Gianrico Carofiglio - Reasonable Doubts

Mirenghi whispered something in Girardi’s ear. He didn’t even turn to Russo. I got to my feet and asked permission to speak.

“Your Honour, I’d like to make a few observations on what the assistant prosecutor had just said.”

“On what in particular, Avvocato Guerrieri?”

“On the assistant prosecutor’s outline of the presumed inadmissibility of Avvocato Macri’s testimony.”

“If necessary, you can make these observations at another time. For the moment we agree to the examination of your client and of his wife. We will decide on the other request once these are over.”

Then, before I could add anything else, he dictated his ruling to the clerk of the court. “Having considered the admissibility of the examination of the defendant and of his wife, and having considered that it is not possible at the present time to come to a decision as to the admissibility of testimony from Avvocato Macri, it being necessary to hear said examination in order to evaluate its bearing on this case, the court admits the examination of the defendant and of his wife, and reserves any possible further decision until it has been completed.”

All things considered, it was the right thing to do. I would probably have done the same in their place.

Mirenghi again addressed me. “Avvocato Guerrieri, how long do you think the examination of your client will take? If it is something we can get through in a few minutes, we’ll proceed now. If not, as we have to close today’s session early due to a personal engagement of my own, it would be better to adjourn.”

“Your Honour, I don’t think it will take long, but I doubt that a few minutes would be enough. It may be better to have a short adjournment.”

Mirenghi made no comment on this. He put it on record that the next hearing would take place in a week’s time, and then said that there would now be a recess of five minutes.

I was on my way to tell Paolicelli that things were going more or less as I’d expected, when I saw his eyes moving towards the door of the courtroom. I turned and saw Natsu coming in.

I found myself blushing, in a way I hadn’t since I was a child. This was the first time, since this whole business had started, that we were all together in the same place. Natsu, her husband and I.

Paolicelli called me. I hesitated for a few moments, hoping the blushing would disappear or at least fade a little, and then walked to the cage.

He wanted to say hello to his wife and needed his guards to let her come closer. I asked Montaruli, and he authorized the defendant and his wife to have a brief conversation. As a rule this isn’t done – only a limited number of such conversations are allowed and they can only take place in prison – but in practice prosecutors who aren’t complete bastards bend the rules a little during the pauses between cases.

Natsu leaned against the cage and he took her hands through the bars. He squeezed them in his, and said something which luckily I couldn’t hear. I felt a twinge of jealousy, and a simultaneous pang of guilt. They were very different but both hurt equally.

I had to leave the courtroom to overcome the feeling that everyone was looking at my face and could see in it what was happening inside me.

A few minutes later the escort passed me, taking Paolicelli away in handcuffs. He greeted me with a kind of weak smile and raised his fettered hands.

The afternoon before the second hearing I went to visit Paolicelli in prison. I told him what would happen the following morning-I would begin with his wife’s testimony and then I would examine him – gave him advice on how to conduct himself in court, and went over the questions I was going to ask him and the answers he should give me.

It didn’t take very long. We finished in less than half an hour.

As I was putting my papers in my briefcase, getting ready to leave, Paolicelli asked me if I didn’t mind staying another ten minutes or so for a chat. Those were his exact words: You couldn’t stay another ten minutes or so for a chat?

I couldn’t help the look of surprise on my face, and obviously he noticed.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous, I don’t know what came over me

…”

I interrupted him with an awkward gesture of the hand, as if to tell him he didn’t need to apologize. “It isn’t ridiculous. I know how alone you can feel in prison.”

He looked me in the eyes, then covered his face with his hands for a few seconds and gave an almost harsh sigh, heavy with suffering but also a kind of relief.

“Sometimes I think I’m going mad. I think I’ll never get out of here. I’ll never see my little girl again, my wife will meet someone else and make a new life for herself-”

“I met your daughter. Your wife brought her into the office one evening. She’s really beautiful.”

I don’t know why I said that. To interrupt what he was saying, I guess, and make my guilt more bearable. Or maybe there was another reason. Whatever it was, the words just came out, and I couldn’t control them.

I couldn’t control anything in this situation any more.

He was looking for something to say in reply but couldn’t find it. His lips were tight and he was on the verge of tears. I didn’t look away, as I would have done as a rule. Instead I reached an arm across the table and put my hand on his shoulder. As I did so, I thought about how many times I’d fantasized about getting my hands on him one day.

None of this makes sense, I thought.

“How do you spend your time in here?” I asked him.

He rubbed his eyes and sniffed before replying. “I’m quite lucky. I work in the infirmary, and that helps. Part of the day passes quickly. Then in my free time…”

As he said this, he became aware of the paradox. Free time. He seemed about to make a joke out of it, but then must have thought it wouldn’t be funny or even original. So he just made a tired gesture and continued talking.

“… well, anyway, when I’m not working I try to do a little exercise, you know, press-ups, stretching, that kind of thing, and apart from that I read.”

Right, I thought. That was the only thing missing. A Fascist who reads. Do they have the works of Julius Evola in the prison library? Or maybe highlights from Mein Kampf?

“What do you read?”

“Whatever I can find. Right now I’m reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, A Long Road to Freedom. It’s a good title, for someone in my position. Do you like reading, Avvocato?”

I thought of telling him he didn’t have to keep calling me Avvocato. It was a bit absurd, considering – how shall I put it? – everything there was and had been between us. Only he didn’t know what there was and had been, between all of us. He would probably never know.

“Yes, I like it a lot.”

“And what are you reading now?”

I was reading Nothing Happens by Chance. And as I answered his question and told him the title I had the feeling that everything suddenly had a clear, distinct meaning. Or rather, that this clear, distinct meaning had always been there, like Poe’s purloined letter, but I simply hadn’t been capable of grasping it. Because it was too obvious.

His voice dispelled everything before I could find the words to define that meaning and remember it. “Is it a novel?”

“No, it’s an essay by a Jungian psychoanalyst. It’s about chance and coincidence, and the stories we tell ourselves to give meaning to chance and coincidence. It’s a good book, a book about the search for meaning, and about stories.” And then, after a brief pause, I added, “I like stories a lot.”

Why was I saying these things? Why was I telling him that I liked stories? Why was I talking about myself?