Gianrico Carofiglio - Reasonable Doubts

She became evasive. Obviously she didn’t have that much cash on her, and unfortunately she’d left her chequebook at home. I told her she had to bring it in as soon as possible, tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow at the latest. As I said this, I tried as best I could to look like the worst kind of money-grubbing crook. The kind of person you’d want to get away from as quickly as possible, and never approach again.

“Shall we make an appointment for tomorrow?” I said, with a greedy expression on my face.

“I’ll phone you tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow.” She was worried now. She’d ended up in the hands of an unscrupulous opportunist and wanted to get out of here as quickly as she could.

“All right, but please, no later than the day after tomorrow.”

Of course, she assured me, no later than the day after tomorrow. And now I really must excuse her, but she had to go, because it was time to change her mother’s incontinence pad.

In that case, I wouldn’t keep her any longer. Good evening. Good evening to you too, signora.

And no, I’m not Marietta’s son, not even Signora Marzulli’s nephew.

And thank God, I’m not the dentist.

It was very cold in Foggia that morning, so it felt good to enter the restaurant, which was not only warm but full of wonderful smells. Colaianni was already there, sitting at a table with two disreputable-looking individuals: his police escort.

We hugged, and exchanged the kind of small talk you’d expect from men of a certain age who’d been students together. The two policemen stood up without a word and went and sat down at another table, close to the entrance.

“How many years have you been in Rome now?”

“Too many. And I’m getting really pissed off. Especially with working in the anti-Mafia field. We keep arresting traffickers and dealers, we spend hundreds of thousands of euros on phone taps, we constantly interview people who’ve turned State’s evidence, or are pretending to, and absolutely nothing changes. I ought to find myself an honest job.”

Right, I thought. Exactly the same thing I had said to myself a few days earlier, leaving the prison. Here we were, the finest examples of a generation at the height of its professional success.

I didn’t say any of this and he continued. His tone wasn’t jokey any more, it had turned bitter, in a way I would never have expected from Andrea Colaianni.

Unlike me, he had always been passionate about his work, had really believed in it. He had thought that working out of a Prosecutor’s Department, you could change the world. But life is a little more complicated than that.

“I’m increasingly uncomfortable with this job. Do you remember how I was just after the examination?”

I remembered it very well. At the time he had passed his public examination, we saw each other every day. At twenty-five he had already achieved his main aim in life. To be a magistrate. Whereas I was still young and footloose and would stay that way for a while longer.

“I couldn’t wait to start. I couldn’t wait to be a prosecutor. I was ready to change things. To bring about justice.” He looked me in the eyes. “Big words, eh?”

“How does that song go? The one by De Gregori? You were looking for justice and you found the law.”

“Exactly. When I started I felt like an avenging angel. Now – would you believe this? – I feel sick every time I have to arrest someone. A few days ago, in the corridors of the courthouse, I ran into a prisoner in handcuffs being led by a guard. He was a man of about sixty, who looked like a stationer, a grocer, whatever. I’ve seen hundreds of people in handcuffs. All kinds of people. Scared, arrogant, dazed, indifferent. All kinds, and I should be used to it. It shouldn’t have any effect on me. The guard was walking ahead of him and he was behind. At a certain point he slowed down, or maybe he just couldn’t keep up. I don’t know. Anyway, the guard gave a jerk on the chain, just like you do when you’re walking your dog and it stops too long to sniff something. It was only for a moment, because then the man walked quicker and caught up. I stood there in the corridor watching them walk away. I felt a knot in my stomach. That, too, was only for a moment and then the guys in my police escort asked me if anything was wrong and I walked on. Maybe you understand.”

I understood perfectly what he was saying. He made a gesture I had seen many times in the past few weeks. He rubbed his face, hard, as if trying to wipe out something viscous and unpleasant. He didn’t manage it. No one ever does.

“If I could, I’d change jobs. Obviously I can’t. My destiny is all mapped out. Another few years and I’ll be able to ask for a transfer to the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, where I won’t have to do a damn thing. I’ll learn to play golf, take a lover – maybe a young secretary? – and happily carry on to the end.”

“Hey, hey, hold on. What’s happening to you?” It was a stupid question. I knew perfectly well what was happening to him.

“Nothing. A mid-life crisis, I suppose. Have you already had yours? I’m told they pass.”

Had I had mine? Yes, I’d had it, and I didn’t know if it really had passed. But compared to him I had an advantage. I’d felt out of place my whole life, so I was used to it. For someone with his convictions it must have been very hard.

“Anyway, fuck all that.”

At that moment the waiter came up behind me. We ordered buffalo mozzarella, grilled beef, and red wine from Lucera.

“I asked a few of my colleagues about Avvocato Macri, but no one’s ever heard of him. I also asked a few defence lawyers I know, but none of them have heard of him either. In itself that’s not particularly strange in a place like Rome. But it’s not quite normal either.”

No, I thought, it wasn’t normal. The world of criminal lawyers and magistrates, even in a big city like Rome, is a small community. Like a village where everyone knows everyone else. If you live in that village and no one has ever heard of you, something’s not right. It means you don’t work much, or at all. And if that’s the case, how do you make a living?

“So I thought I’d do a little research in our databank. It contains documentation on all the anti-Mafia investigations, along with all the court proceedings, over the past ten years, in the whole of Italy. I said to myself: if this Macri has defended anyone in that kind of trial, I’ll find him and then we’ll get a better idea of what’s going on.”

“And did you find him?”

The waiter arrived with the wine and filled the glasses. Colaianni emptied his, in a way I didn’t like. Nor did I like the way he refilled it immediately.

He looked me straight in the eyes. “Obviously this conversation never happened.”

“I never even came to Foggia.”

“Good. I found our Signor Corrado Macri. But he wasn’t in our databank as a defence lawyer. He was there as a defendant, arrested three years ago by an examining magistrate in Reggio Calabria, for associating with the Mafia, drug trafficking and a number of minor charges.”

“What did he do?” As I asked the question, it struck me how the roles people play influence the things we say and even the things we think. If Macri had been my client, I would have asked what he’d been charged with and certainly wouldn’t have taken it for granted that he had done anything.

Colaianni took a few sheets of paper out of his bag, chose one and started to read the charge sheet.

“Let’s see… Ah, yes. Corrado Macri, benefiting from his position as defence counsel of a number of prominent members of the organization – there follows a list – and having been specifically appointed for that purpose, acted as a link between the imprisoned bosses of the organization and those still at liberty. In particular, gaining access, thanks to his position as defence counsel, to various penal institutions – there follows a list – in which the above-mentioned were confined, he proceeded to inform them of the most significant events that had happened in the organization, agreed with their plans and criminal operations, and proceeded to communicate to those members still at liberty the decisions and orders of the imprisoned bosses.”