Gianrico Carofiglio - Reasonable Doubts

“Some people are completely shameless,” I said.

“You have no idea. But somehow I can’t get angry with people who try to steal books. I’ve stolen so many myself. How about you?”

I said I’d never stolen a book. Not physically stolen. I’d read lots in bookshops, without buying them. Not in his shop, I hastened to add.

Then I looked at my watch and realized how late it was. I had to be in court the next day. I asked him how much I owed him.

“The drinks are on the house. The books you have to pay for, because, as I told that man, I’m really not able to give them away.”

I had only just got in to the office when Maria Teresa put through a call from Colaianni.

He didn’t beat about the bush. He had to talk to me, he said, but he’d rather do it face to face.

Usually after a sentence like that, I would have made a joke about magistrates always thinking their phones were tapped, but something in his voice stopped me. So I simply asked how we could talk face to face, seeing that he was in Rome and I was in Bari. He said he was going to be in Foggia in two days’ time, to visit someone in the prison there. If I could get there after he’d finished, we could meet, have a bite together and talk. OK, the day after tomorrow. Bye, see you then.

After putting the phone down I felt strangely euphoric. After so many years of being a defence lawyer, for the first time I had a sense of what detectives feel when an investigation produces results. Because there was no doubt about it. Colaianni had some information about the lawyer Macri. Some important information.

My first impulse was to call Natsu.

Hi, Natsu, I wanted to tell you there’s news. What news? Well, to tell the truth I don’t know, but I’ll know the day after tomorrow in Foggia. Oh, by the way, what are you doing tonight?

My mental ramblings were fortunately interrupted by Maria Teresa, who put her head in through the door and told me Signora Pappalepore and her daughter had arrived. New clients. They had phoned the day before and had made an appointment. I told her to send them in, but as soon as they crossed the threshold a neon sign saying “Watch out” started flashing frantically in my head.

The younger of the two women was about fifty, all dolled up as if she was still a girl, with ridiculous red glasses, Seventies-style clothes, bright red lipstick and yellow hair. The other one was an elderly lady, wearing the same lipstick and glasses as thick as the bottoms of Coca-Cola bottles.

I asked them to take a seat. The younger one helped the elderly one to sit down, then sat down herself and gave me a somewhat disquieting smile.

“How can I help you?” I said, smiling affably and a bit stupidly.

“Who is this young man?” the old woman said as if I wasn’t there, looking at her daughter.

“He’s the lawyer, mother. You remember we came about the lawsuit?”

“Is he Raffaele’s cousin?”

“No, mother, Raffaele’s cousin died ten years ago.”

“Oh…” She seemed to calm down. A few moments of silence followed and I started to get worried.

“So…” I prompted them, smiling as stupidly as before.

“Avvocato Guerrini, we have to bring a lawsuit. Something serious is going on.”

I was going to point out that my name was Guerrieri, not Guerrini, but decided there was no point.

“There’s a conspiracy against us in our apartment building.”

Oh, great, I’m crazy about conspiracies. These two mad-women were all I needed right now.

“Who is this young man?” the old woman said, looking into empty space now.

“Avvocato Guerrini, mother. For the lawsuit, don’t you remember?”

“Is he married?”

“I don’t know, mother. That’s his business. Do you want a sweet?”

The old lady said yes and the younger one took a bag from a pastry-shop out of her handbag. She took out a red sweet, unwrapped it and put it in her mother’s mouth. Then she asked me if I wanted one. I smiled again, through pursed lips, and said no, thanks.

“Some very serious things are happening, Avvocato Guerrini. The people in our building have got together to destroy us. It’s like a kind of… what do you lawyers call it?”

Yes, what did we lawyers call it?

“… a Mafia-style organization.”

A Mafia-style organization. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

“They attack us every day and now we’ve decided to bring a lawsuit against them.”

“But is this young man Marietta’s son?”

“No, mother, Marietta’s son lives in Busto Arsizio. This is the lawyer.”

“Whose son is he?”

“I don’t know, mother. He’s the lawyer, we’ve come about the lawsuit.”

At this point, the old lady suddenly decided to address me directly. “Young man, are you Signora Marzulli’s nephew?”

“No, signora,” I replied politely.

“This is the lawyer. Signora Marzulli’s nephew is a male nurse.”

“A lawyer. And so young. But he must be Raffaele’s…” Cousin? No, signora, I’m not Marietta’s son, who seems to be living in Busto Arsizio, I’m not Signora Marzulli’s nephew, a male nurse apparently, and I’m not even Raffaele’s cousin, who for all I know may have been a lawyer although he’s dead now. I’d also like to get rid of you and do a bit of work, but I realize that’s an unlikely prospect.

I didn’t say that. In fact I didn’t say anything, because I noticed that the old lady had started to sway slowly to her left, leaning on the arm of the chair. For a moment, I had the impression she was falling. Maybe she was having a heart attack or something. I imagined all the logistical problems that would arise, getting the body removed. This wasn’t my lucky afternoon, I told myself.

But the woman wasn’t dying. After swaying for about thirty seconds, almost hypnotically, she straightened her skirt and became still again.

In the meantime, her daughter had continued telling me about the Mafia-style organization that had taken over their apartment building in the Via Pasubio.

This criminal gang had been intimidating them through such things as hanging out their washing contrary to housing regulations and illegal possession of stereo units, not to mention what Signor Fumarulo the surveyor got up to. Fumarulo lived alone and was always bringing women home with him, even in the evening. Once, meeting him in the lift, she had told him that he ought to stop doing it. He had told her not to be such a pain in the arse – as if it was all her fault. She had retorted that he should be careful about what he said, and that she would sue him along with all the others.

“And so Mother and I thought of suing everyone in the building. And then” – she leaned slightly towards me across the desk, conspiratorially – “the money we’re awarded in damages we’ll share with you, Avvocato, fifty-fifty.”

My brain was working frantically to find a way out. Without finding it.

In the meantime the old lady had woken up. “Are you the dentist?”

“No, signora, I’m not the dentist.”

“… Because I have an abscess, just here…” and she opened her mouth and stuck a finger inside, so that I could get a good look at the abscess, and everything else.

“He isn’t the dentist, mother. He’s the lawyer. Do you want another sweet?”

This lasted for at least half an hour, during which the old woman asked me another four or five times if I was Marietta’s son or Signora Marzulli’s nephew. And especially if I was married.

Whenever she asked me this last question, she would wink cunningly at her daughter.

Finally I had a stroke of genius.

I would be happy to take on their case, I said. And of course, what was happening in their building was a scandal. Something would have to be done as soon as possible, and I would do it. There was just one small formality to be got through first. To bring a lawsuit, you had to pay an advance of-I tried to think of a really off-putting figure – let’s say five thousand euros. Unfortunately that was the law, I lied. So I asked the younger Signora Pappalepore to pay me five thousand before I could proceed. Cash was best, though a cheque would be fine too. But I had to have it at once.