A Fine Line (2 page)

Tancredi waited until Consuelo had gone into the courthouse and couldn't hear him. “Guido?”

“Yes.”

“The next time you scare me like that, I'll shoot you.”

2

The presiding judge, a dignified, elderly man named Basile, finished adjourning the previous trial and called ours.

Consuelo and I were ready at the bench to the left of the judges, both in our robes. When she'd put on hers, a slight smell of amber had wafted through the air. Having got through the introductory formalities, Basile turned to us.

“The trial of Antonio Bronzino has come to us after being deferred by the previous court. Much of the testimony – I'd even go so far as to say all of it – was heard by that court. I ask both parties, counsel for the defence in particular, if they consent to admit that testimony today.”

That's the way it works. The code of criminal procedure says that the verdict must be given by the same judges who took part in the original trial, in other words, those who heard the witnesses. Theoretically, if trials lasted a few days or a few weeks, that would be only right and proper. But as they usually last several months or even years, this rule can be a serious problem. If even just one of the three judges who hear the case is transferred – something that happens quite frequently – there has to be a retrial. Unless, that is, the defendant and his counsel agree to admit the testimony given before the previous court. Often, this doesn't happen. Defence lawyers aren't always cooperative, and having a retrial means gaining time (some would say:
wasting
time, but they would be accused of scant regard for the rights of
the individual), especially for guilty defendants who hope that the statute of limitations will come into play. That's not the way I like to work.

I stood up and addressed the judges.

“We consent, Your Honour. Our only motion is to reexamine the injured party, who is apparently present and could therefore be heard immediately. This is not in any way a dilatory motion. In the previous phases of the trial, the defendant was unable to present his defence. The events in question go back several years. Despite Signor Bronzino having gone abroad to work, the summonses were sent to his former residence, and he was unaware of the proceedings until last January. We do not question the fact that those proceedings were carried out correctly. We do not do so because we are not interested in technicalities, nor are we interested in postponements. We want the trial to continue immediately. That is why our only motion is to proceed with the examination of the offended party. The defendant is not present because he is working abroad, as I said. Believing as we do that his presence is not indispensable, we ask for this examination, and it is highly likely that we will rest our case on the outcome of the injured party's testimony.”

A few years earlier, our client had met a girl at a party, they started going out together and definitely had sexual relations. There was no doubt about this, nobody denied it. It was on the nature of those relations – whether or not they were consensual – that opinions differed. The girl (Marilisa, she was called, I don't know why the name had stuck with me) had lodged a complaint against him, claiming that he had assaulted her. Bronzino had been arrested on the basis of these statements and held in custody for a few weeks. Then the judge must have realized that something wasn't quite right about the accusation and had released him. A
couple of years later, however, there had been a petition for remand. The prosecutor who was dealing with the case, not exactly a lover of hard work, must have thought that filling out a petition for remand was less of a bother than writing a well-argued motion for the case to be closed.

In the meantime, Bronzino, convinced that there would be no further proceedings against him following his release, had moved to Germany. Within a short time, he had been declared a defaulter and was remanded for one of those surreal proceedings that are sometimes seen in our courthouses. The so-called defence had been entrusted to court-appointed lawyers who, from one hearing to the next and one postponement to the next, had put in appearances without ever contributing, for the obvious reason that none of them knew anything about the case.

None of the witnesses had been cross-examined, not even the key witness, the presumed injured party, Marilisa Di Cosmo.

When Bronzino, on his return to Italy, had received a boxful of mail that had accumulated at his old address, informing him of the proceedings, he had come to me.

Things weren't looking too good for him after the previous hearings. There was the injured party's testimony, there was a medical certificate confirming the existence of abrasions compatible with sexual assault, there were statements from the victim's then partner, who had been the first to hear about what had happened when she had returned home in a distressed state. Above all, there had been no real activity on the part of the defence. As things stood, the trial could easily end with a guilty verdict, and the minimum sentence for sexual assault is five years.

*

When I had finished speaking, the presiding judge turned first right, then left, to look at the associate judges. They were two demure-looking women – one with hair tied in a ponytail, the other with hair gathered in a bun kept in place by a chopstick – wearing the expressions of people who would have preferred to be somewhere else. It's the kind of expression that's almost a professional disease for those who've been associate judges for too long. It seems like interesting work, and to an extent it is. For a few months, if you get the right trials. But sitting there three times a week, for years on end, listening to witnesses, defence lawyers, prosecutors and defendants (each category produces its fair amount of nonsense or worse), without saying a word out loud (the only person who opens his mouth is the presiding judge) would be enough to fry anyone's brains. I'd have gone crazy.

Anyway, as I was saying, the judge exchanged rapid glances with his associates to see if they had any observations to make. Both barely moved their heads. That meant no, they had no observations, and yes, they were fine with my motion.

“Prosecutor?”

Assistant Prosecutor Castroni was a very polite person, a nice man in his way, disinclined to get caught up in legal subtleties. He got to his feet and said that he had no observations, no particular motion to make, and no objection to the injured party being examined.

“Very well, then, we have said that the witness is present. Let's hear her,” the presiding judge said to the bailiff, who went into the witness room and emerged a few moments later with an attractive young woman. Attractive but with something dull about her bearing and features. A tall, shapely, dull brunette.

She looked around almost furtively, like a scared animal ready to attack in self-defence. The kind of witness – actually,
the kind of person – you have to be particularly careful with. Only when she realized that the defendant wasn't in court did she seem to relax a little.

The judge asked her to read the formula of commitment. It used to be called the oath, the sentence witnesses had to recite before making their statement. When I started work as a lawyer, before the new – now old – code for criminal procedure was approved, the oath still existed. I know it by heart: “Conscious of the responsibility that with this oath I assume before God, if a believer, and before men, I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

There was a perfect balance between drama and farce in the rising cadence of that admonition that lent itself to being mangled in the most surreal ways. My favourite one was when people, nervous at being in court, asked for the formula to be repeated and then swore that they would tell
anything but the truth
. Which of course is what happens in most testimony, irrespective of the witness's good faith.

Then, with the new code that was introduced in 1989, it was considered that taking an oath was somewhat inelegant and ill-suited to a secular State, and the law introduced a formula of commitment, which goes like this: “Conscious of the moral and legal responsibility I assume with my testimony, I commit myself to tell the whole truth and not to conceal anything of which I have knowledge.” More correct, certainly, but much less poetic.

This was what our witness recited, reading from a dirty laminated card.

Judge Basile made her give her particulars – the most pointless of obligations, given that these particulars were already on at least six or seven documents in the case file – and at last gave the prosecutor the floor.

“Thank you, Your Honour,” Castroni said. “Signora, do you remember already giving evidence in court some months… or rather, about a year ago?”

The young woman nodded.

“You must answer yes, for the record.”

“Yes.”

“You do remember. Good. Do you remember what you said on that occasion?”

She sniffed before replying. She seemed very ill at ease. “More or less, yes.”

“In any case, you told the truth on that occasion?”

“Yes.”

“Your Honour, I have no other questions. We have a full record of the previous hearing.”

“Wow, he really exerted himself,” Consuelo whispered in my ear.

“In that case,” the judge said, “defence counsel may proceed with their cross-examination.”

Consuelo stood up, adjusted her robe over her shoulders – again giving off that slight scent of amber – and turned to the witness with a smile. Consuelo's smile can be deceptive. She looks good-natured, with a face like a small, friendly rodent in a cartoon. If you look more closely, however, you notice a much less reassuring gleam in her eyes. Consuelo is a good lawyer, someone of almost embarrassing rectitude, but above all she's someone you really don't want to quarrel with.

“Good morning, Signora, I'm Avvocato Favia. Together with Avvocato Guerrieri, I represent Signor Bronzino. I need to ask you a few questions, but I'll try to be brief. Do you feel up to answering?”

The young woman stared at her with a somewhat dazed expression, then looked around in search of help, as if trying
to make sense of the situation. You don't expect a girl from the Andes to be a criminal lawyer in Bari, so looks of surprise are the norm. Consuelo is used to it, but it's going to be like that for a while longer.

“Signora, please answer Avvocato Favia,” the judge said in an understanding tone.

“Yes, yes, I'm sorry.”

Consuelo glanced at her notes. She didn't need to, but we all make pointless gestures when we have to start something, or finish it. “Could you tell us when and on what occasion you met the defendant?”

“We met at a party. I went with a friend of mine.”

“When was this party?”

“I don't remember, it was years ago.”

“So you can't answer?”

“No, how could I possibly remember?”

“No problem. After meeting the defendant at that party… By the way, whose party was it?”

“I don't know, I told you I went with a friend of mine. She was the one who knew the host.”

“So you didn't know the host?”

“No, what's so strange about that?”

“Nothing. I'm sorry. What kind of party was it?”

Castroni stood up. “Objection, Your Honour, the witness is being asked to make a value judgement. That makes the question inadmissible, quite apart from the fact that it's completely irrelevant.”

“All right, Avvocato,” Basile said, “let's forget about what kind of party it was, unless there's a specific reason to go further into this aspect of the matter. If there is, please tell us.”

“Your Honour, knowing the context in which the defendant and the injured party met may help us to understand the beginning of their relationship. But I'll drop the question,
it isn't essential. So, Signora, after meeting the defendant at this party, did you have occasion to meet him again?”

“Yes.”

“Just once, or several times?”

“I think I already said, he sometimes dropped by the office—”

“You mean your place of work?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever invite you out? For a coffee, for example, an aperitif, dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever accept any of his invitations, apart from the evening with which this trial is concerned?”

“That evening I only agreed to go for a walk.”

“Before that evening did you ever accept any invitations, walks or otherwise?”

“Just once, a coffee at a café near the office.”

Consuelo paused, turned to look at me, we exchanged knowing looks, and I stood up as she sat down. It was my turn.

“Signora, do you have a boyfriend, a partner?”

“Not at the moment, I'm single.”

“But at the time when these events happened, you had a partner?”

“Yes.”

“He's the person who went with you when you lodged a complaint the following morning, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Were you living with this person at the time?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work does your former partner do?”

“He's area sales manager for a confectionery company.”

“Was he ever away for a few days?”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“He was always travelling, almost every day. He'd go from one place to another.”

“Did he usually come back in the evening?”

“Yes, he'd leave in his car in the morning and get home in the evening.”

“And apart from spending all day away, did he sometimes take longer trips which obliged him to spend the night away from home?”

“Yes.”

“How frequently?”

She did not reply immediately, but it wasn't clear if the hesitation was due to the fact that she was concentrating on the answer or because, for some reason, the question made her uncomfortable.

“I can't say exactly. A couple of times a month.”

“Ah, by the way, when you went to that party with your friend, do you remember if your partner was away?”