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

stands up and tries to catch my gaze, clearly confused. Then, without waiting for further instructions, he leans over the desk and laboriously inks his name, following the line indicated by the magistrate’s index finger.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I ask.
    â€œWhat do you mean: what do I mean?” the asshole fires back.
    â€œWhat have you decided?” I ask, affirmatively.
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned, your client remains in jail,” he replies, as if it were the most obvious thing.
    Burzone gives me a heartbroken look.
    â€œWhat is your legal motivation?” I demand, indignantly.
    â€œI can’t keep anyone in jail, as you know perfectly well.”
    â€œIf only I did,” I think to myself.
    â€œWhat I can do is ask,” he resumes, “and I’ll ask, you can bet on that. Then the preliminary judge will make the decision.”
    The grand preliminary judge, of course.
    â€œAnd in any case,” the asshole continues, “with the evidence weighing against your client, what did you expect, that we’d just send him home?”
    â€œBut I just told you that you don’t—”
    He cuts me off. I’m thankful for the interruption. I’m pretty sure that at this point my sentence structure was about to go all discombobulated anyway.
    â€œListen, there’ll be an arraignment where you can raise your objections. Write a brief, if you’re really determined to bring them up.”
    An arraignment, huh? Thanks very much for the information.
    â€œYou bet I will,” I say, feeling cocky again. Then I turn and head for the door.
    â€œCounselor,” the clerk of the court calls to me.
    I turn around. The asshole and the clerk of the court are both staring at me, mystified.
    Now what?
    They both go on staring at me as if they were expecting something.
    But Burzone tips me off, by gesturing toward the transcript.
    Jesus, I have to sign it too, that’s right. It’s a good thing that Burzone already signed, otherwise I’d have had to ask: “Where do I sign?”
    You can picture the humiliation.
    I put down my John Hancock, I straighten my jacket, and I nod farewell to the asshole.
    Who nods back.
    The clerk of the court stands up and opens the door for us.
    Mimmo ’o Burzone walks ahead of me. I flash an idiotic smile at the two Carabinieri who have been waiting for us, on sentinel duty outside the door.
    At the last minute, the asshole’s investigative impulses revive unexpectedly.
    â€œFantasia.”
    Burzone turns before I do.
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œWhere on earth did you get that nickname . . . Mimmo ’o Burzone?
    Burzone’s lips part slightly.
    â€œWhen I was younger, I was in door-to-door sales.”
    The asshole rests his chin in the palm of his hand, sketching out a very intelligent little hint of a smile.
    â€œUntil next time, your honor,” I say, cutting the scene short.
    I gently but firmly walk Burzone out of the room with one hand, wheeling after him as I pull the door shut behind me. When the Carabinieri take him, I tell him goodbye.
    â€œThanks, Counselor,” he says, all grateful. “I’ll call you.”
    I’ll call you?
    For reasons that I refuse to take under consideration just then, that phrase chills the blood in my veins.

WHERE DO YOU WANT TO GO TODAY?
    Â 
    W hen your law office is a 200-square-foot room in an apartment you share with others, you have two possibilities.
    Either you say:
    My law office is a 200-square-foot room in an apartment in a building without a doorman. I don’t have a lease, I have a contract of gratuitous bailment (in practical terms, a loan, as if my landlord were an old pal who’s just doing me a favor) for tax purposes, and another undated rental agreement, which the owner, a millionaire miser who shuffles around in slippers, holds hostage, just one copy, signed only by me, so that the minute I complain or cause trouble he can