I Hadn't Understood (9781609458980) by Diego De Silva

brought in the manner and according to the time limits established by law,” I argue with blinding rapidity.
    I can’t believe my ears. I feel as if I’m just moving my lips, as if I’m lip-synching my lines.
    Nives, if you could only see me now.
    â€œI’d advise you to change your tone of voice, Counselor. Because I might consider it indicative of contempt for the office I represent,” the asshole says, losing his temper.
    â€œNo, no, no, it’s you who are overstepping the bounds of your authority. And be well aware that I intend to use every single word that you say, taken down in the minutes of this interrogation,” I add, though I haven’t the faintest idea of how I can use them, “to prove that up until this moment you have illegally detained my client and that no charges have been formally brought. I’d also like to take this opportunity to remind you, since we’re on the subject, that we have the full legal right not to respond”—and this time I use the lawyerly “we” intentionally and advisedly—“a right that you have taken great care to avoid bringing to the notice of the subject of your investigation, am I right?”
    â€œYou have no idea what you’re saying,” the asshole replies, betraying a hint of discomfort.
    â€œOh, yes I do,” I rebut, shamelessly, “and I’ll be even more specific if you continue giving me just cause.”
    I don’t even know what’s come over me.
    Daddy, is that you?
    â€œWe found a hand in your client’s backyard. I’m not sure if I make myself clear,” the cool dude says, slightly red in the face, turning over his first card.
    Oh fuck, I think to myself.
    â€œSo what?” I say out loud.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘so what?’” he says, more disappointed than indignant.
    â€œWell, so what? What you plan to do, charge him with concealing a hand?”
    Burzone shrugs, as if to say: “Yeah, right.”
    The asshole jerks his head back and surveys the scene, like Predator in the jungle raising his visor and activating his victim-identification program, in consecutive order: the window, Burzone, yours truly, and the clerk of the court. His face assumes a bewildered expression, as if he were thinking he’s the only one who doesn’t fit in, in here.
    â€œI’m not charging him with concealing a hand, Counselor. I’m charging him with concealing a corpse.”
    An idea pops into my head.
    â€œThen I’m afraid I’m going to have to differ with you on your very first point. First off, you have no evidence that the corpse, as you insist on calling the hand found in Fantasia’s backyard, was actually concealed by Fantasia himself.” At this point, Burzone shrugs again, cockier than ever. “And second, before anyone can be charged with concealing a corpse, there has to be a corpse, a whole corpse, not just a hand, and a corpse that belongs to someone, that is, a victim, with a first name and a last name.”
    I stop to catch my breath. This was such a random shot that I might have actually scored a point. Once, in court, I heard a renowned criminal lawyer, talking to his client, in shackles, say that the important thing is that something
appear
true; it matters much less whether it is or not.
    The asshole says nothing, silent and bewildered. Next time, read up on the laws of evidence where concealment of corpses is concerned, why don’t you.
    I look at him. He’s gone limp with frustration.
    â€œVery interesting line of defense, Counselor,” he says, wearily. “Too bad that this isn’t the forum to present it.”
    â€œOh, it isn’t?” I think.
    The asshole waves his hand toward himself, but the gesture is for the clerk of the court, who immediately hands over the preprinted deposition form. Then he offers the same form to Burzone.
    â€œSign here.”
    Mimmo ’o Burzone