Now I needed information about this Macri.
The first thing I did was switch on my computer, go to the website of the bar association of Rome, and type in his name. What came up was the small amount of information most bar associations provide. Born in 1965, Macri had been a member of the Rome association for just over three years and had previously been a member of the association in Reggio Calabria. His office was in a street with an unusual name. And it didn’t have a phone. Where the contact details should have been, there was only a mobile number. Strange, I thought. A lawyer’s office without a phone. I made a mental note of the fact. It might mean something.
I’d have to turn to some of my Roman friends if I wanted to find out more. So I went through the list of my so-called friends in Rome. It wasn’t a long list.
There were a couple of colleagues I’d sometimes joined forces with for appeals to the Supreme Court or other proceedings that had gone through the Roman courts. To call them friends would have been an exaggeration. There was a journalist who had worked in Bari for some years on the legal column of La Repubblica. He was a pleasant guy, and we’d sometimes had a coffee or an aperitif together, but we’d never been more than casual acquaintances. And if I called him and asked him for information about Macri, there was always the danger I’d arouse his professional curiosity.
There remained my old friend from university, Andrea Colaianni, an assistant prosecutor in the regional anti-Mafia department in Rome. The only person I could turn to without any hassle and who might be able to give me the information I needed.
I looked in my mobile’s phonebook and found his number. For a few minutes I stared at the coloured screen. How long was it since Colaianni and I had last spoken? It must have been years. We’d run into each other once in the street in Bari when he was visiting his parents. We’d exchanged a few words and I’d had the impression that our friendship, like so many others, was over. Now I was phoning him – assuming the number was still valid. What would he think? What should I say to him? Should I chat for a while to observe the social conventions before I asked him for help?
I’ve always had major problems with telephones and telephone calls. What if he was annoyed? He might be in the middle of interrogating someone, or busy in some other way. Besides, magistrates – even if they’re your friends – are unpredictable creatures.
OK. That’s enough.
I pressed the button. Colaianni replied after two rings.
“Guido Guerrieri!” I was surprised he had my number in his phonebook.
“Hi, Andrea. How’s it going?”
“Fine. And you?”
We started chatting. We chatted for at least ten minutes about various things. Family – well, his, at least – work, mutual friends neither of us had seen or heard from for ages. Sport. Did I still box? You’re crazy as ever, Guerrieri.
Finally I told him the reason for my call. I explained everything, briefly. I told him I was groping in the dark, that I didn’t know what to do or what to tell my client. That I needed some information to help me see more clearly. Even if in the end it meant telling my client that the only serious prospect was to plea-bargain.
Colaianni told me he’d never heard of Macri, though in a place like Rome that didn’t mean anything. But he would ask around, and get back to me in a few days.
“But don’t build up your hopes. The likeliest hypothesis is that your client really was transporting those drugs, but hadn’t told his wife. The reason he denies it, despite all the evidence, is because he’s ashamed and doesn’t have the courage to admit it to her.”
Right. I knew that and almost hoped that things really were like that.
It would all be so much simpler.