money. In cash and in advance. No receipt, of course.
The petition was refused. To go to appeal again would cost twenty million. They didn’t have twenty million so Abdou had remained in prison.
Now that the trial was approaching they had decided to come to me. A young member of the Senegalese community knew me – the woman gave me a name that meant nothing to me – and also knew that I wasn’t one to make a fuss about money, and that in any case, to be going on with, they could give me two million, which was what they had managed to collect.
Abajaje Deheba opened her bag, drew out a bundle of banknotes fastened with an elastic band, laid it on the desk and pushed it towards me. There was no question of my being able to refuse or discuss the matter. I said I would get my secretary to make out a receipt for that advance. No thank you, she didn’t want a receipt, she wouldn’t know what to do with it. What she wanted was for me to go at once and see Abdou in prison.
I told her I couldn’t do that, that Signor Thiam would have to appoint me, if only by making a declaration in the prison register. Very well, she said, she would tell him when they next spoke. She rose to her feet, held out her hand – she hadn’t done so when she came in – and looked me in the eye. “Abdou didn’t do what they say he did.”
Her handshake was as firm as I expected it to be.
When I opened the door I heard my secretary trying to explain to a Signora Cassano distinctly annoyed at having to wait that the Avvocato had had an emergency visit and would see her just as soon as possible.
I could imagine my client’s thoughts when she saw Abajaje Deheba pass by, and realized that she had been made to wait on account of a
She entered the room and gave me a look of disgust. I’m sure she would have spat in
The next day she was found guilty, and for the appeal she went to another lawyer. Naturally she didn’t pay the remainder of my fee, but maybe she had a point: I hadn’t exactly done my best to get her off.
8
I parked the car illegally, as usual on a Friday. On visiting days you can’t find a legal space anywhere near the prison.
Friday is visiting day.
However, this isn’t a problem, because you are unlikely to get fined. No traffic warden is too keen on having words with relatives visiting the prisoners; as a rule, no traffic warden is too keen on being on duty at all in the prison neighbourhood.
So I parked illegally on a pavement, climbed out of the car, straightened my tie, took a cigarette from the packet, put it in my mouth without lighting it and set off for the entrance.
The warder at the door knew me, so I didn’t have to show my lawyer’s card.
I went through the usual metal gates, then the gratings, then still more gates. Finally I reached the room reserved for lawyers.
I am convinced that in all prisons they go out of their way to choose the room that is coldest in winter and hottest in summer.
It was winter, and even though outside the air was mild, in that room, furnished with a table, two upright chairs and a broken-down armchair, there was a mortifying chill.
Lawyers are not much loved in prisons.
Lawyers are not much loved in general.
While they were off fetching Abdou Thiam I lit the cigarette and, just for something to do, rummaged in my bag and pulled out the precautionary detention order.
Once again I read that “the impressive probative material acquired against Abdou Thiam forms a reassuring picture serving not only to justify the restraint of personal liberty at the present stage of proceedings but also, in prospect, to allow for reasonable predictions of a conviction in the forthcoming trial.”
In plain words: Abdou was up to his neck in evidence against him, must be arrested and kept in custody, and when the trial came up would certainly be found guilty.
While I was reading, the door opened and a warder ushered in my client.
Abdou Thiam was a strikingly handsome man, with the face of a film star and liquid eyes. Sad and far away.
He remained standing near the door until I went up, gave him my hand and told him I was his lawyer.
A person’s handshake says a lot of things, if one takes the trouble to pay attention to it. Abdou’s handshake told me he didn’t trust me, and that perhaps he no longer trusted anyone at all.
We sat ourselves down on the two chairs and I realized almost at once that it was not going to be an easy conversation.
Abdou spoke Italian well, even if not in the well-nigh perfect, accentless manner of Abajaje. In any case, it came naturally to me to address him as
We hurried over the matter of how they were treating him and whether there was anything he needed. Then, since I had not yet examined the file, I tried to persuade him to give me his version of the whole story, with a view to starting to get my bearings.
He was not collaborative. He spoke apathetically, without looking at me, giving vague answers to my questions. It almost seemed as if the matter was of no concern to him.
This very soon got on my nerves, not least because behind that absurd vagueness I could clearly perceive a hostile attitude. Towards me.
I made an effort to conceal my irritation.
“Well then, Abdou, let us get things straight between us. I am your lawyer. You appointed me yourself” – I produced the telegram that had arrived from the prison the previous day and waved it about for a moment – “and I am here to help you, or to try to do so. For this I need your assistance. Otherwise I can do nothing. Do you follow me?”
Until then he had been bent slightly forward, looking at the table. Before answering, he straightened up and looked me in the face.
“I only sent that telegram because Abajaje told me to. Maybe you will try to do something, like the other lawyer, or maybe not. But I’ll stay here whatever happens. When the trial comes up I’ll be found guilty. We all know that. Abajaje thinks you are different from the other lawyer and really can do something. I don’t believe it.”
“Listen to me, Abdou,” I said, forcing myself again to keep my voice calm, “if you cut yourself and the wound is deep and bleeds a lot, what do you do?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “You go to a doctor and have it stitched up, don’t you? You don’t know how to stitch a wound because you’re not a doctor.”
This seemed to me an appropriate metaphor to explain to him that there are times when one simply has to avail oneself of a specialist, and that in this case the specialist was me.
“I know how to put in stitches because I was an army nurse during military service.”
At that point I gave up trying to appear calm. It was obviously useless.
“Listen here and listen carefully. Listen very carefully indeed, because if you give me another crappy answer like that I’ll walk out of here, call your woman, give her back the money – what there is of it – and you can find yourself another lawyer. Otherwise the court will appoint a counsel who won’t do a damn thing for you unless you pay him. And he probably won’t do anything even if you do pay him, seeing what you can afford. Obviously, if you are behaving in this idiotic manner because you really did kill that boy and want to pay for it, well, all the more reason for me to drop the matter…”
Silence.
Then, for the first time since we had been together in that room, Abdou Thiam looked at me as if I really existed. In a low voice, he spoke.
“I didn’t kill Ciccio. He was my friend.”
I held still briefly, to regain my balance.
It was as if I had hurled myself bodily at a door in an attempt to burst through, and someone on the other side
