A Walk in the Dark

4

“Do you want to know where I got the money, Avvocato?”

I didn’t want to know where Signor Filippo Abbrescia, known as Pupuccio il Nero, had got the money. He was an old client of mine, and his trade was defrauding insurance companies – although whenever he was questioned by the judges he gave his occupation as bricklayer.

The following day, his case – he was accused of criminal conspiracy and fraud – was due to be heard in the court of appeal. He’d come to pay, and I had no desire to know where he’d got the money he was about to give me. He told me all the same.

“Avvocato, I hit the jackpot. On the Bari lottery. First time in my life.”

He had a curious expression on his face, Pupuccio il Nero. I told myself he looked like someone who’d spent all his life making money by stealing and now couldn’t believe he’d actually won something. I told myself that, like so many others, he’d become a thief and a con man because of a lack of opportunity. I told myself that I was losing my grip and becoming an incorrigible bleeding heart.

So I called Maria Teresa and gave her the money he’d placed on the desk. Then Pupuccio and I talked about what was going to happen the following day.

We had two alternatives, I told him. One was to plead the appeal. At his first trial, he’d been sentenced to four years – not a lot, I thought, for all the cons he’d pulled – and I could try to get him acquitted, but if they decided to uphold the sentence, he’d go straight back inside. The other alternative was to plea bargain with the assistant public prosecutor. Assistant public prosecutors – and even appeal court judges – usually like plea bargaining. Things go nice and quickly, the hearing is over by mid-morning, and everyone goes happily home, or wherever it is they want to go.

To tell the truth, even lawyers like plea bargaining in the appeal court. Things go nice and quickly, and everyone goes happily back to their offices, or wherever it is they want to go. But I didn’t say that to Pupuccio.

“And if we plea bargain, how long will I get, Avvocato?”

“Well, I think we can try and get it down to two and a half years. It won’t be easy, because the public prosecutor is a tough nut, but we can try.”

I was lying. I knew the assistant public prosecutor who’d be in court the next day. He’d plea bargain down to two months if it meant he could get away quickly and not have to do a fucking thing. He wasn’t what you’d call a hard worker. But I couldn’t say that to Pupuccio il Nero, or people like him.

The way it works, in cases like this, is as follows. I say the public prosecutor is a tough nut. I say I could try plea bargaining but it won’t be easy and I can’t guarantee anything. I mention a sentence I think I can get with plea bargaining, a sentence that’s quite a bit higher than the one I’m sure I’ll actually be able to get. Then I plea bargain down to the sentence I’ve been thinking of from the start, confirm my reputation as a reliable lawyer who’s really on the ball, and collect the rest of the fee.

“Two and a half years? Is it worth plea bargaining, Avvocato? We might as well go through with the trial.”

“Of course we can try,” I said in a calm, even tone. “But if they uphold the four-year sentence, you go back inside. As long as you know that.”

A professional pause, before I went on.

“Below three years, there’s the possibility of probation. Think about it.”

His turn to pause.

“All right, Avvocato, but try to get me less than two and a half years. It’s not as if I killed anyone. Two or three cons is all I did.”

I was pretty sure he’d done at least two hundred, even though the carabinieri had only discovered about fifteen. He was also part of a conspiracy involved in fraud on an industrial scale, and there were plenty of other things on his criminal record. But I didn’t see the point of splitting hairs with Signor Filippo Abbrescia.

“All right, Pupuccio. Now you just have to sign the special proxy, and you won’t need to attend the hearing tomorrow.” That way I’m not forced to play-act in court, I thought, and the public prosecutor and I can get it all out of the way quickly.

“All right, Avvocato, but please, let’s try to get the minimum.”

“Don’t worry, Pupuccio. Come into the office tomorrow, and I’ll tell you how things worked out. And when you see my secretary, get the invoice.”

He was already on his feet, but was still in front of the desk. “Avvocato?”

“Yes?”

“Avvocato, why bother with an invoice? You’ll only have to pay taxes on the money. Is it worth it? I remember when I first started coming to you, you didn’t bother with invoices.”

I sat there, looking him up and down. It was true. For many years most of the money I’d earned had been undeclared. Then, when I’d gone through a lot of changes in my life, I’d started to feel ashamed about that. It wasn’t that I’d thought clearly about it. It’s just that I was afraid of swindling the tax authorities, and so – nearly always, and according to my own estimate of how much it was right to give to the tax people, in order to do my duty-I started issuing invoices and paid a whole lot of money in taxes. I was one of the four or five richest lawyers in Bari. If you went by my declaration of income.

I couldn’t tell Signor Filippo Abbrescia, known as Pupuccio il Nero, these things. He wouldn’t have understood. On the contrary, he’d have thought I was a bit crazy and changed lawyers. Which I didn’t want. He was a good client, a good man, all things considered, and he always paid on time.

“Customs and Excise, Pupuccio, Customs and Excise. They’re all over us lawyers at this time of year. We have to be careful. They hang around outside our offices, and when they see a client coming out, they check if he has an invoice. If he doesn’t, they come into the office and start an audit. And I end up out of a job. I prefer not to run the risk.”

Pupuccio seemed relieved. I was a bit of a coward, but I was only paying taxes to avoid worse problems. He wouldn’t have done the same, but he could understand it.

He gave me a kind of military salute, lifting his hand to an imaginary visor. Bye, Avvocato. Bye, Pupuccio.

Then he turned and went out.

When at least a minute had passed and I was sure he was out of the office, I said out loud, “I’m an idiot. OK, so I’m an idiot. Is there any law against it? No, so I’ll be as much of an idiot as I like.”

Then I laid my head against the back of my chair and stayed like that, looking up at some vague point on the ceiling.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Then the phone rang.