack.”

I gave her a faintly idiotic smile. I should evidently have known who this Professor Costantini was.

“Who is Professor Costantini?”

“The one on the second floor of our building. Excuse my asking, but how long have you been living there?”

It struck me that I’d been living there for more than a year. And I didn’t know any of the tenants by name.

“More or less a year.”

“Congratulations! You must be a really sociable type. What do you do? Sleep by day and go round at night in tights and a cloak and mask, ridding the city of criminals?”

I told her I was a lawyer and she, after pulling a rather wry face, said that she too, long ago, had seemed destined to become a lawyer. She had done the training, passed the exams and was even on the rolls, but then she had done a switch. Total. Now she worked in advertising and other things. However – we agreed – in a sense we were colleagues, so we could address each other as tu. She said that made her feel more at ease.

“I’ve always had trouble using lei. It really doesn’t come naturally, I have to force it. They tried to teach me some years ago that a well-brought-up girl doesn’t use tu with strangers, but I’ve always had serious doubts about being a well-brought-up girl. How about you?”

“About being a well-brought-up girl? Yes, I do have some doubts about that.”

She gave a short laugh – a sort of gurgle – before speaking again.

“I can see you have doubts all along the line. You always look… I don’t know, I can’t find the word to describe it. As if you were turning over questions in your mind and didn’t much like the answers. Or didn’t like them one bit.”