Gianrico Carofiglio - Reasonable Doubts

“Why?”

“Guess who stayed in the same hotel on the same two nights.”

“I’m stupid. Who?”

“Luca Romanazzi. And the same Romanazzi slept in the same hotel the night after Paolicelli was arrested.”

Shit. I didn’t say that, but I made a noise as I thought it. “That is interesting.”

“Right. Now, though, you have to find a way to use it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t say a friend of yours, a police inspector, did an unauthorized search in the Ministry of the Interior database on your behalf.”

“Right.”

“Find a way to make him admit it when you question him. Make him think you hired a private detective to look at the hotel registers. Make up any story you like.”

“Thanks, Carmelo.”

He nodded, as if to say, you’re welcome, but I really don’t know how much good this’ll do you. Silently, he placed on the desk the sheets of paper he’d been holding in his hand until then.

“Memorize what’s written here and then throw these papers away. Technically, they’re evidence of an offence.”

The afternoon before the hearing in which we were due to hear Macri’s testimony I didn’t even touch the file. I concentrated on other things entirely. I wrote out an appeal which wasn’t actually due for another week. I made out a few bills for clients who were late paying. I updated some out-of-date files.

Maria Teresa realized that something wasn’t quite right, but was wise enough not to ask any questions. When it was time to close the office and she put her head in to say goodbye, I asked her to order me the usual pizza and beer.

I didn’t get down to work until after nine. That’s typical of me. I’m a specialist in leaving things until the last minute. If a task is difficult, or important, or possibly both, I tend to deal with it only when the water is already up to my neck, or even a little higher.

I reread all the papers in the file. There weren’t many of them. I also reread all my notes. Not many of those either. I started to jot down a series of questions. I wrote about twenty of them, according to the strategy I proposed following, as some of the manuals suggest. But then I felt a fool, and I was sure I would feel a fool reading out those questions when I examined Macri.

You don’t prepare for a fight, I told myself, by writing out a list of the punches and dodges and moves you’re thinking of making in the ring, from the first bell to the last. It doesn’t work like that. In the boxing ring or in court. Or in life.

As I crumpled up my stupid list of questions and threw it in the waste-paper basket, I recalled the world heavyweight title fight between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman in Kinshasa in 1974.

The most extraordinary fight in the history of boxing.

In the days before the fight, Foreman had said he would knock Ali out in two or three rounds. He was certainly capable of it. He started the fight punching like a madman. It looked as if this wasn’t going to be a long contest, couldn’t be a long contest. Ali tried to dodge, defended himself, was pushed back onto the ropes, and took a lot of punches to his body, punches as heavy as stones.

Without reacting.

And yet he was talking. No one could hear what he was saying, but it was clear to everyone that in the middle of that torrent of violence unleashed by Foreman, Ali’s lips were moving constantly. He didn’t look like someone who’s taking a lot of punches and losing the game.

Contrary to all the forecasts, Ali didn’t get knocked out in the first rounds, or the later rounds either. Foreman kept on hitting him furiously, but his blows were having less and less effect. Ali continued dodging, defending himself, taking the blows. And talking.

In the middle of the eighth round, with Foreman now breathing from his mouth and having to make an effort to lift his arms after hundreds of ineffectual punches, Ali suddenly came off the ropes and landed an incredible combination of two-handed blows. Foreman went down, and by the time he got up again the fight was over.

I closed the file and put it in my briefcase. Then I looked among my CDs for a Bob Dylan collection I remembered leaving in the office. It was there. And among the songs on it was ‘Hurricane’.

I turned out the light, put on the CD, went and sat down in my swivel chair, my feet crossed on the desk.

I listened to the song three times. Sitting in the half-light, thinking about many things.

Thinking that sometimes I was glad to be a lawyer.

Thinking that sometimes what I did really had something to do with justice. Whatever the word meant.

Then I turned out the light and went home. To sleep, or try to.

I was outside the courtroom just before ten. As I approached, I’d felt a slight change of rhythm in my heartbeat and a tingling in my throat. As if my pounding heart was about to trigger a coughing fit. That used to happen to me sometimes when I was at university, in the last days leading up to an important exam.

I looked around for Macri, even though I had no idea what he looked like. But all the people who were there, outside the courtroom, were people I knew, at least by sight. The usual fauna of lawyers, bailiffs, trainees and secretaries.

On the way to the courthouse I’d had a bet with myself on what would happen. Looking around again just before I entered the courtroom I told myself I had lost. Obviously he hadn’t believed in my threat to have him brought in by the carabinieri.

I put my briefcase and robe down on the bench. I hoped I wouldn’t have to have Macri brought in like that. I wondered who the assistant prosecutor would be for this hearing.

Then, as if someone had called me, I turned to the door of the courtroom and saw Macri. I don’t know how, but I knew straight away it was him, even though he didn’t correspond at all to the physical stereotype I’d imagined on the way to the courthouse: a man of medium height, slightly overweight, with a dark complexion, very black hair, and maybe a moustache.

Corrado Macri was fair-haired, taller than me and much more robust. Over six feet tall and weighing at least two hundred and twenty pounds, he looked like someone who doesn’t have an ounce of fat, lives on protein-filled milkshakes and spends a lot of time lifting weights.

He was very well dressed – anthracite-grey suit, regimental tie, raincoat over his arm – and considering his size his clothes must have been made to measure.

He came straight up to me. He had an agile way of walking, like an athlete in good shape.

A disquieting thought quickly crossed my mind. How had he known it was me? Who had told him?

“Guerrieri?”

“Yes?”

He held out his hand, taking me by surprise. “I’m Macri,” he said with a smile. I suspected he was attractive to women – at least some women – and was well aware of it.

I replied to his handshake and, despite myself, to his smile. I couldn’t help it. The man had something about him that made you warm to him. I knew perfectly well who he was – a trafficker disguised as a lawyer – and yet I couldn’t avoid finding him oddly likeable.

“We’ve already spoken on the phone,” he said, and smiled again. He looked and sounded quite apologetic.

“Yes,” I replied. Not knowing exactly what to say. I couldn’t figure out this situation at all.

“We got off to rather a… let’s say, rather a shaky start. Probably my fault.”

This time I didn’t even say yes. I simply nodded. That seemed to be the only thing I could manage.

He paused for a few seconds. “Shall we go for a coffee?”

I would have liked to say no, thanks, better not. The hearing’s about to start, it’s better if we don’t go too far away. And don’t forget I have to examine you and ask you some rather embarrassing questions. I don’t think this is the time or place to become too chummy.