“A professional man, a reputable academic, a member of one of the most important and respected families in our city, has been dragged through the mud by false accusations based purely on the resentment of an unbalanced woman and—”
I almost leaped to my feet. I had risen to the bait.
“Your Honour, counsel for the defence cannot be allowed to make such offensive comments. Especially at this stage, when he should be limiting himself to requests for the admission of evidence. Please advise Avvocato Delissanti to keep scrupulously to the provisions of the law: to indicate the facts he intends to prove and to ask for the admission of evidence. Without comments.”
Caldarola told me there was no need to get excited.
Anyway, it made no difference. The game was out of my hands.
“Avvocato Guerrieri, you mustn’t take things amiss. Counsel for the defence needs to explain the context and the reasons for his requests. How else can I tell if these requests are relevant? Please carry on, Avvocato Delissanti. Avvocato Guerrieri, let’s try to avoid any further interruptions.”
Son of a bitch. I thought it, but would have liked to say it out loud. Bloody great son of a bitch. What have they promised you?
Delissanti continued, at his ease.
“Thank you, Your Honour, you have caught my meaning perfectly, as always. It is indeed obvious that in order to introduce the aspects of the case to which our evidence relates, I must make certain preliminary remarks regarding these aspects. In essence, if we want to make – as in fact we will – a request for an expert psychiatric witness to be heard, then it is important to say, and
to be allowed to say
, that we are doing so because we consider the plaintiff to be suffering from serious mental disturbances, which compromise her credibility and even her ability to testify. Where such things are concerned, especially when the honour, the freedom, the very life of a man like Professor Scianatico are at stake, there is no point in beating about the bush. Whether the public prosecutor and counsel for the plaintiff like it or not.”
Another pause. Again he turned his head to our bench. Alessandra was as still as a sphinx. Though if you looked carefully, you could detect a very small, rhythmic contraction of her jaw, just below the cheekbone. But you really did have to look very carefully.
“And so before anything else we request the admission of evidence demonstrating” – he hissed the words,
almost spat them – “that the plaintiff is suffering from psychiatric problems, which will be explained in greater detail by our expert witness, properly indicated on the list, Professor Genchi. A name that requires no introduction. In addition, we ask to be able to prove the continued existence of such problems, the reasons for the separation as verified at the time, and more generally a condition of severe social maladjustment and personal inadequacy on the part of the plaintiff, by means of the witnesses indicated on our list. We also request the examination of Professor Scianatico, who, I inform you as of now, gives his consent to being examined and to answering questions in order to provide further proof of his innocence. We have no comment to make on the public prosecutor’s requests for the admission of evidence. Nor those of counsel for the plaintiff, who doesn’t, in fact, seem to be making any significant ones. Thank you, Your Honour, I have finished.”
As soon as Delissanti stopped talking, Caldarola started to give his ruling.
“The judge, having heard the requests from both parties, and having noted—”
“I’m sorry, Your Honour, I have some observations to make on counsel for the defence’s requests for the admission of evidence. If you will allow me.”
Alessandra had spoken in a low but sharp voice, in which her slight Veneto accent was just noticeable. Caldarola looked a bit embarrassed, and I thought I also noted a touch of redness on his usually grey face. As if he had been caught doing something vaguely shameful. Which indeed he had.
“Go on, Prosecutor.”
“I have no observations on the request to admit the many witnesses indicated on the list. There seem to
me to be too many of them, but that is not a matter I intend to raise. At least not for the moment. However, I should like to say something about the request to hear the testimony of Professor Genchi, referred to by counsel for the defence as an expert witness, a psychiatric specialist. I should like to raise a couple of points about this request. One specifically concerns the case with which we are starting to deal today. The other is of a more general nature, regarding the admissibility of such requests. Has Professor Genchi ever visited Signora Martina Fumai? Has the professor ever at least
seen
Signora Martina Fumai? Counsel has not informed us of the fact, even though he has told us with great, emphatic, indeed offensive certainty that Signora Martina Fumai is
unbalanced
. If, as I believe to be the case, Professor Genchi has never visited the plaintiff, I wonder what he could possibly base his expert testimony on. Because counsel for the defence, infringing the essence of the duty of disclosure, has not told us. And this remark brings us to the second point I should like to raise. Is it possible to request a psychiatric evaluation of a witness – or even a defendant – without there being any element in the documents which may allow one to presume that such an evaluation is necessary? I believe this general point needs to be addressed before any decision can be made on counsel’s request. Because, Your Honour, to admit such a request without it being based on any factual element of the case creates a dangerous precedent. Every time we don’t like a witness, for whatever reason, good or bad, we will be able to ask for a psychiatrist to tell us about his or her most private, most personal problems. And who among us does not have personal problems, depression, addictions? To alcohol, for example. Do these problems not concern only
themselves and should they not legitimately remain of concern only to themselves?”
As she uttered these last words, she turned to look at Delissanti sitting there on his bench. Among the various rumours about him, one concerned his inclination for strong alcohol. Even at unconventional times, such as early in the morning, in one or other of the bars near his office. He did not turn. He had a nasty expression on his face, and his jaws were clenched. The atmosphere was turning leaden.
“And so, Your Honour, I strongly object to the testimony of the expert witness named by the defence being admitted. At least until there has been a concrete explanation as to what this testimony relates to, and in what way the things to which it may relate have any bearing on this particular case.”
I seconded the public prosecutor’s objection. Then Delissanti asked to be allowed to speak again. His tone was not as breezy as before.
“Your Honour, I really can’t understand what the public prosecutor and counsel for the plaintiff are afraid of. Or rather, to be honest, I do understand, but I’d like to avoid squabbles. There are two possibilities here. Either Signorina Martina Fumai doesn’t have any problems of a psychiatric nature, and so there’s no reason to get upset at the prospect of hearing the testimony of a specialist like Professor Genchi. Or else Signorina Fumai
does
have problems of a psychiatric nature. In which case these problems – to refer to them in deliberately reductive terms – should be brought up, so that we may assess how they affect her ability to testify, and more generally, the reliability of her testimony. And in any case, Your Honour, with the aim of avoiding any further squabbles and kneejerk objections, I am able, as of now, to produce
photocopies of the plaintiff’s medical and psychiatric records.”
Delissanti picked up a sky-blue folder and waved it vaguely in the judge’s direction. One of his two trainees leaped to his feet, took the folder and placed it on the judge’s bench.
At that point I stood up and asked to be allowed to speak. “Keep it short,” Caldarola admonished me: he was starting to get impatient.
“Just a few words, Your Honour.” I heard myself speaking and my voice was tense. “First of all, we would like to know how counsel for the defence came into possession of these photocopies. Or rather, we would first like to examine these photocopies, since Avvocato Delissanti has not had the courtesy to place them at the disposal of either the public prosecutor or myself. As should have been dictated by the rules of courtesy, even before the rules of procedure.”
Delissanti, who had only just sat down on a chair that barely contained his huge backside, stood up again with surprising agility. His face and neck turned very red. The redness made a strange contrast with the white collar of his shirt, which held his brutal neck like a vice, a neck almost twice the size of mine. He yelled that he would not take lessons in procedure, let alone in courtesy, from anyone. He yelled other things, offensive things I assume, but I didn’t hear them because I too raised my voice, and it didn’t take long for the hearing to be transformed into what’s known as an unholy row.
It sometimes happens. The so-called halls of justice are rarely a place for gentlemanly debates. Not the ones I’ve been in, anyway. And not Caldarola’s courtroom that morning.
The outcome was as bad as it could be. At least for
me. The judge said he was forbidding me to speak. I said I would like parity of treatment with counsel for the defence. He cautioned me not to make offensive insinuations and repeated – “for the last time” – that he was forbidding me to speak. I didn’t stop speaking, I didn’t calm down, and I didn’t lower my voice. I knew I was screwing up. But I couldn’t stop. Just like when I was a little child, playing football in the school championship, I’d respond to the stupidest provocations, get into fights, and be regularly sent off.
The outcome was more or less the same as in those football matches. The judge called a five-minute recess. When he came back in, he didn’t look very friendly. To keep to the rules, he consented to Alessandra and myself consulting Dellisanti’s file. It was a copy of the medical records from a private nursing home in the north, where Martina had spent a few weeks.
Both Alessandra and I again objected to their being admitted and to Genchi’s testimony being heard. Caldarola delivered his verbal ruling in his usual monotonous voice, in which there were now hints of malice and threat.
The judge, having heard the requests from both parties regarding admission of evidence;
having noted that all the evidence requested is admissible and relevant to the case;
having noted in particular that the admission as evidence of the plaintiff’s medical and psychiatric records and the hearing of testimony from a psychiatric specialist, as requested by counsel for the defence, are both relevant, with the purpose (as expressly allowed in Article 196 of the Code of Criminal Procedure) of evaluating the statements of the said plaintiff and ascertaining her physical and mental fitness to testify in court;
having also noted that the behaviour of the plaintiff’s attorney Avvocato Guerrieri at today’s hearing does not seem exempt from disciplinary censure and must therefore be submitted to assessment by the appropriate authorities;
for these reasons:
all the evidence requested by the parties is admitted;
the beginning of the trial is set for 15 January 2002;
a copy of the record of today’s hearing should be sent to the sitting public prosecutor and the Bar Council of Bari so that they may assess, according to their respective expertise, whether there exist grounds for disciplinary action to be taken against Avvocato Guido Guerrieri, member of the Bar Association of Bari.
“You screwed up,” Alessandra whispered as we were leaving the courtroom.
“I know.”
I searched for something to add, but couldn’t find anything. Delissanti was behind us, with his people. They were passing comment, and even though I couldn’t make out the words, there was no doubt about the tone. Smug.
I said goodbye to Alessandra and started walking faster, because I didn’t want to hear them. Anyone watching the scene, and having seen what had happened before, would have thought I was running away.
Sister Claudia, who had been in court the whole time, suddenly appeared by my side, without my noticing where she had come from.
She walked out with me, without asking me any questions.
He didn’t hurt me that time. When it was over he told me it was a secret between him and me. I mustn’t tell anyone. If I told anyone, bad things would happen.
There was a puppy in the yard. He was a little white mongrel and I’d called him Snoopy. He slept in a box and I used to take him our leftovers to eat, and sometimes a little milk diluted with water. I said he was my dog, even though I knew perfectly well they’d never allow me to take him upstairs to our apartment.
He said if I told anyone our secret, the puppy would die. I went back down to the yard, told the other kids I didn’t feel like playing any more, and went and hugged Snoopy. It was only then that I started crying.
Of the times after that one, I don’t have such a clear memory. They’re all mixed up together. Always in that room, with the unmade bed, the stink of cigarettes. The other smells. The empty beer bottles on the bedside table, or overturned on the floor. The sounds he made as he was . . . finishing. The fear that my little sister, who was often in the next room, would come in and see us.
More than a year had passed – I remember it well because I was in my first year of high school – when he told me I was getting big, and there were things – other things – I ought to know, and that he ought to teach me. It was a rainy afternoon, and my mother was out. She was still working in the afternoons, when she could, because he was still unemployed and we couldn’t make ends meet otherwise.
That time he hurt me. He hurt me a lot. And the pain stayed with me for days.
After he’d finished, he told me I was a woman now. As he said it he pinched my cheek, between his index and middle fingers. Like a gesture of tenderness.
At that moment, for the first time, it came into my mind that I wanted him to die.