A Walk in the Dark

19

Sister Claudia sat down behind the rail separating the space intended for the public from that reserved for the lawyers, the defendants, the public prosecutor, the clerk of the court and the judge. In other words, where the trial takes place.

After briefly explaining to her what was about to happen, I went over to the clerk of the court, who was already in his place. In front of him he had two stacks of files: the cases that were due to be dealt with during the hearing.

In theory, at least. In practice, there would be adjournments, annulments, postponements, either at the request of the defence attorneys or else “due to the excessive number of cases in today’s hearing”. In practice, by the end of the hearing, the judge would only have ruled on three or four of the cases at the most.

Caldarola didn’t think it was dignified for a judge to do too much work.

I asked the clerk of the court if I could see the file. I wanted to check the list of prosecution and defence witnesses. I hadn’t submitted a list because I took it for granted that Alessandra Mantovani had indicated all the relevant witnesses.

The clerk of the court gave me the file and I went and sat down on one of the lawyers’ benches. All still empty, despite the crowd outside.

Alessandra, as predicted, had listed all the requisite witnesses. Martina, obviously. The police inspector who had been in charge of the investigation. A couple of girls from Safe Shelter. Martina’s mother. The doctors. No surprises.

The surprises – unpleasant ones – were in the defence list. There were a dozen witnesses, who would testify: (1) as to the relations between Professor Scianatico and the plaintiff Martina Fumai during the period of their cohabitation; (2) in particular, as to what they noticed on occasions during which they frequented the residence of Professor Scianatico and the plaintiff; (3) to the best of their knowledge, as to the physical and mental problems of the plaintiff and the behavioural implications of such problems; (4) as to the reasons known to them for the cessation of cohabitation.

But the real problem wasn’t those witnesses. They were only there to make an impression. The problem was the last name on the list. Professor Genchi, professor of legal medicine and forensic psychiatry. He was listed as an expert witness who would testify “as to the conditions of mental health of the plaintiff in relation to the witness statements and the documents whose admission will be requested, with the purpose of ascertaining the plaintiff’s mental fitness to testify and, in any case, with the purpose of ascertaining the admissibility of said testimony”.

I knew the professor: I had seen him in a lot of trials. He was a man you could trust, not like some of his colleagues, who produce accommodating – and well-paid – evaluations of defendants. Claiming that they have serious mental illnesses, that being ill they absolutely cannot remain in prison and must therefore be transferred as soon as possible to house arrest. Needless to say, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, these gentlemen are as healthy as can be. Needless to say, these expert witnesses are perfectly well aware of that, but with a nice fee in sight they prefer not to make fine distinctions.

Genchi, though, was someone you could trust, someone judges listened to. Quite rightly. He would never lend himself to coming into court and talking nonsense or giving false testimony. Delissanti had chosen someone who would never let his hand be forced to exaggerate his evaluation. Which meant that he must be feeling very confident.

As I was reading, and getting increasingly worried, I felt a presence behind me. I turned and looked up. Alessandra Mantovani, already wearing her robe. She greeted me in a professional manner – Good morning, Avvocato – and I replied in the same way, Good morning, Dottoressa.

Then she went and sat down in her place. Her face was a touch tense. Small lines at the corners of her mouth, her eyes partly closed. I was certain she’d already read Delissanti’s list.

The assistant who was with her placed two dusty folders on her desk, full of files with discoloured covers. A few minutes passed, and at last Delissanti came in, with his usual retinue of secretaries, assistants and trainees. Almost immediately after, the bell sounded to signal the start of the hearing.

They’d arrived virtually at the same time. The defence attorney and the judge.

It had to be a coincidence.