Reasonable Doubts Read Online Free PDF Page A

better not to know, it’s easier to defend the client in a professional way ...”
    “You don’t believe his story, do you?”
    I took a deep breath, resisting the impulse to talk more bullshit. “I’ll be able to get a clearer idea after I’ve read the papers. But I must admit, your husband’s story is very hard to believe.”
    “I don’t know if his story is true either. I don’t know if he’s been telling me the truth, even though he swears that the drugs weren’t his. He’s sworn it to me over and over. Sometimes I believe him, and sometimes I think he’s denying everything because he’s ashamed and doesn’t want to admit he was carrying drugs in the same car as me and our daughter.”
    That’s what I think too. It’s the likeliest hypothesis, and it’s probably true.
    I told myself these things as I looked at her in silence, my face devoid of expression. And as I looked at her I realized something.
    It wasn’t true that she had doubts about her husband’s innocence. She was convinced her husband was guilty, and that, more than anything else, had been her curse since the whole affair had started.
    “Fabio told me you’d have to read the file first before you decided whether or not to accept the case. Do you mind if
I ask why? Does it mean that if you’re convinced he’s guilty you won’t defend him?”
    That was a question I really needed. No, I don’t give a damn whether he’s guilty or not. I defend guilty people every day. It’s just that your husband-I don’t know if he ever told you this - has a past as a criminal and maybe a murderer, or at least an accomplice to murder. I say this from personal knowledge, I hope I’m making myself clear. Given all this, I don’t know if I’m capable of defending him properly.
    I didn’t say that.
    I told her that this was the way I worked. I had to examine the papers first. I didn’t like to take on a case sight unseen. It was a lie, but one I couldn’t help telling.
    “When will you let me know if you accept?”
    “It isn’t a very big file. I could look at it over the weekend and give you my answer on Monday, or Tuesday at the latest.”
    She took a large man’s-style wallet out of her handbag. “Fabio told me you didn’t want an advance before deciding whether to accept or not. But you’re going to read the file, and that’s work, so ...”
    I raised my open hands and shook my head. I didn’t want any money for the moment. Thanks all the same, but this was the way I worked. She didn’t insist. Instead of taking money or a cheque from the wallet she took a business card and handed it to me.
    Natsu Kawabata, Japanese Cuisine , it said. Beneath that, two telephone numbers, one home and one mobile. I looked up from the card, questioningly.
    She told me she was a chef. Three evenings a week she worked in a restaurant - she mentioned the name of a fashionable spot - but she also made sushi, sashimi and
tempura for private parties thrown by people who could afford it. Japanese food has never come cheap.
    The words escaped me before I could stop them. “I’d have said you were a model or something like that, not a chef.” I regretted saying it before I’d even finished the sentence. I felt like a complete idiot.
    But she smiled. It was only the hint of a smile, but it was very beautiful.
    “I used to be a model.” The smile disappeared. “That was how I met Fabio, in Milan. It seems like a long time ago, so many things have changed.”
    She left the sentence hanging in the air, and in the brief silence that followed I tried to imagine how their relationship had begun, why they’d moved from Milan to Bari. Other things, too.
    She was the one who broke the silence and interrupted my thoughts. “But I like cooking more. Are you familiar with Japanese cuisine?”
    I said yes, I was very familiar with it and liked it a lot.
    In that case, she said, I ought to try her version of it some time.
    It was the kind of thing you say to be polite,