Gianrico Carofiglio - Reasonable Doubts

So first of all I took a look at the code. It turned out there was no a priori conflict of interest. It could be done, theoretically anyway.

It was the kind of situation in which you really need a second opinion. Not for the first time, I realized I didn’t have a single colleague I could turn to. I didn’t trust many of them, and none of them were really my friends. For something like this, I needed a friend who knew what he was talking about. And could keep his mouth shut.

I could only think of two people. Curiously, both were prosecutors. Colaianni and Alessandra Mantovani.

I didn’t really want to call Colaianni again, but it struck me that this was a good opportunity to talk to Alessandra again after all this time. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since she’d left Bari to work in the Prosecutor’s Department in Palermo. She’d been escaping from something, like many people. Only she had done it more decisively than most.

She answered after a lot of rings, just when I was about ready to hang up. We exchanged a few jokes, the kind you tell to re-establish contact, to revive the old familiarity.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Guerrieri. I sometimes think you and I should have got together. Things might have gone better for me. Instead, the only men I meet are losers, which starts to be a bit of problem when you’re already forty.”

I am a loser. I’m a bigger loser than any of the men you go out with. I’m also an idiot and if you knew what I did last night you’d agree with me.

I didn’t say that. I said we still had time, if she really liked lawyers with a dubious past and an uncertain future. I’d go to Palermo, she could dismiss her police escort, and we’d see how it worked out.

She laughed. Then she repeated that it was nice to hear from me, and maybe it was time to tell her the reason I was calling. I told her. She listened carefully, stopping me only to ask if I could clarify a few points. When I’d finished, I asked her what she thought of my idea.

“It’s true that in theory a defence counsel’s testimony is admissible. In practice, I very much doubt they’ll allow you to call him unless you can give them a good reason-a very good reason – to do so. And your suspicions aren’t a very good reason.”

“I know, that’s my problem in a nutshell. I need to find a way to get that testimony admitted.”

“You need to put the defendant on the stand first, and his wife. Let them tell the story of how this lawyer came to be involved. Then you can try, though I wouldn’t bet on the result. Appeal court judges don’t like to go to too much trouble.”

“Let’s suppose they admit the testimony. In your opinion, can he refuse to answer on the grounds of lawyer-client confidentiality?”

She thought for a few moments before replying. “In my opinion, no. Lawyer-client confidentiality is there to safeguard the interests of the client. He could claim it if he thought his testimony would be prejudicial to his former client. When you put it like that… I don’t know if there are any precedents.”

“Of course, I could get my client to state that he releases his former counsel from the obligation to observe lawyer-client confidentiality.”

“Yes. That should clinch it. But if I were you I’d read up on this thoroughly and buy a bulletproof vest before I started down this track.”

By the time the call was over, I felt better than I had a few minutes earlier, and my idea seemed a lot less ridiculous.

In the afternoon I cycled over to the prison. I had to make a real effort, because the idea of seeing Paolicelli, less than a day after what had happened, didn’t do much to increase my self-esteem.

But I had to go, because my plan of action was a risky one. And he was the person who’d be taking most of the risks. So I had to explain everything to him, make sure he understood, ask him if he wanted us to try that strategy.

As he entered the interview room, a few scattered images from the previous night suddenly sprang into my head, but fortunately it was only for a moment. When we started talking the images vanished.

I explained to him what the idea was. I told him it was worth a try, but he shouldn’t be under any illusions: it was unlikely that the judges would admit Macri’s testimony, and even if they did, it was very unlikely that it would make much difference to the outcome. But in the situation we were in, it was the only alternative to plea-bargaining – although the option of plea-bargaining should be kept open until the day of the hearing.

He made a simple gesture with his hand, as if swatting away a midge or moving a small object. No plea-bargaining, it meant.

I liked that gesture. I liked the dignity of it. I felt an odd kind of solidarity with him.

Maybe it was my way of processing my sense of guilt. I’m going to end up liking the guy, I thought. And that really would be too much.

So I went on explaining to him how we could proceed, how we could try to play the few cards we had in our hands.

“This would be the sequence: first I ask to examine you, then your wife. The judges will allow that, there shouldn’t be any problems. You state that you know nothing about the drugs. It’s true that you admitted responsibility when you were arrested, but only because you wanted to keep your wife out of it. You suggest a hypothesis on how the cocaine came to be in your car. Then I ask you about your lawyer and you tell us how that relationship started. Your wife tells us the same story, from her point of view.”

I looked him in the eyes. He sustained my gaze, with an interrogative undertone in his. What did my look mean? I told him what it meant.

“Obviously this is a dangerous game we’d be playing. We’re on a knife-edge. The only way it has any chance of working is if you’ve told me the whole truth. If you haven’t, then both you and I are running very serious risks. In court and especially outside court, remembering the kind of people we’re probably dealing with.”

“I’ve told you the truth. The drugs weren’t mine. I did some stupid things in the past, but those drugs weren’t mine.”

What stupid things? The question flashed for a moment in my head and then disappeared, as quickly as it had come, to give way to the same feeling I’d had a little earlier. A liking for him that I didn’t want to feel, but which was seeping in like smoke through the cracks in my conscience.

OK. Better to go on.

“I’ll have to question you about what you and this lawyer talked about. In particular, and this is the most important thing, I’ll have to ask you if you ever asked him to account for his being there.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

“I’ll ask you this: when you met Avvocato Macri, either the first time or any of the subsequent times, did you ask him who had suggested him to your wife? Do you understand why I have to ask that?”

“Yes, yes. I do now.”

“In fact, while we’re at it, answer the question now. That way we can start to memorize it.”

He concentrated, touching his chin. The room was silent and I could hear the noise of his fingers rubbing his stubble the wrong way.

“I think it was the second time we met. The first time was just after my arrest, I hadn’t seen my wife yet and so she hadn’t told me how she’d been advised to appoint him. And anyway I was still in shock, I wasn’t thinking clearly. After the custody order was confirmed, I had my first visit from my wife and she told me about the man who’d stopped her in the street. So when Macri came to visit me again, a few days later, I asked him if he knew who had suggested his name to my wife.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said there was no need to worry about that. He said there were people who wanted to take care of me and they would see to everything. He meant his fee. And it was true, we didn’t pay anything. A few times I tried to ask him when I had to pay, and how much, and he always told me not to worry.”