A Fine Line (21 page)

“So what happened?”

“Life happened. The work took up more of my time than I'd thought. I married very young – maybe you remember, although you and I didn't see very much of each other at that time – then we separated and it wasn't an amicable separation. To cut a long story short, ten years later I was still a magistrate. I'd lost contact with the university and had stopped studying to be a notary. I was trapped in this profession which I'd considered just a temporary occupation.”

It was only now that I managed to take a sip of wine, whereas he, carried away by what he was telling me, seemed to have forgotten his drink. It was as if it was what he had been waiting for: the opportunity to tell his story. As if he had never told it before. Maybe he
had
never told it before.

The waiter asked us if we wanted anything to eat. He could bring us, if we wanted, focaccia, mozzarella bites, olives, pistachios, crisps, celery, carrots, fennel. I nodded, without even thinking. The waiter looked at me, puzzled.

“A bit of everything, a mixture,” I said in an impatient, dismissive tone. He looked at me for a few seconds, then must have decided that I was a strange character, the type of customer you have to humour if you don't want any trouble. He gave a half-bow and walked away. I turned again to Larocca, who was just waiting for a sign from me to resume.

“And so I kept on being a magistrate. It was a stopgap, but on the outside I made it seem like a choice. To tell the truth, I managed to convince myself for a while, but soon I realized that I had committed an injustice towards myself. People much less capable and gifted than me – or you,” he added after a few seconds, “had become notaries and were making lots of money, or were filling university seats, becoming professors and therefore rich lawyers. Real idiots, people who floundered at university and have never understood anything about the law.”

About this he was right. Some people who in our university days had struck us as common imbeciles – because they
were
– now occupied major seats. Boys we had laughed at had become full professors, revered and respected as great jurists.

“They put themselves in the right place, licked the right arses. They were patient, they wrote unreadable monographs full of things they'd cribbed and ended up with university posts. You remember Di Maio?”

I did remember Di Maio. A young man of incomparable mediocrity and ignorance, now a full professor and a rich lawyer. His biography could have been entitled:
The Triumph of the Idiot.

“Villas, boats, holidays, luxury hotels. With just one of the judgments he gets one of his slaves to write for him on behalf of a bank or a business company, he earns what I get as a salary in six months. Do you think it's possible, do you think it's right, that some of the two-bit bunglers who appear for the defence in my court earn ten times what I do?”

“If you don't think it's right, resign and start practising as a defence lawyer.”

He ignored my words. He didn't even hear them. He wasn't interested in my comments. The light of madness shone in his eyes.

“I was telling you about the gastritis. Since I started accepting… gifts, I've got better. I didn't realize immediately, but after a few months I didn't have any more symptoms. None at all. It wasn't hard to link the two things, even though, as you can imagine, I couldn't tell that to my therapist.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I'd followed his advice. Abandoned trying to control everything, let go, stopped judging myself. Actually it was all true; there was just that one thing missing.”

He gave a knowing little smile. At that moment the waiter arrived with the focaccia, the mozzarella bites, the olives, the pistachios, the crisps, the celery, the carrots, the fennel, just as we'd ordered. I don't know why, but I was struck by the odour of the celery: it set off one of those roller coasters of memory that only smell can. Within a few moments, I was in my grandmother's kitchen. She was cooking, cutting something I couldn't see on the old streaked marble table and holding it out to me. It was the stem of a plant, and she told me to taste it. I bit into it a little suspiciously, it was crunchy beneath my teeth, I liked it. Then someone else came into the kitchen, but at this point the memory faded.

“I want you to understand, Guido. Have I ordered the release of any of your clients in the past few years?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever wondered about it?”

“No.”

“Doesn't that tell you anything?”

“What should it tell me?”

“Your clients were well defended. You're a good lawyer and a decent person. Sure enough, when I needed a lawyer, I turned to you. I take gifts only from rogues and rascals, for clients who should be released anyway and whom they – their lawyers, I mean – may not be capable of defending adequately. Just imagine, I've sometimes had to suggest myself the things they ought to write in the appeals.”

“But how much—”

“A lot. Since I started accepting gifts, I've made more money than I would have earned in thirty years of work.”

“What do you do with all that money?”

He looked at me with a strange expression. There was surprise in it, but it wasn't just that. It was as if this question placed us on a level he hadn't thought about. He took several seconds to reply.

“Almost nothing. It's there, put aside. I'll use it when I retire and have a very comfortable old age.”

“Tell me about that account in Switzerland.”

“I opened it in 2001, just before my fortieth birthday. At that time, some kinds of operation were still quite common. Today, everything's much more complicated. Just imagine, back then some banks even provided smugglers.”

“You mean people to carry the money over the border?”

“Yes, they'd come here and collect the bags with the money. Because cash is a nuisance, you know. Whenever possible, it's much better to transfer money from one foreign
bank to another, using confidential accounts. Accounts created for that purpose, where the money usually comes from over-invoicing or invoicing for non-existing operations. In such cases, it doesn't matter if the transfer is made to an account in Switzerland, or Luxembourg, or the Isle of Man. Someone presses a button somewhere and the money is transferred to the other side of the world. It's much better when I receive gifts like that. It happens when the people involved are big companies which have had their assets seized.”

Big companies. I recalled some controversial cases in the last few years where Larocca's court had ruled the release from seizure of considerable assets: land, manufacturing plants. In each of these cases, tens of millions of euros were involved. I felt rather nauseous, the kind of nausea you feel on a winding mountain road when you aren't in the driver's seat.

“But when it's a matter of cash, as I was saying, things are a little more troublesome, less sterile.”

“Less sterile?”

“Cash needs to be taken to a safe bank abroad, and the physical distance is quite important. That's why Switzerland is better than other places. And that's why using the services of smugglers was very…
convenient
. Expensive but convenient.”

“How does it work?”

Larocca smiled, and drank some wine. He seemed pleased to be able to explain it to me. “Imagine you've opened an account in a bank in Zurich and you have to deposit some cash in it, but you don't want to take unnecessary risks crossing the border with so much money on you. You call your bank, your trusted official, and you arrange for it to be carried by smugglers. In some cases, for large sums, they even flew down on private planes.”

“And today?”

“Things have become more complicated. In Switzerland now they're no longer so…
tolerant
. No more smugglers. Every time I can do a transfer from one foreign bank to another, I do it… or rather, I have it done. Otherwise you need to sort out the cash.”

He carried on for a while, eating and drinking as he spoke. With a hint of smugness, he also told me about the luxury hotels, and I found it hard to restrain myself from telling him that he could spare me the details, because I already knew.

I realized I was getting bored. Weary and bored to death. He was talking about money, about that bank in Switzerland, about how he would reward my valuable work, and I was thinking I'd rather be somewhere else. I half closed my eyes, sure that he wouldn't notice, and in fact he didn't. I could hear the sound of his voice more clearly, not what he was saying, which no longer interested me. That's how I became aware of something that had escaped me. A kind of obscene, unhealthy self-importance. It was as if that tone – much more than the words, the concepts, the arguments – sucked away all meaning, all distinctions, all possibility of separating right from wrong. I don't know how much time passed before I started actually listening to him again.

“Now that I've told you everything, I think we should put our heads together and decide on a strategy. First, we need to have a better idea of what exactly they've found out about the account. It may be necessary to get in touch with a lawyer in Zurich. What do you suggest?”

I let his words hang in the air between us for a long time. It wasn't calculated, I was simply looking for a way to say what I had to say.

“I'm sorry, Pierluigi,” I said finally, “but I'm going to have to give up the brief.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm giving up the brief. You'll have to find another lawyer.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you resign from the bench.”

He looked at me as if I'd suddenly spoken in a completely unfamiliar language. My hand went to my jacket pocket, where I had put the two envelopes. I ran my fingers over the short side of the rectangle and pushed the tips of my thumb and middle finger into the sharp edges. Unconsciously, I must have been looking for a sense of strength and security, but it actually made me feel weak, lost and alone. At that moment, I realized I wouldn't be capable of sending those two envelopes.

“What are you saying?”

“I don't feel I can continue to represent you. I don't think I'd be able to guarantee an effective and unconditional defence after hearing the things you've told me. I can't conceive how you can continue to do your work, in the way you do it, thanks partly to me. It'd be quite different if you handed in your resignation, but I know you won't do that.”

There. I'd said it. It wouldn't make any difference, but at least I'd managed to say it.

“You're mad.”

“It's possible.”

His face was transformed. He opened his eyes wide, and his mouth twisted in a grimace that was meant to express anger and indignation but was as grotesque as a living caricature. “You want to judge me. You
are
judging me. You want to turn into a prosecutor, a judge, and even an executioner.”

“I don't think you're in any position to formulate these opinions.”

“People like you disgust me. You think you're superior and judge other people only because you're afraid of the wickedness you have inside you.”

“You're raving. It's best if I drive you home.”

“You moralists don't understand something that Aristotle understood and talked about over two thousand years ago: all men commit wicked and immoral acts, if they have the opportunity. All of them.”

“It's a very convenient argument. All men are wicked, therefore
I
haven't done anything wrong. Very convenient.”

“Did you never cheat on your wife when you were married? Have you always declared everything you earn to the tax people? Have you never bought a property and put in the contract a figure lower than the one you paid, then paid the difference in cash to save on the registration tax? Have you never driven through a red light, after checking there was nobody at the crossing? Have you never exceeded the speed limit on a clear, deserted road?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. We all break the rules, you at least as much as the others. The difference isn't between breaking them and not breaking them. The difference is in the consequences. We need to claim the right to evaluate and decide, using our intelligence and common sense, when breaking the rules doesn't cause any major harm, as I said before. If it doesn't, then there should be no obstacle to the legitimate human desire for freedom of action.”

“It seems to me you were saying rather different things in your lecture to the postgraduates. But maybe I'm not intelligent enough to grasp certain nuances.”

Once again he ignored my words and my futile sarcasm. “Have you ever smoked grass and offered it to your friends?
That's an offence, you know. Have you ever driven after drinking? That's also an offence. Have you ever been in a fight? Another offence. Who do you think you are to judge? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I'll drive you home.”

“Go fuck yourself. You're not driving anyone. Let me give you a piece of advice, you arsehole: in future, try not to take on any defence in my court.”

He stood up and left. I sat there, not moving.

29

By the time I left, maybe half an hour later, it had stopped raining. Everything was wet and shiny and precarious. They must have been doing roadworks in the area, because there was a strong smell of water and asphalt. The air was grey, with a few gaps of blue in a sky like thick cotton wool. I got in my car, set off, and called Annapaola. The phone rang for a long time, but she didn't pick up. I tried again, but she still didn't pick up. I was thinking of phoning Tancredi – the only other person I could talk to about this business – and wondering if it was a good idea when Annapaola called me back. I stopped the car near the gate of the San Francesco pinewoods and answered.

“I'm sorry, I didn't hear the phone. How's it going?”

“I can vaguely remember better times.”

“Are you all right?”

“No, I don't think I am.”

“Actually, your voice—”

“I met Larocca. I spoke to him.”

The silence hovered between our two phones. In the end she gave an audible sigh.

“Shall we meet and you can tell me about it? How does that grab you?”

“Weren't you supposed to be away on business?”

“I just got back. Well, how about it?”

“Yes.”

“All right, I'll take a shower and join you in your office.”

Pasquale seemed to be on the verge of contravening his rigid personal protocol and asking me if something was wrong. He managed to restrain himself, but he looked worried. First Consuelo, then Maria Teresa came into my office to say hello. Both asked me if something had happened. To both I replied, no, thank you, nothing had happened. I was sitting there with my feet on the desk. I never do that. Your posture can set alarm bells ringing.

Consuelo said, “If you want to talk, boss, I'm here,” and went out.

Maria Teresa said, “Don't get me all worried now, Guido. Please,” and also went out.

Annapaola arrived.

I gave her a complete account, starting with those two absurd letters I'd written, which I still had in my pocket.

“I didn't know what to do, so I did something stupid. I wrote a letter, using a fictitious signature, and made two copies, one for the Prosecutor's Department and one for the customs police, basically saying what you told me about the Swiss account and giving them some useful tips for their investigation. I thought… It was idiotic. I thought of telling him to hand in his resignation. If he accepted, I'd destroy the letter, otherwise I'd send it. That was what I thought.”

“And did you do it?”

“No. It was a stupid thing, something I
thought
of doing. I realized it was nonsense, as well as an offence – making a personal threat. So I told him I'd learnt from my sources that inquiries about a Swiss account were in progress, but
that the information so far was vague, and I asked him to explain.”

“And he told you the whole nasty business.”

“He told me the whole nasty business, yes. And then, as if nothing had happened, he asked me how we should formulate a defence strategy in the light of this information.”

“Because you'd made him think that the account had come up in the course of the investigations; in other words, that the investigators were aware of it.”

“Precisely.”

“So: he asked you how you should formulate a defence strategy. What did you say?”

“I told him I didn't feel up to representing him any more and that I was giving up the brief. Unless he resigned from the bench.”

“And he said you were crazy and could go to hell, something like that.”

“More or less.”

“And the letters?”

“They're here,” I said, touching my jacket where the inside pocket was.

“You didn't send them.”

“It was stupid even to
think
of writing them. Apart from anything else, it was your confidential information and I had no right to use it in that way. But that isn't even the main reason. In theory, I could have asked you for your permission.”

“What is the main reason?”

“I'm a lawyer. I can't harm a client of mine. If I did, I'd face charges, I'd be struck off, maybe even sent to prison. That didn't only just occur to me, it's why the letter is signed with a fictitious name. It's an anonymous letter, and I can't send an anonymous letter. I wouldn't be any different from him if I did something like that.”

“An original theory.”

“What do you mean?”

“That it's an absurd idea putting the two things on the same level. We judge people's actions – those they've done or those they're thinking of doing – according to their motives. His motive is pure, unadulterated greed. Yours is disgust at that greed, your dismay at seeing the work of a judge being prostituted. Forget about legal subtleties: one motive is nasty and immoral, the other is moral and – forgive the rhetoric, I know you don't like it – inspired by a need for justice.”

I didn't reply. That wasn't exactly it. It was a bit too simplistic as an argument. Things are more complicated, I told myself. But I had no desire to explain it to her. Maybe I was afraid I wouldn't be capable, or maybe I was afraid she was right, that things were actually quite simple, and that I would have to confront that unbearable dilemma again.

“Could you show me the letters?”

I took out the envelopes and handed them to her. “They're sealed with glue. But I have a third copy.”

I gave it to her. She took it and read it.

“I think you should send them,” she said when she had finished.

I barely moved my head. “I'm not capable. I can't.”

“Then I'll keep them. If you don't mind. It's a pity to waste stamps.”

I looked at her face. She had the neutral but threatening expression of a boxer just before a match.

“No,” I said. “You can't.”

“I'm not a lawyer; disloyal advocacy is an offence that doesn't apply to me—”

“Annapaola—”

At that moment it struck me how much I liked her name when I said it.

“Anyway, I was the one who found that information, and I can do what I like with it. I can give you back these letters if you like, but be aware that as soon as I leave here I'm going to rewrite them. And you can't do a damn thing about it.”

She took a paper handkerchief and started to carefully clean the surface of the envelopes. Then she put them in her bag.

“See you,” she said.

See you, I replied, when she had already left.