“No. We were on the other side of the street.”
“So it’s on the basis of mere conjecture that-”
The assistant prosecutor intervened. “Objection, Your Honour. Counsel for the defence cannot make statements that are offensive to the witness.”
The fat man was about to reply but the presiding judge got in first. “Avvocato, please confine yourself to asking questions. Any comments you may wish to make you may leave for your closing argument.”
“Very well, Your Honour. So, is it correct to say that during the week that you were watching Signor Armenise you didn’t gather any evidence to confirm the complaints you’d received?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that was correct. When parents report that someone is molesting their children close to a school, and I then discover that this person is in the habit of standing outside another school when the children are coming out, for me that is evidence to confirm the reports. Obviously if, during the course of the investigations, we actually witnessed a sexual assault being committed, as sometimes happens, we would then arrest the person involved. But that’s another matter.”
The fat man tried again to argue that these were personal opinions, but this time there wasn’t even any need for the assistant prosecutor to intervene. The presiding judge asked him, in a not very friendly tone, if he had any other questions relating to the facts of the case. If not, the cross-examination could be considered closed. The man stammered inaudibly and sat down. The assistant prosecutor had no more questions for Tancredi, so the judge thanked him and told him he could go.
“Let’s get out of here if we want a coffee,” Tancredi said. So we left the courthouse and set off through the streets of the Liberta. As we walked I told him about the latest developments, especially the phone call from my friendly colleague. Tancredi listened without making any comments, but when I told him that Macri had threatened me, he gave a quick grimace.
“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked me. We were having coffee in a bar frequented by smugglers, whores, lawyers and policemen.
I didn’t like the question. It seemed like a way of asking me if I was thinking of dropping the case.
I replied that there wasn’t much to think about. If Macri came to court the day he had been summoned to appear, I would examine him and try to extract some evidence useful to my client. If he didn’t come, I would ask for him to be brought to court by the carabinieri, and yes, I knew perfectly well he would go crazy, but I couldn’t do anything about that.
“But you can still give me a hand.”
“You want police protection when the Calabrian Mafia send their hitmen to get you, is that it?”
“Very funny. I need some more information about this Macri.”
“What kind of information?”
“Something to use when I examine him. Something I can spring on him to try and wrongfoot him. Bear in mind that I’m going into this more or less blind. If he sounds convincing I’ve lost the case.”
Tancredi stopped, lit a cigar, and looked me in the eyes. “Well, you’ve really got nerve, I’ll say that for you.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew he was right.
38
The next day Tancredi stopped by the office.
He came into my room, sat down and looked at me without saying anything.
“Well?”
“I don’t know if you’re lucky, or the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what accommodation records are?”
“To be honest, no. Should I?”
“They’re the records kept in the databank of the Ministry of the Interior, where all overnight stays in hotels and boarding houses, and all apartment rentals, are registered. I did a search for our friend Macri, and guess what I found?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Granted that Signor Macri travels a lot – there are a lot of entries in his name-I found that he’s often stayed at hotels in Bari. Both before and after Paolicelli was arrested. The times after the arrest don’t matter very much. The others are more interesting. And two of these in particular are extremely interesting.”
“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.”
39
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.