“I don’t understand the question.”
“Did Dottoressa Fumai tell you, ‘Look, the copy of my medical records is in such and such a place’?”
“No. At any rate, I don’t remember.”
“So you had to search for these records in order to photocopy them? You were forced to
rifle
through Dottoressa Fumai’s private effects. Is that correct?”
“I didn’t rifle through anything. I was worried about her, so I searched for those papers to show them to a doctor.”
Scianatico no longer seemed so at ease. He was losing his cool, and his image of manly, serene patience. Exactly what I wanted.
“Yes, you’ve already said that. Could you tell us the name of the psychiatrist to whom you showed these papers, after you had photocopied them clandestinely?”
“Objection, objection. Counsel for the plaintiff must avoid comments, and the word clandestinely is a comment.”
That was Delissanti again. He was perfectly well aware that things weren’t going very well. For them. I spoke before Caldarola could intervene.
“Your Honour, in my opinion the word clandestinely exactly describes the way in which these records were obtained by the defendant. However, I’m quite happy to rephrase the question because I’m not interested in getting into an argument.” And because I got the result I wanted anyway, I thought.
“So, could you tell us the name of the psychiatrist?”
“In the end I didn’t use the records. Our relationship quickly deteriorated and then she left. So in the end I didn’t do anything with them.”
“But you kept the photocopies?”
“I put them away and forgot all about them, until this . . . this business started.”
There was rather a long pause. I unwrapped the package Martina had given me, and took out the video cassette and a couple of sheets of paper. For almost a minute I pretended to read what was written on these sheets. It was just a sideshow, and had nothing to do with the trial. The sheets of paper were photocopies of old notes of mine, but Scianatico didn’t know that. When I thought the tension had risen enough, I looked up from the papers and resumed my questioning.
“Did you ever force Dottoressa Fumai to make a video recording of your sexual relations?”
Exactly what I had expected happened. Delissanti rose to his feet, shouting. It was inadmissible, outrageous, unprecedented, to ask such questions. What did the things that happened between consenting adults in the privacy of the bedroom have to do with this case? And so on, and so forth.
“Your Honour, will you allow me to clarify the question and its relevance?”
Caldarola nodded. For the first time since the start of the trial, he seemed annoyed with Delissanti. He’d pried into the most intimate and painful aspects of Martina’s life. In order to ascertain the plaintiff’s reliability, he’d said. And now he’d suddenly remembered that a couple’s private life was sacrosanct.
That, more or less, was what I said. I said that if it was necessary to evaluate the plaintiff’s personality, in order to be sure she was reliable, then the same requirement existed with regard to the defendant, given that he had agreed to be examined and, among other things, had made a series of defamatory and offensive statements about my client.
Caldarola allowed the question, and told Scianatico to answer. He looked at his lawyer, searching for help. He didn’t find it. He shifted on his chair, which seemed to have become very uncomfortable. He was desperately wondering how I could have come into possession of that cassette. Which, he was convinced, contained an embarrassing record of his most private habits. In the end he asked me.
“Who . . . who gave you that cassette?”
“Could you please answer my question? If it isn’t clear, or if you didn’t hear it properly, I can repeat it.”
“It was a game, something private. What has it got to do with this trial?”
“Is that an affirmative answer? You videotaped sexual relations with—”
“Yes.”
“On one occasion? On several occasions?”
“It was a game. We both agreed to do it.”
“On one occasion or on several occasions?”
“A few times.”
I picked up the video cassette and looked at it for a few seconds, as if reading something on the label.
“Did you ever videotape sexual practices of a sado-masochistic nature?”
There was silence in the courtroom. Several seconds passed before Scianatico answered.
“I . . . I don’t remember.”
“I’ll rephrase the question. Did you ever request or indeed perform sexual practices of a sado-masochistic nature?”
“I . . . we played games. Just games.”
“Did you ever demand that Dottoressa Fumai submit to being tied up, or other practices involving sexual restraint?”
“I didn’t demand. We agreed.”
“So it’s correct to say that the sexual practices I’ve mentioned did in fact occur, but you can’t remember if you videotaped them or not.”
“Yes.”
“Your Honour, I’ve finished cross-examining the defendant. But I have a request to make . . .”
Delissanti leaped to his feet, in so far as his bulk allowed him.
“I object very strongly in advance to the admission of cassettes relating to the sexual practices of the defendant and the plaintiff. I still have strong reservations
about the relevance of the questions put by the counsel for the plaintiff, but, be that as it may, the fact that certain practices occurred has now been admitted. So there is no need for pornographic material to be admitted in evidence.”
Exactly what I wanted to hear him say. It had been admitted that certain practices had occurred. Precisely. They had swallowed the bait, both of them.
“Your Honour, the objection is unnecessary. I had no intention of asking for this or any other cassette to be admitted in evidence. As counsel for the defence has rightly said, the fact that certain practices occurred has been admitted. My request is quite different. In the introductory phase of the trial, counsel for the defence requested – and you, Your Honour, granted the request – that an expert witness be allowed to give evidence of a psychiatric nature about the plaintiff, with the purpose of ascertaining her reliability in relation to an overall picture of her mental state. Applying the same principle, what has emerged from the cross-examination makes it necessary to perform a similar evaluation on the person of the defendant. The psychiatrist you appoint to examine the defendant will be able to tell us if the compulsive need for sexual practices of a sado-masochistic nature, and particularly those which involve restraint, are habitually connected to impulses and actions of a persecutory nature, involving the invasion of another person’s private life. In other words, if both phenomena are – or can be – expressions of a compulsive need for control. Of course, I wish to make it clear that I am not suggesting any evaluation or hypothesis at the moment as to the possible psychopathological nature of these propensities.”
Scianatico’s face was grey. His tan had drained away,
as if the blood had stopped flowing beneath the skin. Marinella Something-or-other was paralysed.
Delisssanti took a few seconds to recover and object to my request. With pretty much the same arguments I had used to object to his. You certainly couldn’t say we were inconsistent.
Caldarola seemed undecided about what to do. Outside the courtroom, in the private conversations that had almost certainly taken place, they’d told him a different story. The trial was based on nothing more than the accusations of an unbalanced madwoman against a respected professional man from a very good family. All that needed to be done was to put an end to the whole regrettable business and avoid further scandal.
Now things didn’t seem so clear-cut any more and he didn’t know what to do.
For about a minute, there was a strange, tense silence and then Caldarola gave his ruling.
“The judge, having heard the request of counsel for the plaintiff; having noted that the investigation accepted in the introductory phase has not yet been concluded; having noted that the request by counsel for the plaintiff bears a conceptual relation to the category as under Article 597 of the Code of Criminal Procedure; having noted that a decision on the admission of such evidence can be made only at the end of the investigation; for these reasons reserves his decision on the request for psychiatric evaluation until the outcome of the hearing and stipulates that the proceedings continue.”
It was a technically correct decision. A decision about all the new requests for the admission of evidence would be made at the end of the hearing. I knew that perfectly well, but I’d made my request at that
moment in order to make it absolutely clear where I wanted to go. To make it clear to the judge exactly why I was asking these questions about sexual practices and that kind of thing.
To make it clear to everyone that we had no intention of sitting there and getting slaughtered.
Delissanti didn’t like this interim ruling. It left a door dangerously open to an objectionable investigation, and to a scandal that might, if possible, be even worse than the trial itself. So he tried again.
“I beg your pardon, Your Honour, but we would like you to reject this request as of now. This further defamatory sword of Damocles cannot be left hanging over the defendant’s head—”
Caldarola did not let him finish. “Avvocato, I would be grateful if you did not dispute my rulings. In this instance I will decide at the end of the hearing, that is, after having heard your witnesses, including your expert witness. A psychiatrist, as it happens. I think we have finished for today, if you yourself have no further questions for the defendant.”
Delissanti remained silent for a few moments, as if looking for something to say and not finding anything. An unusual situation for him. In the end he gave up and said no, he had no further questions for the defendant. Scianatico’s face was unrecognizable as he rose from the witness stand and went back to his place next to his lawyer.
Caldarola fixed the next hearing for two weeks from then. At that time, he would “hear the witnesses for the defence, as well as any further requests for the admission of additional evidence in accordance with Article 507 of the Code of Criminal Procedure”.
As I took off my robe, I turned to Martina and Claudia, and it was then that I became aware of how
many people there were in the courtroom. On the public benches, there were at least three or four journalists.
Scianatico, Delissanti and the cortège of trainees and flunkeys left quickly and silently. Just for a few seconds, Scianatico turned towards Martina. He had a strange – very strange – look on his face, a look I couldn’t decipher, even though, with those mad, staring eyes, it reminded me of a broken doll.
The journalists asked me for a statement, and I said I had no comment. I was forced to repeat that three or four times, and in the end they resigned themselves. After what they’d seen and heard today, they already had plenty to write about.
I folded the two sheets of paper containing the copies of my old notes and put them in my briefcase with the video cassette. I didn’t want to run the risk of forgetting it. I’d recorded it one night years earlier, when I couldn’t sleep, and I liked to watch it from time to time. It contained an old film by Pietro Germi, with a brilliant performance by Massimo Girotti. A great film, hard to find these days.
In the Name of the Law
.
After that afternoon I didn’t have to go to the bedroom many more times.
It was as if he’d lost interest. I don’t know if it was because I always resisted him now, or because I’d grown and wasn’t a little girl any more. Or more likely both.
Whatever the reason, at a certain point he gave up.
And then I noticed the way he looked at my sister.
I was filled with anxiety. I didn’t know what to do, who to talk to. I was sure that soon, very soon, he’d call her into the bedroom.
I stopped going into the yard unless Anna came down with me. If she said she wanted to stay at home reading a comic book or watching TV, I stayed with her. I stayed really close to her. With my nerves on edge, waiting to hear that voice, thick with cigarettes and beer, calling. Not knowing what I would do when it came.
I didn’t have to wait long. It happened one morning, the first day of the Easter holidays. The Thursday before Good Friday. Our mother was out, at work.
“Anna.”
“What do you want, Daddy?”
“Come here a minute, I have something to tell you.”
Anna stood up from the chair in the kitchen, where we both were. She put the two dolls she’d been playing with down on the table and walked towards the small, narrow, dark corridor, at the end of which was the bedroom.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
31
I’ve often thought about that day in court, and what happened later. I’ve often wondered if things could have gone differently, and to what extent it was all down to me, my behaviour at the trial, the way I questioned Scianatico.
I’ve never found the right answer, and it may well be better that way.
There were several witnesses, and they all told more less the same story. Which doesn’t often happen. I spoke personally to some of these witnesses. In the case of the others, I read the statements they’d made at police headquarters, in the hours immediately after the events.
Martina was coming back from work – it was fivethirty or a little later – and had parked less than fifty yards from the front entrance of her mother’s apartment building.
He’d been waiting for her for at least an hour, according to the owner of a clothes shop on the other side of the street, who’d noticed him because “there was something strange about his behaviour, the way he moved”.