A Fine Line (16 page)

“Molletta.”

“Can you tell us what that means?”

“A
molletta
is a knife… The kind where you press a button…”

“You mean a flick knife?”

“Yes, that's it, a flick knife.”

“Why did they call you Molletta?”

“They didn't exactly call me Molletta. I mean, they didn't say, ‘Hey, Molletta'. I mean, they did when I was a boy, but not after that. Let's say that when I wasn't there—”

“You mean they didn't use the nickname Molletta to address you, but they used it to talk about you in your absence.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Now that that's clear, can you tell us where the nickname comes from?”

“It was because when I was a boy I already carried a knife – a flick knife – and once I stabbed an older boy, because he gave me a slap. I took out the flick knife and stabbed him, and after that they called me Molletta.”

“I see, that's very clear. Thank you. Can you tell us some of the nicknames of people in your circles?”

“There are so many…”

“Tell us a few, just to give us an idea.”

“For instance, there was someone they called Cedrata because whenever he went to a bar he always ordered a
cedrata
, a citron juice. Then there was another guy who was called The Tramp…”

“Why did they call him The Tramp?”

“They called him that because… no offence meant, but he was stingy. He never stood a round, he was always careful with his money, even though he had plenty.”

“And tell me, Signor Capodacqua, does Ladisa have a nickname?”

“Yes, but it's a nickname nobody ever uses to his face.”

“Let's take things one at a time. First tell us, what is the nickname, then explain it to us.”

“They call him Il Flippato.”

“Can you explain to Her Honour, who isn't from Bari, what Il Flippato means?”

“It means someone… how can I explain this?… someone who's a little bit off his head. Someone who you don't know how he's going to react…”

“You mean: a bit unpredictable?”

“That's it, yes.”

“Can you tell us the reason for this nickname?”

“For that very reason, because he was… because he says one thing and does another… It's hard to explain the dialect.”

“Of course, I understand. Let's say he showed a certain inconsistency. I've found a vocabulary of expressions from Bari dialect, complete with definitions. To help you, I'd like to read you the one corresponding to
flippato
.”

I took the printout I'd made of that vocabulary page and looked at it for a few moments. I remembered the definition by heart, but in these cases reading has a different effect. It
makes it sound more official, even if what you're reading comes from a silly website about life in Bari. And anyway, the definition I had found was philologically impeccable.

“So, ‘
Flippato
: scatterbrained by nature or through the consumption of drugs, unreliable, weak in the head.' Do you agree with this definition?”

At this point the prosecutor objected. I couldn't blame her.

“Objection, Your Honour. We've allowed the defence to continue for a while along this line of dubious relevance – nicknames and etymologies, so to speak – but now he's overstepped the mark. The question aims to elicit a personal opinion from the witness and is therefore inadmissible.”

The judge turned to me after looking for a few fractions of a second more than necessary at the prosecutor.

“Your Honour, I have no intention of arguing with the prosecutor, but I have to say that the objection strikes me as quite unfounded. As for the admissibility: the aim of the question is to establish if that definition of the word corresponds to the meaning attributed to such an expression in the social and political context to which Capodacqua belongs. It's obvious therefore that in this particular case the witness is not being asked for a personal opinion – which is forbidden by the final paragraph of article 194 of the code of procedure – but a semantic fact, if you'll allow me the expression. The same article 194, as it happens, specifies that the prohibition of personal opinions is reduced when it is impossible to distinguish them from statements of fact. The fact is: Ladisa was nicknamed Il Flippato, a word of which you can't possibly know the meaning. It belongs to the dialect of Bari, which for these purposes should be considered a foreign language. In order to convey this expression into the material usable in the trial, it is necessary to – how shall I put this? –
translate
it, and in particular to translate
it into its generally accepted meaning in the context from which the witness comes. The most obvious way to do this is to ask the witness, and, for greater clarity, to consult a text that enunciates with perhaps superior precision – begging Signor Capodacqua's pardon – that meaning in its diverse facets. As for the relevance—”

“All right, Avvocato, I'll allow the question. You may answer, Signor Capodacqua.”

“What was the question?”

“I read you a definition of the word
flippato
. I asked you if you agreed with that definition.”

“Can you read it to me again?”

“Of course. “
Flippato
: scatterbrained by nature or through the consumption of drugs, unreliable,
weak in the head
.” Do you agree with this definition?”

I had emphasized the words
weak in the head
to distract his attention, because the definition that interested me most was
unreliable
and I wanted it entered in the record – and therefore in the trial – without any objections.

“He isn't really
weak in the head
. He's a bit crazy, I don't mean he's stupid, just a bit crazy. I don't think
weak in the head
is right.”

“That's a useful clarification, for which I'm grateful. So you don't think
weak in the head
corresponds to the meaning of the word
flippato
. Do the other definitions strike you as correct?”

“Yes.”

It had gone well. It wasn't a decisive result, but the record now contained a statement by the principal prosecution witness, Capodacqua, that his former friend, and the source of his information, was nicknamed
unreliable
.

“Thank you. Then I can go on. Just a few more questions and we've finished.”

“No problem.”

“At the time you started cooperating with the law, you had various proceedings pending, is that correct?”

“Of course.”

“On which charges?”

“A bit of everything. Extortion, drugs, arms, robbery, attempted murder.”

“Everything but the kitchen sink. Your proceedings are mostly in Bari, aren't they? But I imagine in other jurisdictions, too.”

“Yes, in other places. For example, a robbery in Treviso, another in… what's it called?… some other place in the Veneto.”

“Have you ever accused anyone falsely of a crime?”

“Objection, not only is the question detrimental to the sincerity and validity of the answer, counsel for the defence is asking the witness to incriminate himself. That's inadmissible.”

It was the only moment when young Avvocato Florio seemed to wake from his lethargy. He stood up and said that he agreed with the prosecutor's objection. He wasn't lacking in the gift of brevity.

Costa reflected for a few moments. It was understandable. The prosecutor's objection was correct – I had asked the question in the knowledge that it would be declared inadmissible – but of course, a judge would like to know if the witness whose testimony she is hearing has been suspected of slander in the past. In the end, after a slight sigh, she sustained the objection.

“Ask another question, Avvocato.”

“Signor Capodacqua, you're familiar with the offence of slander, aren't you? That is, you know what the word
slander
means?”

“Objection, Your Honour,” Prosecutor Greco said, aggressively. “What kind of question is that? Questions should be about facts. Is counsel setting the witness an exam on criminal law? Is he trying to intimidate him?”

“Sustained. Questions about facts, Avvocato.”

“Have you ever been tried for slander, Signor Capodacqua?”

“No.”

“Allow me to draw your attention to the fact that you are obliged to tell the truth. Maybe you shouldn't be so hasty. I'll rephrase it: are you aware of having ever been
charged
with the offence of slander?”

There was a long hesitation. I was looking out of the corner of my eye at the prosecutor on my left. She seemed on the verge of intervening and at the same time unsure of what to do. Finally Capodacqua replied:

“I've never had any trials for slander. But if there's a case file somewhere and I don't know about it—”

“Well, that strikes me as a more prudent response. You don't know if the carabinieri in San Severo, in the province of Foggia, ever charged you with—”

He interrupted me with an eye-catching movement of the hand, raising it above his head. Up until that moment, he had kept his hands still. “I know what you're talking about. I know.”

“I'm pleased. Can you tell us?”

“They did charge me. It was a few years ago.”

“Why?”

“It's a complicated story.”

“We'll do our best to understand it.”

“I'd reported the theft of a car which hadn't actually been stolen—”

“Sorry to interrupt you. As a matter of fact, you're right: the details of that case don't interest us much. Is it wrong
to say that you had reported a theft that hadn't actually happened?”

“No, it isn't wrong, but—”

“Do you know if the carabinieri charged you with slander?”

“I know they prepared a charge, but I never saw it. I'd completely forgotten about it.”

“Did you report the existence of this charge of slander when you began cooperating with the law?”

“I told you, I'd forgotten all about it.”

“I have no other questions, Your Honour. Thank you.”

The prosecutor asked if she could re-examine the witness. She was anxious to try to understand the matter, which she herself had learnt about a few moments earlier, because up until that moment I'd been the only one who knew about it, thanks to Annapaola's inquiries. Capodacqua told the story, clarifying it as best he could. In itself the episode was of little importance, and probably it had been merely a minor simulation of an offence rather than a slander. Capodacqua was surely telling the truth when he asserted that he had forgotten all about it and had never mentioned it for that reason.

The fact remained that the hearing hadn't gone well for the prosecution. By the time the examination and the hearing were brought to a close, the unpleasant odour of the word
slander
hung over the proceedings. We all knew it would somehow stay there, and we all knew that the Prosecutor's Department would have to find something very solid if it didn't want this case to end up on the scrapheap of dismissal or exoneration.

21

It was quite late when Annapaola called me.

The whole time I'd been driving back from Lecce I'd thought about calling her to tell her how it had gone. Maybe she'd have replied that she wanted to hear my account in person, and then we'd have seen each other and maybe had dinner together somewhere in the city, or at my place, or maybe again at her place, and I would have told her – soberly of course, avoiding too much self-congratulation, but making it clear that I'd been good. Then later, maybe, we'd have made love again, because I hadn't liked making love so much in quite some time, even though I knew it was dangerous stuff, to be handled with great care.

I hadn't called her. I mustn't harbour unrealistic expectations – I actually said that ridiculous sentence to myself. It had been a great evening, we'd both liked it, but there couldn't be any follow-up. That was very clear from what she'd told me that same evening in her apartment. It had been a pleasant diversion, nothing more.

Don't go having stupid illusions about it, Guerrieri.

Her
telephone call arrived after ten, when I'd just finished with my friend Mr Punchbag and was thinking of taking a shower.

“Hi, Avvocato, is it too late to call?”

“No, of course not.”

“Am I interrupting anything romantic?”

“Actually, yes. I'm here at home with two girlfriends, Cuban lap dancers. We're having a party.”

“Classy stuff, I imagine. Let's talk another time, then.”

“Don't worry, they're happy to wait.”

There was a brief pause. She was looking for an appropriate line to finish the exchange, but couldn't find one.

“I was letting off steam with the punchbag,” I said.

“You're still in the gym at this hour?”

“I'm at home. I have a punchbag in the living room.”

“A punchbag in the living room? You really aren't well, are you?”

“I haven't been well for about thirty years, maybe more.”

“Well, there you are. So how did it go in Lecce today?”

“Pretty good. We only examined Capodacqua because Marelli died.”

“When?”

“Two days ago, after you gave me the dossiers. There weren't any dramatic upsets, but the nickname thing and the slander thing both worked.”

“You don't have the record yet, do you?”

“I'll have it in three days.”

“Then you can let me read it when I get back.”

“Are you going away?” What a clever question, Guerrieri. Your powers of deduction are truly amazing.

“I'll be away for about ten days.”

“Where are you going?” I couldn't stop myself from asking the question.

“Oh, different places. I have things to do for work. Then I'll stay for a while with friends in Rome.”

There was a note of deliberate vagueness in her answer that produced an absurd pang of jealousy in me. I'll be away
for about ten days
? Do people just go away like that? What the hell!

She was going to Rome, to stay with friends, and God knows who she was supposed to be meeting. A boyfriend, or more likely a girlfriend. Are you
jealous
, Guerrieri? What gives you the right? Haven't you always told yourself that if your woman went with another woman you wouldn't have any problem with that?
Your
woman? But Annapaola isn't your woman.

“Guido, are you there?”

“Yes, I'm sorry, I thought I'd lost you for a few seconds. There are a few spots in this apartment where there's no signal.” It was a lie.

Maybe we could meet tonight, that is, now. I'll just have a quick shower and come and pick you up, or if you like you can pick me up, we'll have a bite to eat somewhere and then we'll make love. Sounds like a good plan, don't you think?

I didn't say that, of course. Partly because she spoke before I could add anything. She'd call me when she got back, so good night, kisses, see you soon, bye.

Bye.

I stood there for a few moments with the phone in my hand, looking at it as if it were an object I'd never seen before. Then I turned back to my friend Mr Punchbag. He's my confidant. If I didn't talk to him about certain subjects I don't know who I'd talk to. Some would say he's a comfort object, rather like a teddy bear or Linus's blanket.

“Do you think I have a crush on this girl, Mr Punchbag?”

He was still swaying from the last blows he'd taken before the phone rang. It's his way of nodding.

“Yes, I think so, too. I don't remember how this whole thing works, it's been ages since the last time. The last real time, I mean. But all these palpitations – a bit ridiculous, I agree – when she called me, this jealousy when she told me she was going away God knows where to see God knows who,
this wondering how I should behave, what tactics to adopt and so on… well, it isn't good.”

“…”

“I was sure you'd agree with me. As usual, I've been running this nice private film in my head, while the reality is quite different. She has someone and she's going to see him – or
her
. She's a very attractive girl, fascinating, freewheeling. We had fun together one evening, it was great –
really
great, actually – but that's where it ends. Better to be aware of that and avoid getting hurt. Right?”

“…”

“Right. Best to go and have a shower instead of standing here talking crap. Although maybe…”

“…”

“I'm going.”

As soon as my counterpart in Lecce had sent me the file with the record of the pretrial hearing, I'd forwarded it to Larocca, who'd been waiting impatiently for it. A few hours later, he'd called and said he wanted to come and see me in my office right away.

“Congratulations. That cross-examination is a real showpiece. Both for the strategy and the tactics, and the brilliant way you resolved the legal questions.”

I tilted my head slightly and shrugged. A gesture of modesty, almost of indifference. I was just doing my job, you don't have to thank me – strictly speaking, he hadn't thanked me – or words to that effect.

“I'm only sorry I let myself be persuaded not to come. I'd like to have been there, I'd like to have seen the prosecutor's face. The things you said about the admission of Marelli's statements are…
brilliant
.”

He was a river in full spate.

“Even the matter of Ladisa's nickname and the charge of slander. Excellent, excellent. That private detective you use is really on the ball. You can't always count on getting hold of information like that. The Prosecutor's Department got what it deserves. But who was this Greco woman? The petition was signed by the other two, so why was she there?”

“I don't know, we'll have to figure it out. I wanted to ask before the hearing began. Then the judge arrived and we started.
After
the hearing, she didn't seem very sociable.”

He burst out laughing. The idea of Prosecutor Greco having become not very sociable because of the outcome of the hearing must have really amused him. He was euphoric: it was as if he'd been taking drugs, or drinking. He looked around, wild-eyed, as if he hadn't been in my office twice before.

“I like your office. Very elegant, very original. When this business is over I want to take you out to dinner in my favourite restaurant. It'll be a pleasure for me to spend an evening with you without this whole thing monopolizing our conversation. You know, something good can come from something unpleasant: the beginning – the new beginning – of a beautiful friendship. We'll have a couple of bottles and talk, about ourselves and everything else.”

Yes, I said, of course, I'd like that. He was almost too eager. I felt embarrassed.

“All right, Guido. Things are going well. Now what do we do, what's our next move?”

“We wait. It could be several months before there are any new developments. They've just been granted an extension of the investigation. In any case, now the pretrial hearing is over, Signorina Doria” – it had a strange effect on me, calling Annapaola by her surname – “has to find us something on
Salvagno's financial situation so that we can start to explore the hypothesis of influence peddling.”

“What about the appeal of the custody ruling?”

“In my opinion, they've given up on that, for the reasons we've already been through many times.”

“Couldn't we try to find out, one way or another?”

The question irritated me. I was irritated above all by that expression –
one way or another
– which seemed to allude to the possibility that something unlawful would have to be done in order to obtain a result. Unlawful things had already been done to get the information we'd started with. But I didn't like the way he took it for granted, the way he didn't even consider the ethical dimension of certain actions, or so it seemed.

“Let's not overdo it with requests that are… how shall I put it?… irregular. We have a case that's heading for dismissal, as long as nothing major happens. Better not to interfere with that process, we only risk causing damage.”

Larocca didn't seem satisfied with my answer. In his agitated state he required some – any – prospect of action, of movement, he couldn't just keep still and wait.

“Let's do as you say. But when the case is dismissed, we'll come down on them like a ton of bricks. At the very least, we can accuse them of violating confidentiality by leaking the news to the press.”

It would have been a pointless accusation. I've never seen a single case in which the person responsible for a leak was identified with any certainty, often because he belongs to the very office charged with carrying out the investigations. I had no desire to remind Larocca of this elementary truth. So I said that once we knew where the proceedings were going and had the whole picture at our disposal, we could decide what to do. Even – I conceded, lying – lodge a possible complaint for violation of confidentiality.