A Fine Line (3 page)

“I don't know, it was a long time ago.”

“Let me try and help you. Did you ever go out alone when your partner was in the city? Did he mind?”

Marilisa sighed, torn between exasperation and resignation. “I couldn't really say, it's a period of my life I'm trying to forget.”

“I'm sorry to be so insistent and to remind you of things you'd prefer to forget, but unfortunately I need an answer. Do you happen to remember if, when you went to that party, your partner was away on business?”

“Maybe yes.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes, yes, I remember, he was away.”

“I'd like now to get a better idea of the timeline. How
much time passed between that party and the events that concern us in this trial?”

“I can't say for certain.”

“Weeks, months?”

“A couple of months.”

“So, since the date of the offence with which the defendant is charged is 3 April, your acquaintance presumably goes back to the beginning of February, or maybe the end of January?”

“I think so, yes.”

“And between that party and the first time you saw each other again, or spoke to each other on the phone, how much time passed?”

“He called me a couple of days later.”

“Where did he call you?”

“How do you mean?”

“On what telephone did he call you?”

“On my mobile.”

“So you'd given him your mobile number?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He asked me for it.”

“Please don't take this question the wrong way, but do you give your mobile number to everyone who asks for it?”

I glanced sideways out of the corner of my eye. The prosecutor shifted in his chair. He might have been thinking of objecting, but then decided to wait and see what would happen. Nor did the judge say anything.

“No, no, I mean, it depends—”

“You had only met Signor Bronzino that evening, is that correct?”

“Yes, but what I mean—”

“I assume you felt a particular liking for him, you trusted him.”

She passed her hand over her face. She looked as if she was suffering. I wished I could get this over with as soon as possible.

“Yes, he was… very polite, and besides, he knew my friend.”

“Don't worry, Signora, you don't have to justify yourself. I was only asking the question in order to get a clearer idea of the situation. So, Signor Bronzino called you two days after meeting you at the party. I assume there were other calls, other telephone conversations?”

“Yes, he'd phone me and we'd chat.”

“And did you sometimes phone him?”

“I can't remember. Maybe I did.”

“Maybe you did. When did you meet again?”

“I'm not sure. He told me that he was often in the area where my office was and asked me if I felt like taking a break and coming outside for a coffee. He kept insisting, and one time I accepted.”

“Was that the only time you met, apart from the evening of 3 April?”

“I think so.”

I let those words hang in the air for a few seconds, with their heavy burden of ambiguity.

“Do you know the Hotel Royal in Milan?”

She looked at me in genuine surprise. “No… I don't think so.”

“Did your partner ever go to Milan on business?”

“Yes, he had meetings there.”

“Do you know which hotel he stayed in when he went to Milan?”

She half closed her eyes, and let several seconds go by before replying. She was trying to understand. “It may have been that one, yes.”

“The Royal?”

“Yes.”

“Did he always go there?”

“I think so.”

“A couple of times a month, as we said before?”

“More or less. Sometimes he went more often.”

“Do you remember if there was a particular day of the week when he went on these business trips to Milan?”

A deep breath. Our eyes met for a few seconds. Then she looked away. “I think it was Monday.”

“Thank you. Now I'd like to bring this document to your attention. It's a record of calls made to and from the defendant's mobile phone. To be more specific, the one Signor Bronzino was using at the time of these events. This record shows that there was a call lasting five minutes and twenty-three seconds to a number in Milan late in the evening of 6 March 2006. The number is that of the Royal, the hotel we were just talking about. Do you have any idea why Signor Bronzino should have telephoned that hotel that evening?”

“You should ask him.”

“As it happens, I have asked him, but right now I'm interested in your opinion. Can you answer me? If it's any help, I can tell you it was a Monday.”

The worst situation for a witness to be in, especially a witness of dubious honesty, is when he or she realizes that something is about to come out, but isn't sure exactly what and can do nothing about it. She pursed her lips in silence.

“Do you know if the defendant knew your partner?”

“No.”

“You don't know, or he didn't know him?”

“He didn't know him, as far as I know.”

“I ask you the question because it turns out that your partner spent the night of 6 to 7 March 2006 at the Hotel
Royal in Milan. So it's quite likely that he was there when that phone call I told you about occurred. Can you explain that coincidence?”

Castroni tried to object, but didn't sound very convincing. Even he was starting to realize that something was wrong – very wrong – in this affair. “First of all, this is an inadmissible line of questioning. Questions should be about facts, not speculation. Secondly, I'd like to know how counsel for the defence comes to be in possession of this information.”

Basile looked at him and turned towards me. He didn't say anything. Castroni's objection made sense, but it was obvious that the witness would have to answer the question anyway.

“Your Honour, the defence has conducted investigations, strictly according to our legal prerogatives. The ways in which we have used the results of these investigations are fully compatible with the defence's powers of discretion. I reserve the right to provide documentation, where necessary, at the end of the cross-examination. May I proceed?”

“You may, Avvocato, but try to make it clear where you're going with this.”

“It will all become clear very soon, Your Honour. Signora, I repeat: that phone call from Signor Bronzino's mobile to the Hotel Royal coincides with your partner's stay in Milan, in that very hotel. If you'll forgive a direct question, could it be that you were the person who made that call?”

The pause that followed was a really long one.

“All right, then, let's go on to something else. Was your relationship with your partner happy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you agree about things, or did you quarrel? Did you quarrel often, or just occasionally? Did you have problems?”

“The same as any couple.”

“Did your partner ever hit you?”

I noticed that she was holding the hem of her skirt between the fingers of her left hand and crumpling it convulsively. “Just the occasional slap.”

“Did you ever lodge a complaint following these
occasional slaps
?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

The judge got in ahead of me and in a sharp tone ordered her to answer.

She seemed to shrink, and I felt sorry for her. “Once I went to the carabinieri, but then I withdrew everything.”

“Can you tell us what you told the carabinieri?”

“That there'd been a quarrel.”

“Did you say that you'd been hit?”

“Yes, but I withdrew—”

“You withdrew everything, yes. What else did you tell the carabinieri?”

“I just wanted him to stop.”

The way she said that made me think of a landslide. No, that's not right, it made me think of the
word
landslide. The fragile structure of her testimony, which had held up because nobody up until then had asked her to account for it, was collapsing beneath her like loose earth or clay.

“To stop what?”

“His fits of jealousy. Sometimes he hit me even when I hadn't done anything.”

“Why did you withdraw everything?”

“He said he would change.”

“And did he?”

“In a way…”

“After the dropping of the complaint, after you withdrew everything, were there other acts of violence?”

She didn't reply. She was staring into space now, her face very pale, her lips dry and colourless.

“Signora, I'm sorry to insist, but were there other acts of violence?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever need medical attention?”

“Maybe a couple of times.”

“Did you go to accident and emergency?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell the doctors there that your injuries were caused by your partner?”

She shook her head.

“Your Honour, can it be entered in the record that the witness shook her head to indicate no?”

Basile gestured to the stenographer, meaning that she could write what I had asked.

“Would it be correct to say that you were afraid of your partner?”

“Objection, Your Honour,” Castroni said, leaping to his feet. “The witness is being asked for a personal opinion.”

“Objection sustained. Avvocato, let's try and get to the point.”

“Signora, you said you met Bronzino outside your office building, where he was waiting for you, and that you accepted a lift home in his car. Can you tell us what time you left the office?”

“The usual time.”

“And what time might that be?”

“Five.”

“And you found the defendant waiting for you outside your office building?”

“Yes.”

“Your Honour, I have to challenge the witness on the statements she made at the time she lodged her complaint.”

“Go ahead, Avvocato.”

“When you were questioned by the carabinieri the morning after, you stated: ‘I left the office at six and met Antonio Bronzino, who had been pursuing me for some time and was obviously waiting for me.' You told the carabinieri six, now you're saying five. Which is the correct time?”

“I don't know, I don't remember. If I said six, it must have been six.”

“But when did you usually leave your office?”

“At five.”

“At five. In that case, how did the defendant know that on that particular day you would be leaving at six?”

She was about to reply instinctively, but must have realized the trap concealed in the question. “Maybe I got it wrong. I probably did leave at five.”

“You probably did leave at five. I still have here the records of Signor Bronzino's mobile phone. That day there was a thirty-three-second call at 5.18. The other number must have been yours, Signora. If you like, I can show you the records.”

She moved her hand in a sign of denial, but it looked more like a gesture of self-defence.

“I point this out because if you met soon after five, it's hard to figure out why Bronzino should have called you on his mobile at 5.18.”

It wasn't a real question, it was an explanation of what was happening, intended for the judges.

“Was your partner away on business that day, by any chance?”

“I don't remember.”

“I put it to you that you had an appointment with Signor Bronzino that day. In other words, that meeting wasn't a chance one at all.”

“No, I—”

“I put it to you that your partner was due to be away that day, and that when you got home fairly late that evening, you discovered that he hadn't left.”

She didn't say anything. It was time to bring this to an end. I turned to the judge.

“Your Honour, if it can be entered in the record that the witness hasn't answered the last two questions, I've finished.”

The judge was just doing as I had asked when the woman spoke again, without warning. Her voice was thin, diaphanous, seeming to come from somewhere else. It was as if her face had dried up in the course of the half-hour she had been in the witness box, as if the skin had stuck to the bones. Occasionally, as if in some terrible time machine, her face looked like an old woman's.

“I'm sorry. Forgive me.”

Startled by the sound of her voice, the judge broke off, looked at her and asked her if she wanted to add anything. He, too, without realizing it, lowered his voice. But she didn't say anything else. She was looking somewhere else, outside that courtroom.

3

The judge told Di Cosmo that she could go. He said it in a tone that was meant to be stern, but he couldn't quite manage it. The sense of unease, of defeat that she conveyed had prevailed over his indignation. I turned to watch her while Basile was saying that we would adjourn for fifteen minutes. It's something I usually avoid: watching the actors of the drama (or the comedy) as they leave the stage. I was just in time to see her leave the courtroom, as silent and insubstantial as a ghost.

It was only then that I noticed Annapaola in the public seats. The investigation we had relied on for the cross-examination of the witness was hers. Most private detectives are men: retired former police officers or carabinieri. Usually somewhat elderly gentlemen.

Annapaola Doria doesn't correspond to the stereotype. Firstly, she isn't a man, and secondly, she isn't elderly. She's thirty-seven years old, and has a face like a rebellious schoolgirl, which makes her look younger. Above all, she isn't an ex-cop. She used to be a freelance crime reporter. A very good one, maybe even too good. She managed to gather information where others had to give up, even though it has to be said that she wasn't too bothered about journalistic ethics or the criminal code. I had defended her in a number of trials, some for libel and one actually for receiving stolen goods. The Prosecutor's Department had
charged her with obtaining copies of documents relating to a pending criminal case that was still confidential, documents stolen – by persons unknown, as they say – from the clerk of the court's office, the said clerk having left it unattended because of a sudden urgent need for a cappuccino and a croissant.

According to the Prosecutor's Department, receiving three copies of improperly obtained documents was equivalent to buying a stolen TV set or jewellery taken in a robbery, and had therefore to be punished with a prison sentence of between two and eight years. A somewhat singular theory, which the judge did not share. Annapaola was acquitted, and I earned myself a few paragraphs in the papers.

Soon after that trial and that acquittal, Annapaola disappeared. For months, almost a year, there was no sign of her in the courthouse or at police headquarters. When she reappeared she was equipped with a new haircut, an expression that was both harder and more fragile, and a private detective's licence. The first time I needed an investigation to be carried out for a case of mine, I turned to her. The work was rapid and impeccable, even though it wasn't clear where and how (and breaking what rules, or even what locks) she had got hold of her information.

It had been Annapaola who had got me the data on Di Cosmo's partner's stays in Milan; how, I didn't want to know.

When our eyes met, she made me a sign and, as the judges went back into their chambers, she stood up, came towards me and embraced us in turn, first Consuelo, then me.

“Excellent work. If I hadn't felt sorry for the stupid girl, I might even have enjoyed it.”

“
You
did excellent work, we just used it,” I replied.

“Okay, let's stop right there before things get really treacly. That should be the end of the case, shouldn't it?”

“I think so. We just have to see if they deal with it today or decide on yet another postponement.”

“I think the judge will deal with it today,” Consuelo said. “He seemed almost embarrassed at the end of the cross-examination. I got the impression he wanted to get it all out of the way as soon as possible.”

That was probably true, I thought.

We decided to go for a coffee. I even invited the prosecutor but he said no thanks, he'd rather use that time to look at his other briefs. He seemed on the verge of adding something, maybe a comment on what had just happened, then changed his mind.

Out of the four cafés in the vicinity of the courthouse, we chose the one where the coffee most resembles medicine that's past its expiry date. They manage to make it weak and burnt at the same time, which takes a certain talent. But the barista weighs 260 pounds, and can lift as much again in the gym, so nobody complains.

Consuelo said it was on her, because this was her first and probably also last trial for sexual assault, at least as defence counsel. My colleague doesn't exactly look at cases dispassionately. If she doesn't like the client, if the offence he's charged with strikes her as horrible, and if it isn't clear that the person is innocent, she has no desire to take on his defence. Let's just say that a practice following her criteria for taking on clients might find it hard to survive.

When we were back outside again, Annapaola quickly rolled herself a cigarette and we set off again, walking past the cemetery opposite the courthouse. Some winter evenings, when the hearings go on until it's dark, it's comforting to leave the courthouse and find yourself facing a myriad of grave lights. “In case you'd forgotten,” they appear to say, although almost everyone – lawyers, police officers, clerks
of the court and judges – has got used to it. The lights, the cypresses and the niches have become part of the landscape.

We passed a small group of carabinieri. Annapaola stopped to hug a couple of them with a warmth reserved for former comrades in arms. As so often before, I noticed the masculine way she moved and related to the outside world.

We went back into court. A few minutes later, the judges emerged from their chambers and the hearing resumed.

“First of all, I ask defence counsel if they wish to examine the defendant.”

“No, Your Honour. The statements made by the defendant under questioning and already admitted in evidence appear more than sufficient following the outcome of the cross-examination of the injured party.”

“Then if there are no further observations or motions, we declare that the testimony contained in the case file is admissible, including that made before the previous judges. Therefore at this point—”

“Your Honour, I'm sorry, I have a motion,” Castroni said.

Basile looked at him for several seconds without saying anything. Not only had he not appreciated the interruption, he could also imagine the reason and didn't like it.

“He's asking for a postponement,” I whispered to Consuelo. “If there's an acquittal he wants the other bastard to get it in the neck.”

“Go on, prosecutor,” the judge at last conceded, although his tone was far from cordial.

“I ask for a postponement in order to have a chance to examine the results of today's hearing, which has… well, which has contained a few surprises. Considering today's developments, it may be appropriate that the conclusions should be drawn by the prosecutor whose case this originally was because—”

“Prosecutor, in the first place don't force me to remind you that your office is impersonal. In the second place, I don't see any reason to grant a postponement. The trial has been going on for too long; the defendant was actually arrested at the time of the events and is entitled to a verdict within a reasonable length of time. You have been present at a crucial stage in the proceedings and are best qualified to draw the right conclusions from them. If you need half an hour to reread the documents, to think about them and then make your decision, I would have no objection to that.”

Castroni was about to reply. Then it must have struck him that it wasn't a good idea. Mechanically, he leafed through the file he had in front of him, but without looking at the papers. Equally mechanically, he adjusted his robe over his shoulders and made his closing speech. It didn't take long.

“Your Honour, the evidence against the defendant, which at the time of his arrest, and to tell the truth up until today, has appeared solid, seems less so now. On cross-examination, the injured party has highlighted contradictions and hesitations. It does not seem to the prosecution that it is possible to reach a guilty verdict in the light of these contradictions. The evidence is ambiguous and, in a way, tainted, and therefore we have no option but to ask for an acquittal in accordance with article 530, paragraph 2 of the code of criminal procedure on the grounds of insufficient evidence to support the prosecution case.”

The judge nodded and turned to Consuelo and me. “I don't want in any way to limit the prerogatives of the defence, but” – he clearly articulated the words that followed – “I ask you to take the prosecutor's motion into account. The court will appreciate a brief summing up, entrusted if possible to only one of the defenders.”

The translation of that phrase was as follows: We will acquit him, don't make us waste any time, and let's all go home as soon as possible. Don't get on my nerves. I exchanged a rapid glance with Consuelo and stood up.

“Thank you, Your Honour, it is always a pleasure to hear your instructions. I will therefore conclude equally on behalf of my colleague, Avvocato Favia. The prosecutor's request for acquittal is the correct one, even though maybe a little timid. In his closing remarks, he did indeed speak of tainted and contradictory evidence, which ought to result in an acquittal according to article 530, paragraph 2: what used to be called acquittal due to insufficient evidence. While it will make no difference in practical terms – the defendant will have to be acquitted and his unfortunate experience of our courts brought to an end – I believe that what happened in today's hearing requires the final ruling to be all the more explicit and well argued. I maintain that the law owes it to the defendant, as a kind of moral compensation.”

I had my eye on them. According to my calculations, I had between five and ten minutes to say a few things before Basile lost patience.

“It is not enough to say that the evidence in this trial is contradictory and insufficient, as the prosecutor has just done. No, the evidence is consistent and more than sufficient to prove the defendant's innocence. His innocence emerges in the light of the injured party's embarrassing testimony. It emerged clearly, as it did in the defendant's statements when he was first questioned, that the two of them had a relationship following their encounter at the famous party. They would meet whenever Di Cosmo's partner was away on business. The call from Bronzino's mobile phone to the hotel where the witness's partner was staying demonstrates that. Given that Bronzino had no reason to call that hotel,
let alone the man, we may easily infer that the call was made by Di Cosmo, using the defendant's phone, when the two of them were together. It seems a minor detail, but in fact it is the key point in demonstrating, as I said, a pre-established relationship, one that was never admitted by the witness.”

I know
a pre-established relationship
is a horrible expression. Many of those we lawyers use are. I try to limit myself, but often it's inevitable. There are judges – or colleagues – with whom you can't avoid speaking in a horrible way. If you speak in correct Italian when addressing the court, they don't recognize you as a member of the profession. You lack credibility. Legal jargon is the foreign language they – we – learn at university in order to become part of the team. It is a language which is all the more appreciated, the more capable it is of excluding those outside the profession from understanding what is happening in courtrooms and what is written in legal documents. A language that's both priestly and ragged, in which mysterious and ridiculous formulas are accompanied by systematic violations of grammar and syntax.

I'm sorry, every now and again I find myself digressing like this.

Judge Basile shifted in his seat and took a somewhat noisy, even ostentatious breath. I still had two or three minutes before he asked me to come to a conclusion.

“Why the witness falsely accused the defendant – because this is indeed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, a false accusation we are dealing with – is obvious. On the day of the events the woman's partner – a violent man, prone to physical abuse that sometimes resulted in injuries, a man of whom the witness was clearly afraid – changed his plans without warning. When Di Cosmo returned home, somewhat later than her usual time, probably in a dishevelled state because of the sexual encounter she had just had with Bronzino, and found
her partner waiting for her, she lost her head and invented a story of assault. She stuck to her story, with unfortunate consequences for the defendant, who was completely innocent. I believe therefore that you have to acquit Antonio Bronzino as fully as possible with reference to article 530, paragraph 1. I will leave it to you to consider the possibility of conveying the trial record to the Prosecutor's Department, which may decide to proceed with a charge of slander.”

The judge stood up before I had even uttered the last words, and so did the other two judges. It seemed almost as if they were running away.

“We are retiring now. I ask the parties not to stray too far from the courtroom. We shan't be long.”

And he retreated to his chambers, followed by his colleagues.

Sure enough, they weren't long. We didn't even have time to take off our robes and go out into the corridor to be jostled by the endless stream of police officers, carabinieri, witnesses, clerks of the court, idlers, lawyers, prison guards and defendants in chains before the bell rang to inform us that the judges were already coming back.

They sat down in a way that suggested – I don't know why, maybe the way they leaned forward, maybe the way they wore their robes – that they didn't plan to stay much longer.

Basile adjusted his bifocals on his nose. “The Court of Bari, having read article 530, paragraph 1 of the code of criminal procedure, acquits Antonio Bronzino of the charge against him on the grounds that there is no substance to the charge. It orders that a record of these proceedings be passed on to the Prosecutor's Department to evaluate the possibility of charging Marilisa Di Cosmo with the offence of slander.”