The Fifth Gospel(132)

            At three o’clock, Tauran exits. The stage is now set for Simon. Since most Vatican offices close at one o’clock, and workers are given at least an afternoon break during longer shifts, I expect the judges to declare a recess first. So I wait by the door for Mignatto, preparing to celebrate with him about a triumphant opening.

            But no one comes. The longer the silence stretches, the more I feel unease spreading behind my ribs. They’re waiting for Simon. And Simon isn’t coming.

            Twenty minutes later, a sedan pulls up. The driver exits, opens the rear door, and waits. The courtroom doors swing open. My uncle descends in a huff.

            “What’s happening?” I say.

            But Lucio walks straight past me and into the waiting car. A moment later, it pulls away. I turn back to find Mignatto standing behind me.

            “Did something go wrong?” I say.

            “No word from Cardinal Boia,” Mignatto growls.

            “How can they treat Simon this way?”

            The monsignor doesn’t answer.

            “Is my uncle coming back?”

            “No.”

            I clear my throat. “So I can come inside the courtroom?”

            He wheels on me. “You need to understand something. I can’t properly defend your brother if your family continues to take matters into its own hands.”

            “Monsignor, I’m sorry. But Ugo’s phone will—”

            “I know what the phone will do. If you can’t agree to what I’m asking, then I can’t agree to represent your brother.”

            “I understand.”

            “Everything else you consider doing, you come to me first.”

            “Okay. Agreed.”

            My acquiescence seems to calm him. “Very well,” he says. “The final deposition is in an hour. Get some lunch and meet me back here in fifty minutes.”

            I’m supposed to pick up Peter in an hour, but that will have to wait. “Who’s testifying?”

            “Doctor Bachmeier.”

            Ugo’s assistant curator. This must be how the judges will learn about the exhibit.

            “I’ll be here,” I tell him.



* * *



            AT FOUR THIRTY, THE doors open. Mignatto leads me to a table on the right side of the courtroom. I see an identical table on the left for the prosecution, led by a priest with the ancient title of promoter of justice. Flanking him is the all-important notary, without whom the proceedings are void. Then comes the gallery behind us, rows upon rows of vacant chairs. Finally, a third small table with a microphone stands between the defense and prosecution. On the table are a pitcher of water and a glass. I don’t have to guess who’ll sit there.

            Mignatto whispers, “It is not our place to ask questions. If you hear things you disagree with, write them down. If I consider the questions useful, I can submit them to the judges.”

            “Please be seated,” says the presiding judge.

            Then the gendarmes admit Dr. Bachmeier, a tweedy layman with a thatchy beard and poorly combed hair. I met him twice when Ugo and I were working together, and I know Ugo kept him in the dark. I doubt he really knows much about the exhibit.

            The notary rises to swear him in. There are two oaths: an oath of secrecy and an oath of truthfulness. Bachmeier looks slightly cowed as he agrees to both.