Temporary Perfections Read Online Free Page B

special arraignment court, but, I informed Signora Carlone, it would be better not to get our hopes up, because if even half of what was written in the court order was supported by the files of the investigation, he would remain in jail.
    After Signora Carlone left, I asked Consuelo to study the documents that the surveying engineer and the burglar’s wife had brought in and to prepare two draft appeals to the special arraignment court.
    “May I say something, Guido?”
    Consuelo always approaches a subject that she knows or suspects will lead to an argument with those words. She’s not actually asking permission. It’s a conversational tic, her way of announcing that she’s about to say something I might not like.
    “You may.”
    “I don’t like clients like—”
    “Like our surveying engineer. I know. I don’t really like them myself.”
    “Then why do we take their business?”
    “Because we’re criminal lawyers. Or perhaps I should say: I’m a criminal lawyer. You might be done before you even get started if you worry about this sort of thing.”
    “Are we obligated to take all the clients who come to us?”
    “No, we have no obligation to take everyone. And in fact, we don’t take child molesters, rapists, or Mafiosi. But if we start refusing to take the case of some respectable public servant who accepted a bribe or extorted money from the citizenry, then we might as well limit ourselves to arguing parking tickets.”
    I was trying for light sarcasm, but a slight note of exasperation crept into my voice. It bothered me that deep down I agreed with her, and I hated being forced to play the part that I liked least in that conversation.
    “But if you don’t want to handle the appeal for that clown with the Rolex, I’ll handle it.”
    She shook her head and gathered up the files, and then she stuck out her tongue at me. Before I could react, she turned on her heel and left the room. The little scene aroused an unexpected feeling in me. It gave me a sense of family, of domestic warmth, of well-being mixed with splinters of nostalgia. The people who worked alongside me in my law office were my substitute family, the family I no longer had. For a few seconds, I was on the verge of tears. Then I rubbed my eyes, though I wasn’t actually crying, and told myself that I ought to at least try to lose my mind a little at a time, not in one fell swoop. Back to work.
    At 8:30, as Maria Teresa, Pasquale, and Consuelo were leaving for the evening, Sabino Fornelli arrived with his clients and their mysterious case.

5.
    Fornelli’s clients were a man and a woman, husband and wife. I guessed that each was about ten years my senior. A few days later, I would read their personal information in the court records and discover that we were almost exactly the same age.
    Of the two, the husband made the stronger impression on me. His gaze was vacant, his shoulders stooped, his clothes hanging off his frame. When I shook hands with him, I felt as if I’d picked up an unhappy invertebrate creature.
    The wife, who was nicely dressed, looked more normal. But on closer inspection, there was something unhealthy about her gaze, the aftermath of an injury to her soul. When they came into my office, it was like a gust of damp, chilly wind came in, too.
    We introduced ourselves in this vaguely uneasy atmosphere, which remained in place throughout our conversation.
    “Signore and Signora Ferraro have been my clients for many years. Tonino, Antonio,” and here he gestured toward the husband, perhaps concerned that I might assume that the wife was named Tonino, “owns a few furniture and kitchen supply stores, here in Bari and in the province. Rosaria was a gym teacher, but she retired from teaching afew years ago, and now she works with him managing the stores. They have two children.”
    At that point, he stopped talking and sat for a minute in silence. I looked at him, then over to Antonio, aka Tonino, then at Rosaria. Then I