A Fine Line (5 page)

6

If a judge calls me at my office – it happens rarely, but it does happen – I start to get anxious. I'm always afraid that something has gone wrong. That I've screwed up in some really big way. So big that it can't be dealt with by a clerk of the court or a secretary.

And the fact that the judge in question, as in the case of Larocca, is kind of a friend doesn't change things one iota. A judge calling you at your office is a flashing red sign saying:
Danger ahead
. I asked myself what I could possibly have done, but couldn't think of anything. We had a few appeals pending, and were waiting for the dates of the hearings. Nothing urgent, nothing important. So I thought.

“Hello?”

“Guido!”

“Pierluigi. How are you?”

A brief pause.

“So-so. I waited for the end of office hours before phoning, because you might have been seeing clients and I didn't want to disturb you.”

“That's all right, you can call me when you like.”

“Actually I was hoping to see you in court, but it's been a while since you've appeared before me.”

“You're right, it must be a couple of months. Come to think of it, I don't have many clients in prison these days.”

Another pause, on both sides. Mine meant: Are you going to tell me why you called or do I have to ask you? His, I don't know.

As happens in these cases, we talked over each other: “Listen—”

“So what do—”

“I'm sorry, it's just that I need to talk to you—”

“Can you tell me over the phone, or would you prefer me to come to your office tomorrow?”

“No, thanks. It's something… How can I put it?… It's better if I come to see you.”

“All right. When can you come?”

“As soon as possible.”

“As soon as possible could be this evening, if you like.”

“That'd be perfect.”

“It's eight o'clock now. Maybe it's best if you come when there's nobody around. That way we can talk in peace.”

“Thanks, Guido. I really appreciate it. Tell me what time and I'll be there.”

“Let's say 9.30. You know the address.”

“Of course. If only for the times I've read it on your papers.”

Pierluigi Larocca wasn't just anybody. If the expression
top of the class
could be applied to anyone, that person was him.

We had gone to the same high school – although we weren't in the same class – and the same university. He had been a legendary student. Top marks at school, top marks at university, a graduate at twenty-two and at twenty-four already a magistrate.

He had become head of a criminal division of the court while still young, and it was widely thought that when the
post became vacant – in a few months, because the old president was about to retire – he would become the youngest president of the Court of Bari. Then – who knows?

The Prosecutor's Department and the police didn't like him. They considered him too much of a stickler for rules. Maybe they were right, but it should be said that his decisions were always impeccably argued and were almost never overturned by the Supreme Court.

We had rubbed shoulders occasionally in our university days, even though we didn't move in the same circles. His was the classic well-to-do Bari of the early Eighties. I don't know what mine was. I hung out with all sorts of people back then, but actually our paths did sometimes cross. The height of our intimacy was an evening when we went for a pizza together with our respective girlfriends. His, as far as I recalled, hardly said a word.

If Larocca wanted to talk to me in my office, he must have some private problem. Either he was the injured party, or he was under investigation. The second hypothesis struck me as extremely unlikely. Or rather, I couldn't imagine that somebody as untouchable as him could be accused of something.

All right, I told myself. I'll go out for a walk now and have a bite to eat. I hadn't had lunch, and I suspected that the conversation with Larocca wouldn't be a short one.

7

By 9.15 I was back in the office.

Going into the office when it's deserted always gives me a touch of anxiety. The anxiety of someone who feels he's in the wrong place, that things are happening somewhere else. The sensation of being left out.

That didn't happen in the old place, nor does it happen if I remain alone when everybody else has gone. Maybe it means something, and someone better than me would be capable of interpreting the phenomenon. So far I haven't succeeded.

At exactly 9.30, the silence of the office was broken by the harsh sound of the entryphone.

“Second floor,” I said, opening the door without waiting for a reply.

Larocca walked up the stairs while I waited for him in the doorway. I held out my hand and he took it. After a very brief hesitation, he came closer, moving awkwardly, and hugged me.

He was wearing a well-cut jacket and trousers, a shirt, a neatly knotted tie and classic shoes, and gave off a faint high-quality male scent. I doubt he'd dressed like that as a student, but I couldn't remember him wearing anything different from what he had on now or in court. He had been a somewhat anonymous young man in appearance: average height, average build, average features, the kind you look at
and forget immediately afterwards. With the years, he had grown more interesting. The slightly receding hairline, the lines on his forehead and at the sides of his mouth, even the slight bags under his eyes, had conferred personality on his face. This was the first time I'd realized it, outside the context of the courtroom, of our roles, our masks.

“A nice office, it reflects your personality,” he said as we proceeded along the corridor towards my room at the far end.

I don't think my office reflects my personality. It was done by an overenthusiastic designer; I simply put up with it and paid. For at least the first two years, I would have liked nothing better than to abandon it and run away. Gradually, I got used to it. Nothing more.

“Please sit down,” I said, indicating an armchair in my room, on the opposite side from the one behind the desk.

“It smells nice in here,” he said as he sat down.

“That's one of my female colleagues. She's obsessed with natural essences. Yes, it is very nice.”

He looked around. He noticed the books, the comics.

“It isn't quite how I expected it. Don't get me wrong, that was meant as a compliment. It doesn't have that – how can I put it? – that sad, dusty look. The offices of old lawyers have something of the sacristy, the bishop's antechamber about them. Those of young lawyers seem like… well, legal offices: furniture all the same, law books, horrible prints. I like it that there are real books here, and even comics. What do you have there, Tex Willer?”

“A few old issues. Sometimes I reread one to relax when I can't work.”

“I like that,” he said, indicating the framed poster hanging to the right of my desk. It's a black-and-white photograph of two Palestinian children sitting on the ground surrounded
by bombed-out buildings. At the bottom, there's a quotation from Brecht:
We sat down on the side of wrong because all the other seats were taken.

“I've grown fond of it. It's one of the few things I took with me from the place where I lived with my ex-wife. It followed me to my old office and now to this one.”

“Your ex-wife. That's right, you're separated. How many years has it been?”

“I'm divorced now. We separated ten years ago.”

“Ten years? Incredible.”

It wasn't clear what was so incredible about it. Maybe it was just an expression of his embarrassment. He'd come to me to talk about a delicate, urgent matter and somehow couldn't get into the rhythm.

“So, what can I do for you?”

My question startled him. He abandoned the apparently relaxed position he had kept up until that moment. He straightened and leaned forward in the armchair.

“You're right, we've got through the pleasantries. I'm here about something that's been tormenting me for several days. I don't even know where to start.”

“Shall we have a drink?”

“No, no, don't worry, calling the bar at this hour—”

“One of the advantages of having such a large office is that there's also a kitchen with a fridge. Will you have a glass of chilled wine, or would you prefer something non-alcoholic?”

“Chilled wine will be fine.”

It really was fine. Before starting to tell me what he had to, Larocca knocked back two glasses of Chardonnay as if it were water, ignoring the little tray of pistachios I'd brought in to accompany the bottle.

“Alcohol helps, you can't deny it. Guido, I'm scared that they're bringing criminal charges against me in Lecce.”

According to the code of criminal procedure, when magistrates are subject to criminal proceedings, the case is dealt with in a place different from the one in which they work. A rule intended to avoid any conflict of interest. For magistrates from the Bari area, cases fall within the jurisdiction of the court in Lecce.

“Excuse me, Pierluigi, but is that speculation or have you had formal notification?”

“Neither.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

He snorted in frustration. “I was told by a friend, a colleague of yours.”

I had the impulse to ask him who it was, but restrained myself. If he wanted to tell me, he would; if he didn't, my question would just embarrass him.

“What did this colleague of mine tell you?”

He filled his glass again and immediately drained it. “Don't think I always drink like this. It's just that this story is wearing me out. Your… colleague told me that there have been statements made to the anti-Mafia magistrates in Bari by a Mafioso who's turned state's evidence… statements accusing me. This Mafioso supposedly… I'm sorry, I really can't say it. I feel overcome with shame and anger. The man has apparently stated that I accepted money in return for favourable rulings. To get prisoners released, in fact.”

I let out a hint of a whistle. There are always unpleasant rumours circulating in the courts about supposed examples of judicial corruption, judges inclined to accept gifts and grant unlawful favours. That happens in Bari too, of course, and there were some names that were bandied about more frequently than others. Some of these rumours had been confirmed and over the years some judges – especially in the
civil courts, to tell the truth – had been arrested, sentenced and struck off. But I'd never heard the slightest gossip about Pierluigi Larocca.

“This colleague of mine who told you about this, how does he know? What is his source, if I may ask?”

“This has to be strictly between ourselves, Guido.”

I made a slightly self-important expression, to make it clear to him that there was no need to worry, that I was Mr Confidentiality in person. And I also looked somewhat ridiculous, I thought to myself, as I always do when I force myself to act self-important. I don't like self-important. Either from an aesthetic or an ethical point of view. But sometimes I can't help myself.

“He heard it from a woman friend of his who works in the office of the Mafioso's lawyer.”

“Do you know who this Mafioso is?”

“A man named Capodacqua.”

“Never heard of him. But I don't do organized crime, I don't take that kind of client as a rule, so the fact that I've never heard of him doesn't mean anything. Is he somebody important?”

He shrugged his shoulders, and as he did so a grimace of disgust – of which he probably wasn't aware – drew back his lips and crinkled his nostrils. The expression of someone who has suddenly become aware of a bad smell.

“I don't know much about criminal hierarchies. The police and the Prosecutor's Department say he's a very big fish. I think he's just a dealer who's gone up in the world.”

“Did you handle his case?”

“A couple of years ago.”

“What was the outcome?”

“Two separate sentences for drugs offences. In both cases the sentences were upheld.”

“Fine. That means he didn't get any favourable treatment. So maybe he has it in for you. What could this man have said to the prosecutor? And who's the examining magistrate who's questioning him?”

Larocca passed a hand over his forehead, as if to wipe away sweat, even though there wasn't any. A mechanical gesture, or maybe a metaphorical one. He glanced at the empty glass, thought about it for a few moments, then must have decided that it was better to stop.

“Berardi and Padula are questioning him. So you can already see how objective they are.”

Filippo Berardi and Daniela Padula were assistant prosecutors working for the regional anti-Mafia directorate. They had the reputation of being good, competent people and, a year earlier, had been involved in an argument about how easy it was to be released by the court of appeal. In other words, Pierluigi Larocca's division. It was understandable that he didn't care for them.

“What could this Capodacqua have said?”

“My friend didn't see the transcript. As I told you, he just received a few tip-offs from this person, a female trainee he's having a relationship with. I'm not sure if she read the transcript because she was authorized to do so or if she glanced over it when she shouldn't. Anyway, what she told him – and what he then told me – is simple: Capodacqua claims that Judge Larocca took money to have someone released.”

“Do you know when these statements were made?”

“It must have been a few months ago.”

“Is the fact that this Capodacqua is cooperating well known? Do you know if his statements – not those concerning you, obviously – have been used to apply for custody orders or cited in any trials?”

“I don't know.”

“So the idea that a case is already pending against you in Lecce is only your conjecture?”

“Yes, but a very reasonable one. When a judge is accused of an offence, the information is passed on immediately. Not to do so exposes those involved to the risk of disciplinary procedures.”

We sat there in silence for a long time. I was thinking about what he had told me, trying to figure out a possible course of action. The only thing that occurred to me was to petition the Prosecutor's Department in Lecce to be informed of the possible existence of the proceedings, although there was no guarantee I'd get an answer I could use.

“How long have you known?” I asked at last.

“A week. And for a week I haven't slept, I've barely even been alive.”

“It's an unpleasant situation, but I wouldn't overdramatize it, because—”

He interrupted me almost angrily. As if he'd been expecting me to say something like that in order to come out with what was really eating him up inside. “Guido, I don't trust my colleagues, especially not those in the Prosecutor's Department. The way I've presided over the years hasn't endeared me to them. They like judges who agree with them, more or less. They don't like anyone who follows the rules too strictly. It's always been like that. I've always been afraid they'd find some willing ex-Mafioso to help them teach me a lesson. To make me pay for all the times I've acquitted someone, quite rightly, all the times I've demolished their absurd theories based on flimsy evidence. It's an idea that's obsessed me for years, since before I began presiding over the appeal court.”

“But I don't think that—”

“Please let me finish. Let's be clear about this, I'm not saying it's an accusation made up out of thin air. That would
be too banal. The likeliest scenario I can imagine – the one that emerges from reading the statements of lots of criminals who've turned state's evidence, and from an analysis of the modus operandi of those in the Prosecutor's Department – is more complicated than that.”

It struck me that he had used the term
modus operandi
to talk about the work of the Prosecutor's Department.
Modus operandi
is the expression usually used in police and criminological contexts to indicate the operating style and characteristic features of a criminal or category of criminals. I don't know if he'd done it consciously, but he couldn't have chosen a more effective way of expressing his own contempt.

“One of these criminals decides to cooperate, usually because his is a hopeless case and he's likely to receive a heavy sentence, or because some of his former friends have decided to kill him. The prosecutor and the police who interrogate him ask him what kind of things he's able to tell them, given that, as you know, the possibility of gaining an advantage from cooperating really depends on the nature of the information he can supply, especially on whether it's something they haven't heard too much before. And among the most sought-after information is anything that implicates politicians, public officials, administrators, police officers, carabinieri, and – last but by no means least – criminal court judges. Anyone looking to cooperate knows perfectly well that the degree of consideration he'll get from the investigators, his importance, and therefore the likelihood of his having benefits and the power to cut deals increase if he talks about things like votes for favours, fiddled contracts, and corrupt policemen and judges. But he often doesn't know anything – or at least nothing specific – because these things, assuming they happen, even here, are known only by the bigwigs, the criminal bosses. So although he has nothing
concrete to say about these subjects, but is being – how shall I put it? – urged to talk about them, he digs into his memory, and if he digs deep enough, he's bound to come up with something. Even if it's just some wretched piece of gossip he heard in prison. Or maybe the result of influence peddling on the part of some crooked colleague of yours.

“So he says that Judge So-and-So is corrupt because his cellmate or his lawyer told him. The prosecutor nods – it's just what he wanted to hear – and the criminal realizes he's on the right track. When he's questioned again and asked to go further into the subject, which his interrogators – the investigators on whom his future depends – obviously consider important, he tries to remember more, embellishes it, and adds a few speculations of his own, passing them off as actual knowledge. They end up with a flimsy but credible accusation, which they have to investigate in order to find corroborating evidence. Investigating and finding corroborating evidence takes time. I'll be caught up in this business for God knows how long and with my reputation soiled forever. Because even when the case is closed – with either a dismissal or an acquittal – everyone will remember that I was the judge accused of releasing prisoners in return for money.