Temporary Perfections by Gianrico Carofiglio

judge dictating a statement: a sort of collective movement that, thanks to the music, seemed to take on meaning and necessity.
    The best part of my private musical came when a colleague of mine whose most distinctive professional quality has always been his implacable scorn for the proper use of the subjunctive, stood up and addressed the judge, gesticulating vigorously, in perfect time—at least, that’s how it appeared to me—to the voice of Freddie Mercury singing “Don’t Stop Me Now.”
    Sometimes being a lawyer isn’t bad at all, I thought, as I settled back, stretched out my legs under the bench in front of me, and enjoyed the show.

    After the initial hearing in the social security fraud trial, the courtroom emptied out and I put away my earbuds. It was our turn. The only people left in the room were the judge, the court clerk, me, Consuelo—who had arrived after making the rounds of the various clerks’ offices—the prosecuting attorney, my client, and the two prison guards who had brought him to court and who continued to keep a close eye on him. You never knew—he might take it into his head to turn on the gas and murder an entire courtroom full of people.
    After briskly dispensing with the initial formalities, the judge asked if there were any requests. I stood up and said that Signore Costantino wished to be questioned. The defendant had only been questioned once, when he was arraigned, two days after his arrest, I reasoned. At that time he hadn’t been perfectly lucid, to put it mildly.
    The judge dictated a brief order for the stenographer to enter into the record, and then ordered the two prison guards to bring the defendant before him. Then, he asked the prosecutor to begin.
    “Have you read the charges in the indictment?” the prosecutor asked Nicola. Nicola looked at him in bewilderment, as if he couldn’t understand the purpose of such an idiotic question. Then he saw me nod my head and got that he was expected to answer.
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Did you do the things that are written in the formal charges?”
    “I turned on the gas because I wanted to end it all. But I certainly didn’t want to kill people. Later, when I got my head on straight, I realized I could have caused a disaster.”
    “Do you mean to say that you realized you had put into effect a chain of events capable of threatening public safety?”
    I was about to object, but I thought better of it. An objection would be pointless, since the question was pointless. My client, who was not, as I have mentioned, the sharpest tool in the shed, sounded fairly reasonable as he responded. The prosecutor asked a few more questions, then said he was finished.
    “Would you care to proceed, Counselor Guerrieri?” the judge asked.
    “Thank you, your honor. I have very few questions to ask because, as you know perfectly well, the key to this trial has more to do with the law than the facts.” I paused, and I thought I detected an almost imperceptible nod of approval from the judge. This isn’t always a good thing, but the judge that day was well-informed and also intelligent, so that slight tilt of his head struck me as a promising sign.
    “Signore Costantino, it is a well-established fact that you turned on the gas and that it was your intention to commit suicide. We need not cover that ground again. But I’d like to ask you something else: When you turned on the gas, was it your intention to kill anyone else?”
    “No, of course not.”
    “At the moment when you turned on the gas, did it occur to you, did you imagine that your action might result in the death of other people besides yourself?”
    “No, no, I just wanted to go to sleep and end it all. I told you I was out of my mind. I was on medication.”
    “Do you mean that you were taking pharmaceuticals?”
    “Yes, antidepressants.”
    “You said that it was only afterward that you realized the consequences your actions might have had. Is that right?”
    “Yes, many