The latter crossed the courtroom looking about him with a cocksure air. He had the look of a peasant. A stumpy figure, checked shirt with a 70s-style collar, swarthy complexion and crafty eyes. Not at all an engaging craftiness either, rather suggesting first chance I get, I’ll cheat you. He hoisted up his trousers by the belt with a gesture that seemed to me obscene, and took his time sitting down in the seat reserved for witnesses, shown him by the bailiff. With his back to the cage where Abdou was. He sat sprawling, filling the whole chair and relaxing against the back. He had an air of self-satisfaction, and I had a distinct urge to wipe it off his face.

Cervellati’s interrogation was nothing but a kind of repeat of the one during the preliminary inquiries. Renna said exactly the same things, in the same order and more or less in the same words.

When his turn came, Cotugno finally asked a few questions, totally insignificant. Just to show his clients, the child’s parents, that he existed and was earning his fee.

I was about to start my cross-examination when Margherita whispered something in my ear.

“I don’t know what makes me think so, but this man’s a turd.”

“I know.” Then I turned to the witness.

“Good morning, Signor Renna.”

“Good morning.”

“I am Avvocato Guerrieri, and I am defending Signor Thiam. I will now ask you a number of questions to which I ask you to reply briefly and without making comments.” My tone of voice was deliberately odious. I wanted to provoke him, to see if I could find an opening so as to get in my blow. As in boxing.

Renna regarded me with his piggy little eyes. Then he addressed the judge.

“Your Honour, do I also have to answer the questions of a lawyer?”

“You are obliged to answer, Signor Renna.” The judge’s face expressed the thought that, were it in his power, he would willingly have done without me, and most other defending counsel as well. Unfortunately it was not. I, however, had gained a tiny advantage. The barman had swallowed the bait and from now on was more vulnerable.

“Well, then, Signor Renna, you told the public prosecutor that on the afternoon of 5 August 1999 you saw Signor Thiam walking quickly from north to south. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember when it was you were heard by the public prosecutor during the inquiries?”

“He interrogated me a week later, I think.”

“When were you heard by the carabinieri?”

“Before, the day before.”

“Is your bar frequented by non-European citizens?”

“Quite a few. They come in for a coffee, they buy cigarettes.”

“Can you tell us their nationalities?”

“I don’t know. They’re all niggers ...”

“Are you able to tell us more or less how many niggers frequent your bar?”

“Don’t know. They’re the lot that go round peddling stuff on the beaches, and even in the streets. Sometimes they even hang about right outside my bar.”

“Ah, they even hang about right outside your bar. But they don’t interfere with your custom, do they?”

“They interfere, they interfere, and how!”

“Forgive me for asking, but if they are a nuisance, why don’t you call the municipal police, or the carabinieri?”

“Why don’t I call them? I call them all right, but d’you think they come?” He was thoroughly indignant now. But meanwhile Cervellati had seen what I was leading up to. A bit late though.

“Your Honour, I notice that the defence is continuing to ask every witness questions without any pertinence to the object of these proceedings. I don’t see how it is possible to go ahead in this manner.”

I spoke before Zavoianni could get a word in.

“I have finished on this point, Your Honour. I am going on to another.”

“Taking great care, Avvocato Guerrieri. Very great care,” said the judge.

“Well then, Signor Renna, I had a few other questions for you ... ah, yes, I wanted to show you some photographs.” Out of my briefcase I took a series of photocopies of colour photographs. I was deliberately clumsy about it.

“Your Honour, may I approach the witness and show him some photographs?”

“What photographs might they be, Avvocato?”

I was now about to start walking the tightrope. A wrong word on one side and I’d end up under disciplinary procedure. A wrong word on the other and I would have ruined everything I had accomplished up to that moment.

“They are photographs of non-European citizens, Your Honour. I wish to verify whether the witness recognizes any of them.” In a carefully colourless tone of voice.

The judge made his usual sign to tell me I could go ahead. I hoped that Cervellati wouldn’t ask to see the photos, or demand more precise information as to who were the persons represented, which was within his rights. He didn’t do it. I approached the witness, photos in hand.

“Signor Renna, may I ask you to look at these ten photographs?” I felt my heartbeat accelerating wildly.

Renna looked at the photographs. He was no longer so relaxed as at the beginning. He had shifted towards the edge of his chair. Flight position, the psychologists call it.

“Do you recognize anyone in these photographs?”

“I don’t think I do. There are so many of them who come by my bar, I can’t remember them all.”

I took the photos back and returned to my place before putting the next question.

“Nevertheless, and correct me if I am wrong, you remembered Signor Thiam perfectly well, did you not?”

“Certainly I did. He was always coming by.”

“If you saw him, in person or in a photograph, you would recognize him, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, yes. He’s the one in the cage.”

Only at that moment did he turn round. I remained silent for a second or two before rounding it off.

“You know, Signor Renna, I put that last question to you because, of the ten photographs you looked at, two show the face of Signor Thiam, the defendant. But you said you didn’t think you recognized any of them. How do you explain this fact?”

A coup of this order is very rare in a trial, as indeed in life. But when it comes off, the feeling it gives is almost indescribable. I felt time slow down, and the tension in the air and on my skin. I felt Margherita’s eyes on me, and I knew there was no need to ask her if I’d done well. I had.

“You just let me see those photos again ...” Renna addressed me as tu, and not because we had suddenly become friends. It sometimes happens like that.

“Don’t worry about the photos. I assure you that two of these photos represent the defendant, as the court will be able to verify shortly, when I produce them. From you I wish to know how you explain – if you can explain – the fact that you were not able to recognize Signor Thiam.”

Renna replied angrily, almost lapsing into dialect.

“Explain, explain. Why they’re all the same, these niggers. How can I tell, after a year ... I’d like to see you, Avvocato, I’d just like to see you ...”

Stop there, stop there, I told myself, feeling an almost overwhelming urge to ask another question and triumph. Or else blunder. Stop there.

“Thank you, Your Honour, I have finished with this witness. I ask to produce the photographs, or rather the photocopies, used during the cross-examination. The two showing the defendant have a note on the back. The others are of subjects quite extraneous to the proceedings and are taken from various periodicals.”

Cervellati wanted to ask a few additional questions, as was his right by law. However, the very fact that he made use of that right meant he was showing signs of weakening.

He made Renna repeat his account, made him clarify the fact that a year ago it had all been fresh in his memory, and that since then he had not seen the accused, either in person or in a photograph. He patched together a few fragments, but we both knew it would not be easy to rid the minds of the jury of the impression they had received that morning.