A Fine Line Read Online Free PDF

maybe even too good. She managed to gather information where others had to give up, even though it has to be said that she wasn’t too bothered about journalistic ethics or the criminal code. I had defended her in a number of trials, some for libel and one actually for receiving stolen goods. The Prosecutor’s Department hadcharged her with obtaining copies of documents relating to a pending criminal case that was still confidential, documents stolen – by persons unknown, as they say – from the clerk of the court’s office, the said clerk having left it unattended because of a sudden urgent need for a cappuccino and a croissant.
    According to the Prosecutor’s Department, receiving three copies of improperly obtained documents was equivalent to buying a stolen TV set or jewellery taken in a robbery, and had therefore to be punished with a prison sentence of between two and eight years. A somewhat singular theory, which the judge did not share. Annapaola was acquitted, and I earned myself a few paragraphs in the papers.
    Soon after that trial and that acquittal, Annapaola disappeared. For months, almost a year, there was no sign of her in the courthouse or at police headquarters. When she reappeared she was equipped with a new haircut, an expression that was both harder and more fragile, and a private detective’s licence. The first time I needed an investigation to be carried out for a case of mine, I turned to her. The work was rapid and impeccable, even though it wasn’t clear where and how (and breaking what rules, or even what locks) she had got hold of her information.
    It had been Annapaola who had got me the data on Di Cosmo’s partner’s stays in Milan; how, I didn’t want to know.
    When our eyes met, she made me a sign and, as the judges went back into their chambers, she stood up, came towards me and embraced us in turn, first Consuelo, then me.
    â€œExcellent work. If I hadn’t felt sorry for the stupid girl, I might even have enjoyed it.”
    â€œ You did excellent work, we just used it,” I replied.
    â€œOkay, let’s stop right there before things get really treacly. That should be the end of the case, shouldn’t it?”
    â€œI think so. We just have to see if they deal with it today or decide on yet another postponement.”
    â€œI think the judge will deal with it today,” Consuelo said. “He seemed almost embarrassed at the end of the cross-examination. I got the impression he wanted to get it all out of the way as soon as possible.”
    That was probably true, I thought.
    We decided to go for a coffee. I even invited the prosecutor but he said no thanks, he’d rather use that time to look at his other briefs. He seemed on the verge of adding something, maybe a comment on what had just happened, then changed his mind.
    Out of the four cafés in the vicinity of the courthouse, we chose the one where the coffee most resembles medicine that’s past its expiry date. They manage to make it weak and burnt at the same time, which takes a certain talent. But the barista weighs 260 pounds, and can lift as much again in the gym, so nobody complains.
    Consuelo said it was on her, because this was her first and probably also last trial for sexual assault, at least as defence counsel. My colleague doesn’t exactly look at cases dispassionately. If she doesn’t like the client, if the offence he’s charged with strikes her as horrible, and if it isn’t clear that the person is innocent, she has no desire to take on his defence. Let’s just say that a practice following her criteria for taking on clients might find it hard to survive.
    When we were back outside again, Annapaola quickly rolled herself a cigarette and we set off again, walking past the cemetery opposite the courthouse. Some winter evenings, when the hearings go on until it’s dark, it’s comforting to leave the courthouse and find