When I explain, Mignatto goes white. “But I specifically asked you,” he says, “not to do anything like this. Not to interfere.”
“You also told me the judges would accept evidence no matter where it came from or how it was gotten.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They bugged Simon’s phone to steal his voice mail.”
He glares at me. “What I told you was that the judges are entitled to form impressions based on anything probative. Which includes our conduct. So when the Secretariat withholds evidence, or eavesdrops on its own employees, it makes an impression that works in your brother’s favor. And when the defense steals evidence, it makes an impression that can only hurt him.”
“Monsignor, you don’t understand. The gendarmes have found things that could help Simon, but nobody’s doing anything with the evidence. Nobody’s even collecting it.”
“What on earth are you referring to?”
I want to tell him about the phone calls to my apartment on the night before the break-in, about the scrap of paper in Ugo’s car that had my phone number written on it. But it would mean telling Mignatto what I did last night, and he’s too upset to take the news in perspective.
Instead I say, “Why haven’t the judges seen this phone? Why was it never entered into evidence in the trial? The voice mail messages show that Simon didn’t know where Ugo was at Castel Gandolfo. This should’ve been one of the first things the prosecution had to turn over.”
A pink mottle creeps up the monsignor’s neck. “I remind you again,” he says, “that this is not a criminal trial under civil law. The gendarmes do not work hand-in-glove with the prosecutor. They perform their own investigation. If the court requests it, they supply it. So the problem here is not some nefarious, invisible cabal against your brother. It’s that no one involved in these proceedings—not the judges, not the promoter of justice, not the defense, not even the vicar who performed the initial investigation—has ever tried a murder in a canonical court. We aren’t accustomed to requesting police homicide reports. We don’t know what sorts of reports are available. And though we’re making every effort to overcome these deficits, it’s extremely difficult when a trial is moving this quickly.”
“Then why,” I say, “is the court being asked to do something it can’t do? The pressure’s coming from somewhere.”
Mignatto grimaces. “Father, someone obviously believes Nogara’s death is a scandal threatening the arrangements for this exhibit. The best hope for resolving that problem, in someone’s mind, is a quick trial. I see nothing to suggest there’s more to it.”
The courtroom doors are opening. Arguing is getting us nowhere. Before Mignatto leaves, I need to make sure he understands the significance of Ugo’s phone.
“When Simon’s testifying,” I say, “please just ask him about the calls he made to Ugo. And if he won’t answer, play the messages on Ugo’s voice mail.”
Mignatto clenches his teeth. He takes the phone and turns his back on me. The last thing I hear him say as he leaves is, “Father, you aren’t listening to me. I don’t ask the questions. Only the judges do.”
* * *
I’M TOO ANXIOUS TO leave, so I decide to stay outside the courtroom. Minutes later, the first witness comes walking up on foot.
It’s old Bishop Pacomio, former rector of Simon’s seminary, the Capranica. He’s an overweight, balding man with a broad, wise forehead and serious eyes. Though he wears a plain priest suit, the thick gold pectoral cross on his chest says he’s more than a priest: for almost a decade he’s been a bishop in the Archdiocese of Turin. To the judges he will also be a minor celebrity—author of books and broadcaster of TV programs. Mignatto is opening with a bang: Bishop Pacomio has traveled four hundred miles to put in a good word for my brother.