A Walk in the Dark

15

The next morning I went straight from home to the courthouse, for a trial. The charge: living off immoral earnings.

My client was a former model and porn film actress, accused of organizing a prostitution ring. She and two other women were the go-betweens for the girls and their clients. She used the telephone and the Internet and took a commission on all completed transactions. She herself serviced a few very select, very wealthy clients. She didn’t run a brothel or anything like that. She simply connected supply with demand. The girls worked from home, nobody was exploited, nobody got hurt.

With a commitment surely worthy of a better cause, the Public Prosecutor’s department and the police had spent months investigating this dangerous organization. They’d staked out the girls’ apartments, and picked up the clients on the way out. More than that, they’d intercepted phone calls and e-mails.

By the end of the investigation, the three organizers were in custody. According to the charge, the very clear social danger represented by the three accused, their ability to make confident use, for the purposes of their criminal activities, of the most sophisticated tools of modern technology (mobile phones, Internet, etc.) and their inclination to repeat this antisocial behaviour makes it essential to impose on them the severest form of custodial sentence, in other words imprisonment.

Nadia had been in prison for two months, then under house arrest for another two months, and then she’d been released. In the early stages of the case, she’d been defended by a colleague of mine, but then she’d come to me, without explaining why she wanted to change lawyers.

She was an elegant, intelligent woman. That morning I had to plead her case using the shortened procedure, in other words, before the judge from the preliminary hearing.

Virtually the only evidence against her came from the telephone and e-mail intercepts. Based on these intercepts it was obvious that Nadia and her two friends had – according to the charges – organized, coordinated and managed an unspecified but undoubtedly large number of women dedicated to prostitution, acting as intermediaries between the said women and their clients and receiving for such services, and more generally for the logistical support provided to this illicit traffic, a percentage of the prostitutes’ income of between ten and twenty per cent… and so on, and so forth.

Reading the papers carefully, I’d realized that there was an error in the procedure for authorizing the intercepts. I was basing my whole case on that procedural error. If the judge upheld me, the intercepts were inadmissible, and there was hardly any evidence against my client. Certainly not enough for a conviction.

When the clerk of the court read out her name and Nadia said she was present, the judge looked at her and was unable to conceal a hint of surprise. With her anthracite-grey tailored suit, her white blouse, her impeccable, sober make-up, the last thing she looked like was a whore. Anyone entering the court and seeing her sitting there, next to me, surrounded by copies of the file, would have thought she was a lawyer. Only much, much prettier than most.

Once the formalities had been dealt with, the judge gave the public prosecutor the floor. He was a scruffylooking young magistrate, deputizing for the prosecutor who’d carried out the investigations, and he made no attempt to conceal his boredom. I didn’t feel very well disposed towards him.

He said that the defendant’s guilt emerged clearly from the documents produced at the trial, that a complete reconstruction of the acts committed and the responsibility for them was already contained in the order of application for a custodial sentence, and that the appropriate penalty in such an undoubtedly serious case was three years’ imprisonment and a fine of 2500 euros. End of speech.

When Nadia heard that request, she half closed her eyes for a second and shook her head, as if dismissing an annoying thought. The judge gave me the floor.

“Your Honour. We could easily base our defence on merit, examining the results of the investigation point by point and demonstrating that they in no way prove that the defendant has benefited from, or even aided and abetted, another person’s prostitution.”

That wasn’t true. If you examined the results of the investigation point by point it was very clear that Nadia had indeed “organized, coordinated and managed an unspecified but undoubtedly large number of women dedicated to prostitution”. Exactly.

But we lawyers have a conditioned reflex. Whatever the circumstances, our client is innocent, and that’s it. We can’t help ourselves.

“But the task of a defence counsel,” I went on, “is also that of identifying and pointing out to the judge every aspect of the case, which, from the point of view of the investigation, allows him to save time and reach a decision quickly.”

And I explained how he could reach a decision quickly and save time. I explained that the intercepts were inadmissible, because there had been no grounds at all for the orders authorizing them. In the case of orders authorizing intercepts, the fact that there are no grounds is an irremediable error. If these intercepts were unusable, I said – and they were unusable – it was not even possible to look at them, and there was nothing against my client except a mountain of conjecture, and so on, and so forth. As I spoke, the judge leafed through the file.

When I finished, he retired to his chamber and stayed there almost an hour. Then he came out and read out his acquittal, which included the formula: The case is without foundation.

Bravo, Guerrieri, I said to myself as the judge was reading. Then I made a friendly gesture of farewell to him – we lawyers always make friendly gestures of farewell to judges who acquit our clients – and walked out of the courtroom with Nadia.

Her cheeks were flushed, like someone who’s been in a very stuffy environment, or someone who’s overexcited. She took out a packet of Marlboro Gold, lit one with a Zippo lighter, and took a couple of greedy puffs.

“Thank you,” she said.

I nodded, modestly. But I was very pleased.

She told me she would come to my office in the afternoon. To pay. Then she looked me in the eyes for a few seconds, and asked if she could tell me something. Of course, I replied.

“You’re a very good lawyer, as far as I can tell. But there’s something more. In my line of work, I’ve learned a lot about men, and I think I can recognize the decent ones. On the very rare occasions when I meet them. I had two other lawyers before you. Both of them asked me – how should I put this? – for a supplement to their fee, right there in the office, with the door locked. I suppose they thought it was normal, after all I’m just a whore, so…”

She took a deep drag on her cigarette. I didn’t know what to say.

“So nothing. You, on the other hand, apart from getting me acquitted, have treated me with respect. And that’s something I won’t forget. When I come to the office I’ll bring you a book. Apart from the money, obviously.”

Then she shook my hand and left.

I decided to go and have a coffee, or whatever. I felt light-headed, like after an exam at university. Or, indeed, after winning a case.

As I was walking along the corridor leading to the bar, I saw Dellisanti ahead of me, in the middle of a group of trainees, young lawyers and secretaries. We hadn’t spoken since his phone call to my office.

My first impulse was to turn on my heels, leave the courthouse, and have my coffee in some bar outside. To avoid an encounter. I even slowed down, and had almost come to a halt when I heard these words quite distinctly, in my head: “Are you losing it completely? Are you afraid of that windbag and his band of flunkeys? You’ll have your coffee wherever you like and that lot can go fuck themselves.” The exact words. It sometimes happens.

So I started walking quickly again, passed Dellisanti and his entourage, pretending not to see them, and walked into the bar.

They joined me at the counter as I was ordering a fresh orange juice.

“Hello, Guerrieri.” As friendly as a python.

I turned, as if I’d only just become aware of their presence.

“Oh, hello, Dellisanti.”

“Well, now, what have you got to say?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did you check out what I told you? About the girl, I mean.”

I didn’t know what to say. It was a bother having to say anything at all, and the man knew how to make whoever he was speaking to feel uncomfortable. No doubt about that.

In reality I’d have liked to tell him that he ought to be thinking about defending his client. Accused of serious crimes. And I would think about defending my client. The victim of the same serious crimes.

I’d have liked to tell him not to make any more phone calls like the one a few days ago, that I’d make sure he lost any desire he had to do so.

In other words, the reply of a man.

Instead of which, I babbled something about how things aren’t what they seem, and anyway they were different from the way they’d been told to him, and to cut a long story short, I didn’t know how to wriggle out of it only a few days after taking the case. Without a valid excuse, I couldn’t do anything. Maybe in a few weeks, or a few months, depending on how the trial went, we could talk again.

In other words, the reply of a coward.

“All right, Guerrieri. I’ve already said what I had to say. Do as you see fit, let everyone take responsibility for his own actions and face the consequences.”

He turned and walked out. With all the others, in formation. Perfectly trained.

After a few seconds I shook my head, with the kind of movement dogs make when they’re wet and want to shake the water off them, and then went to the cash desk to pay.

“Avvocato Delissanti’s already paid,” the cashier said.

I was about to reply that I’d pay for my own orange juice, or something like that. Then I thought it best to avoid ridicule.

It’s always best, as far as you possibly can.

So I nodded, made a gesture to say goodbye and left.

My good mood after the outcome of that morning’s trial had vanished.