Gianrico Carofiglio - Temporary Perfections

At last, I opened my eyes again.

A second telephone. Christ, a second telephone. There could be anything on the call records for that phone. A second telephone was such an obvious possibility that no one had even thought of it. It was like Poe’s purloined letter.

I left the office telling myself that I needed to talk it over with Tancredi. He would have known what to do, but he was still in America.

I felt like going to see Nadia, telling her everything, and asking her what she thought, but I immediately discarded that idea. I wasn’t sure why, but after what had happened in Rome, the idea of going to see Nadia made me faintly uncomfortable, as if I’d somehow betrayed her.

Absurd, I told myself.

It’s all absurd.

I tried calling Caterina again, but her phone was still unreachable.

So I went home, laced up my boxing gloves, and punched Mister Bag over and over again. As I paused between one round and the next, I talked to him, asking his opinion about the latest developments in the case. He didn’t say much that evening. He just swung there lazily. Then, finally, he let me know I ought to have something to eat, drink a glass of good wine, and sleep on it. Maybe I’d come up with an idea the following day.

Maybe.

I slept badly and had nightmares. When I woke up, I still didn’t have any bright ideas. I got out of bed feeling grumpy, and things only got worse when I remembered what was on the schedule that morning.

I had an appointment at the district attorney’s office with a client, a physician and a university professor, not to mention an academic power broker, who was charged with fixing a job search and assigning the position to one of his assistants. The other candidate was an internationally respected researcher who had worked for years in the United States at major universities and medical research centers. At a certain point, he had decided to move back to Italy.

When the search for a chair in his field was announced, he applied, unaware that the position had already been assigned and the job search was a farce. The chosen recipient of the chair was a young researcher, a brainless wonder who was lucky enough to be the son of another professor in the same department. He was known in academic circles for his rigorous lack of morals and nicknamed Little Piero the Greedy.

The vastly disproportionate difference in the two candidates’ scientific qualifications-obviously, entirely in favor of the candidate who lacked the inside track-was fairly ludicrous. But that detail was of no interest to the hiring panel, and the brainless wonder was given the position. The better qualified researcher smelled a rat. He took legal action: He appealed to the regional administrative court, won the appeal, and filed a criminal complaint against the professor with the district attorney’s office.

So my client received a summons to appear at the district attorney’s office, on charges of malfeasance and falsification, and I recommended that he invoke his right not to answer their questions. The evidence against him was minimal, and if he agreed to answer the questions of the prosecutor-who was a very smart young woman, unquestionably much more intelligent than he was-he would likely only make matters worse.

In this case, as in many others that I found myself handling, I had the distinct impression that I was on the wrong side. And in this case, as in many others, I wondered if I really wanted to defend my client. I told myself that I didn’t want to, and then I accepted the case anyway. It was something I really should have discussed with my psychiatrist, if only I’d had one.

As I rode my bike over to the court building, I decided that this was the worst possible morning to see my client: He was clearly guilty of a crime that I considered particularly heinous. He was an unctuous windbag, and worst of all, he wore tasseled loafers.

There are only a few matters on which I am unforgiving. These include tasseled loafers, but also cords for sunglasses, Cartier pens, money clips, fake leather shoulder bags, cable-knit cardigans, solid-gold bracelets for men, and breath sprays.

Given these convictions of mine, when we met as arranged outside the office of the prosecuting attorney, a few minutes before the interview was scheduled to begin, I wasn’t in the cheeriest of spirits. After the conventional hellos and other conversational boilerplate-devoid of any genuine warmth (at least on my part)-he told me that he had serious doubts about the tactic of choosing to avail himself of his right not to answer any questions. He thought that he could explain everything, and that it struck him that refusing to answer was tantamount to an admission of guilt and in any case the behavior of a criminal, hardly in keeping with his prestigious position.

Your prestigious position as a windbag and a sticky-fingered academic who’s slimed his way to the top, I hissed at him in my mind, while somewhere inside me a totally misplaced wave of anger was rising. After all, my client was simply expressing a legitimate doubt about our tactics. Unfortunately for him, he was the wrong person, on the wrong morning, and, worst of all, wearing the wrong shoes.

“I thought we’d already talked this over, Professor. Knowing the prosecutor and considering the current status of the case, I would reiterate my advice: you should take full advantage of your legal right not to respond to questions. Of course, that is entirely your decision, so if you decide not to act accordingly I can hardly interfere. If you do so, however, let me state here and now that I believe you would be committing a grave mistake, and I would certainly reserve the right to resign from the case immediately.”

After I was done talking, I was as surprised as he was at how aggressive I’d been. He stood there for a moment without speaking, taken aback, almost frightened, unsure what to do now. Under different circumstances, his arrogance and pomposity would have come into play, and he would have given me a large and indignant piece of his mind. But we were in the district attorney’s office, one of the most intimidating places in the world. He was the accused, and I was his attorney. He wasn’t in a very good position to take a hard line with me. So he just took a deep breath.

“All right, Counselor, we’ll do as you recommend.”

At that point, since I’m no paragon of consistency, I felt guilty. I’d mistreated him, abusing my position of power: something no one should ever do. I spoke in a more gentle voice, as if he and I were on the same side.

“It’s the right thing, Professor. Then we’ll see what the prosecutor decides to do next, and if we need time to draw up a long and detailed written statement and submit it as a response, we’ll have it.”

A short while later we entered the prosecutor’s office and declared that we were availing ourselves of the right not to answer. Five minutes after that I was back out on the street, heading for my office.

I was locking my bike to a lamp post near the front door of my building when I noticed a large black dog with a daunting but very familiar silhouette trotting down the sidewalk.

When I recognized him, I felt a surge of happiness. Baskerville. Nadia couldn’t be far behind, I assumed, and I whistled to the dog as I looked around for his owner.

The huge beast loped over to me and when he was close enough, reared up on his hind legs, placing both forepaws on my chest. His tail was wagging frantically and I beamed-proud of my unexpected popularity with a dog-at what good friends Baskerville and I had become in such a short time. To return his cordial greeting, I reached up and scratched him on the head, behind both ears, the way I had the night we first met.

Behind both ears?