The Colombian Mule by Massimo Carlotto, Christopher Woodall Page B

didn’t reckon with prison the way that I or Old Rossini did. Beniamino has always seen it as an occupational hazard, whereas you ended up in prison by mistake, hauled in during one of their interminable round-ups. And they convicted you even though they knew perfectly well that you were totally innocent of any offence, let alone terrorism. Those days they were just so desperate to crush the movement.’
    â€˜What was the worst period for you, Max?’
    He smiled bitterly. ‘The worst period for me was what they termed Personality Observation. Shrinks, counsellors and social workers, armed with their stupid questionnaires and endless interviews, attempting to find out whether or not prison had “rehabilitated” me.’
    I looked him in the eye. ‘The way you talk about it, I get the feeling you’ll never be over it either.’
    â€˜You’re right. They forced me into “choosing” to humiliate myself totally, just so I could get out of prison. But what about you? What was the worst time for you?’
    â€˜Things were different when I was inside. And in the special prisons, they just laid into us with batons. In those days the screws demanded respect, insisted we refer to them as
superiori
. I could never do that.’
    Â 
    Guillermo’s weariness never let up. Quite the reverse. As time went on, he felt weaker and weaker. On the fourth day, he decided he had better go and see the prison doctor and so, in accordance with prison regulations, when the guard did his morning round, Guillermo had his name entered on the list.
    Mid-morning he suffered a respiratory collapse. He just managed to bang on the metal panelling of his cell door to alert the guard. But the guard told him to be patient: it wasn’t his turn yet. The third time he collapsed he didn’t get up again, and so the guard sent for the nurse.
    He was still alive when they put him in the ambulance-boat. He died on the Grand Canal, which, despite the freezing weather, was crowded with tourists.
    The doctor on duty at the A&E department of the Santissimi Apostoli hospital filled out the death certificate and ordered that the body be transferred to the forensic medicine department for autopsy.

Max, Rossini and I were still sitting at my table when Rossini gently kicked my foot. I turned and saw Bonotto coming towards us. I checked my watch—it was a few minutes before midnight. Max motioned towards the only free chair. The lawyer passed a hand across his face. He seemed upset.
    â€˜The Colombian’s dead. Murdered. Poisoned.’ Bonotto spoke softly so the customers wouldn’t hear. ‘Rat poison. The police doctor told me they discovered a large amount of Warfarin, the stuff used in rat pellets, in the Colombian’s blood. Apparently rats eat them and then die a few hours later. That way, the other rats don’t make the connection between the food put down for them and death.’
    â€˜A professional job,’ Rossini commented.
    â€˜That’s just what the investigating magistrate said before he ordered Corradi to be thrown into solitary confinement. He’s convinced my client wanted to get rid of his principal accuser. And did so.’
    â€˜But that doesn’t make any sense,’ I objected. ‘The Colom­bian was on the point of changing his statement.’
    Bonotto threw his arms out wide. ‘Was . . . All the judge knows is that Beltrame had requested a fresh interview so the Colombian could place a voluntary statement on the record. For all he knows, Arías Cuevas might have provided further evidence against Corradi.’
    Max offered Bonotto a cigarette, but he declined it with a wave of his hand. ‘I assume you’ve come here for a specific reason, Avvocato,’ Max said.
    â€˜Sure. We’ve got to demonstrate right now, before the formal investigation gets under way, that my client had nothing whatsoever to do with this killing.