I swallow back my incredulity. “I’m sorry?”
“They think she staged the break-in to distract attention from what happened at Castel Gandolfo.”
I glance at Simon again. He’s staring at his hands. For the first time, I sense that this is not the meeting I thought it was.
“Simon,” I say, “what do they think happened at Castel Gandolfo?”
He drags a knuckle across his lips. “Alli,” he says, “I wanted to tell you at the museums. But Peter was there.”
“You wanted to tell me what?”
He straightens himself up. At his full height, even seated in a chair, he seems majestic. This majesty is only deepened by the sadness in his eyes.
“The trial,” he says, “is mine. They’re accusing me of killing Ugo.”
CHAPTER 14
I AM COLD. GUTTED. It feels as if there’s an opening at the bottom of me into which everything else is sliding. Into which I can’t stop myself from falling, too.
They’re staring at me. Waiting for me to say something. But I look to Simon. My hands are flat on the tabletop. I feel my weight pressing on them, needing to be steadied.
Simon doesn’t speak. Instead, Mignatto says, “I’m sure this comes as a shock.”
Everything moves more slowly. My vision flexes, making them all seem more distant. Mignatto is looking at me with a polite, muted pity that belongs to some other situation, some alien world. I feel myself scrabbling for traction, like a rat trying to escape a trap. All three of them knew. All three of them have accepted this.
“No,” I murmur. “Uncle, you’ve got to stop them.”
The first clear thoughts penetrate the fog of shock. The people who attacked Michael, who killed Ugo, who threatened me: this must be their way of reaching Simon.
“Cardinal Galuppo,” I blurt. “He did this.”
Mignatto squints at me.
“Galuppo,” I repeat. “From Turin.”
“Alexander,” Lucio says, “just listen.”
Mignatto removes another document from his briefcase. “Father Andreou,” he says to Simon, “this is the libellus. A copy of it was sent to your Ankara address before the court messenger confirmed your whereabouts last night. To prepare you to read this document, I need to make sure you remember your rights in this process.”
“I don’t need a reminder,” Simon says.
So that’s what this is: a strategy session. An acceptance of the inevitability of a trial.
“Father,” Mignatto says gently, “everyone in your position needs a reminder.” He checks his shirt cuffs, then says, “These proceedings won’t resemble an Italian trial. The Church follows the older, inquisitorial system.”
Now I see Mignatto for what he really is. Not the bearer of bad news, but the family attorney. The Rotal messenger who came to Lucio’s apartment last night must’ve notified Simon he was being charged. Now my uncle has hired Mignatto to be Simon’s defense lawyer.
I stare at Lucio. His otherworldly calm begins to seem comforting. A reassurance that we can prepare ourselves for whatever Simon is about to endure.
“In our system,” Mignatto says, “a trial does not consist of the prosecution and defense offering competing views of what took place. It is the judges who call the witnesses, ask the questions, and decide which experts will testify. The defense and prosecution may make suggestions, but the judges are empowered to decline them. This means we will not be able to pose questions in court. We will not be able to force the tribunal to consider a particular line of inquiry. We will only be able help the judges seek the truth on their own. As a result, you won’t have some of the rights you may be expecting.”