Guido brightens. He misunderstands. “I did it because Father Alex and I grew up together. We’re old friends.”
The presiding judge says drily, “Did you ask him for a bribe? Two tickets to Doctor Nogara’s exhibit?”
The old judge peers cruelly down. Guido squirms like a hurt puppy.
“Well . . . I mean . . .” Guido Canali actually turns to me, as if for help. “It wasn’t like that. I just said . . .”
Mignatto jots a note on his legal pad. It’s pure gibberish. He just doesn’t want to be seen gloating.
“Signor Canali,” says the presiding judge with disgust, “you’re excused. This tribunal is done hearing your testimony.”
Guido lifts himself from his chair. He adjusts his belt and smooths his necktie on his belly with a stunned look. He leaves without a sound.
* * *
“OFFICER, THE NEXT WITNESS.” The judge looks at the roster in front of him. “Please call Signor Pei.”
This is one of the two unfamiliar deponents from Mignatto’s list.
Who’s that? I write on the pad between us.
Mignatto ignores me.
The man identifies himself as Gino Pei, driver in the pontifical car service. I take him to be a previously unscheduled witness, since Gianni never mentioned a driver being called to testify. Mignatto watches attentively.
“Signore,” the lead judge asks once the oaths are finished, “it says here that your job is shift coordinator. What does that mean?”
“It’s not a job, Monsignor, just a perk of seniority. It means I’m the driver who assigns pickups to my coworkers as the requests come in.”
“In other words, you’re familiar with all the incoming requests.”
“On my shift. Correct.”
“And how long have you been a driver in the service?”
“Twelve years.”
“How many passengers have you driven in twelve years?”
“Hundreds. Thousands.”
“So if we were to ask you about a specific passenger, how well could we expect you to remember him?”
“Monsignor, I don’t need to remember. We keep records of everything. Time in, time out, pickups, locations.”
The judge scans a sheet of questions that must have come from the prosecutor, the promoter of justice. “Very well. I’d like to ask you about the day of Ugolino Nogara’s death.”
I wonder if anyone else realizes this line of questioning is about to hit a roadblock.
“I’m sorry, Monsignor,” Gino says in a nervous voice. He gestures at the promoter. “But like I told him last night, I can’t answer that question.”
“Why not?”
“There aren’t any records from that day.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were ordered not to keep any logs.”
“Ordered by whom?” the old judge grumbles.
Gino Pei hesitates. “Monsignors, I can’t answer that.”
The promoter of justice watches the judges. He seems to be weighing the tribunal’s reaction.