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.
40
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.
All right, I said, we could have a coffee, the judges wouldn’t be here for another fifteen or twenty minutes.
We left the courtroom and as we walked towards the bar, I noticed a man following a few yards behind us. I turned to look at him, wondering who he was.
“Don’t worry, Guerrieri. He’s my driver. He’s keeping his distance because he knows we have to talk and he’s very discreet. He knows the score.”
As he said these last words – he knows the score – the inflexion of his voice changed significantly. From that moment on, I started to take notice of the carabinieri dotted around the courthouse. The fact that there were so many of them reassured me. A little, anyway.
“All courthouses are the same. The same chaos, the same smell, the same faces. Right, Guerrieri?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it.”
We reached the basement, made our way through the peak-hour crowds, and had our coffees. Macri paid and we went out again. The man who knew the score was still behind us.
“Guerrieri, let me tell you this again. I think we got off on the wrong foot in that phone call. I said some things I shouldn’t have said to a colleague. You’re only doing your job. So am I, come to that.”
I nodded, wondering where he was going with this.
“Since you’re doing your job, I don’t want to give you any trouble. But you shouldn’t give me any either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, the hearing is starting, what kind of things do you need to ask me?”
I shouldn’t have answered him. I should have said he’d find out soon enough. Once he was on the witness stand. Instead, I told him I needed to clarify certain points about how his relationship with Paolicelli had started. I realized I was being almost apologetic, and I didn’t like that at all.
I felt like an idiot.
He looked suddenly intense, in a way that was hardly warranted by my unremarkable answer. He pretended to think about what he was going to say and then, still walking, took my arm.
“Listen to me, Guerrieri. Obviously I’ll only answer questions that don’t force me to violate lawyer-client confidentiality. There are some I won’t be able to answer at all, but you know that, right? But that’s not the important thing. There are people who want to take care of Paolicelli. Forget about whether he’s innocent or guilty. He’s in prison, and he’s going to stay there for a while, even though you’re working very hard on his behalf. Which is good, it does you credit. It means you’re a real professional.”
He stopped for a moment to look me in the face. To see if I was taking in what he was saying. I don’t know if he got the impression from my face that I was following him, but he continued anyway.
“He has a wife-a beautiful wife, I don’t know if you’ve met her – and a daughter. He’s in trouble and needs help. He needs money. He’s bound to get a decent reduction on his sentence on appeal, you’ll see. Then in a few years he’ll get time off for good behaviour. But in all that time, a bit of financial help – real financial help – wouldn’t go amiss, right?”
“No, it wouldn’t go amiss,” I answered involuntarily.
He smiled, turning his head slightly towards me. That answer must have given him the idea that we were starting to understand each other. At last. I was someone who knew the ways of the world, who knew the score.
“Good. Naturally it’s something you and I have to talk about. Right now, we have to talk about it and sort it out. Don’t think I’ve come empty-handed.” So saying, he touched his jacket where the inside pocket was. “And of course we won’t forget you. All the work you’ve done, the time you’ve put in on this case. And don’t forget, these people – the ones I’m talking about, who want to take care of our client – often need lawyers. Good lawyers like you. A sound professional can make a lot of money from certain clients. Obviously you know what I’m talking about, right?”