I didn’t even have to look at the papers, I told myself that evening, at home.
I couldn’t defend Fabio Rayban. All the things that had gone through my head when I’d recognized him should have set alarm bells ringing. I couldn’t ignore them.
I had to act maturely and professionally.
Paolicelli was probably guilty and had been given the right sentence. But that was why he had a right to be defended professionally, by someone who didn’t have my inner reservations and didn’t have an old score to settle with him.
I had to turn down the case without even reading the papers. It would be better for everyone.
It would be right.
In a few days’ time, I’d go back to the prison and tell him I couldn’t defend him. I would either tell him the truth, or invent an excuse.
But one thing was certain. I couldn’t take the case.