The Fifth Gospel (44 page)

I offer my wife a hand. “Let me put the pasta in the fridge.”

And for the first time, as we make the exchange, our fingers touch.

THE HOUR WE SPEND
together is bruising, in part because it's so obvious how wonderful Peter finds it. Mona is awkward with him, but for Peter there's no transition at all, no slow warm-up to the presence of an unfamiliar adult. He takes her to his bedroom and sits down on the floor, offering her the spot beside him. He tells belabored stories about other boys she doesn't know, whose escapades she can't possibly understand, especially in his stream-of-consciousness Italian. “Tino, downstairs? It was Thursday, but not this Thursday? He told Giada that his allowance, if she would show her underpants to him, he would give her all of it. And she said no, but he tried anyway,
and she broke his fingers
.” All the while he's playing with toy cars or showing her the new soccer cleats Simon scrimped to buy him. A lifetime of catching up might just be possible before sunset.

The fury of his mind is painful to watch. It reveals a kind of double existence, as if he hasn't just been living his life but curating it, preparing the museum of himself for his mother's return. Even sadder is his insistence on giving the whole tour tonight, as if he's not convinced he'll have another chance. Simon disappeared on him two nights ago. The possibility of loss is fresh. When this performance is over, I wonder how he'll sleep tonight. How he'll be able to think of anything except whether there will be a next time.

But for now, he's effusive. Determined to empty himself to the last drop. Keeping up with him exhausts Mona, who tries to follow everything he says until, deep into the visit, she finally capitulates and just enjoys this time for what it is.

At last, when Peter finishes his second discourse on tadpoles, I'm forced to say, “Peter, it's going to be bedtime soon.”

I hadn't intended for us to stay here tonight. But we have a new lock on the door and the vigilance of neighbors who love us. Most of all, we have a chance to replace bad memories with good.

“
No
,” Peter cries.

Mona intervenes. “Could I read him a story?”

He launches himself into bed with expectation. This is the room where he hid with Sister Helena in fear while a stranger tore through our home, yet he seems oblivious to anything but his mother.

“Pajamas?” I suggest. “And brushing our teeth?”

Peter drags Mona to the bathroom, where an old hairbrush and two stray toothpaste caps lie on the countertop. There are no cups, because we rinse our mouths from the sink. Our toothbrushes are at Lucio's, so Peter intrepidly rinses off an old one from a drawer. This evidence of our manly state inspires a wry smile from Mona.

“Needs a certain touch,” she says.

An hour with our son has loosened her up.

“Toothpaste,” Peter says in the voice of a surgeon asking for a scalpel.

“Toothpaste,” Mona replies, presenting the tube.

My eyes linger on Simon's knickknacks, scattered on the countertop from the night Ugo died, when he took a hasty shower here. He is the ghost of this visit. The shadow of our family's happiness. Seeing my son smile, I remember that my brother is alone tonight.

Mona and Peter read a few chapters of
Pinocchio
. Then I announce it's time for prayers. He lowers himself to the edge of the bed, clasping his hands, while Mona glances at me, wondering. Asking.

“Sure,” I say quietly. “Together.”

The world hushes. The night leans in.
For where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am, among them
.

“Almighty and merciful God,” I say, “we thank You for bringing us together in this home tonight. With this blessing You remind us that all things are possible in You. Though we cannot know our future, or change our past, we humbly ask You to guide us toward Your will, and to watch over our beloved Simon. Amen.”

To which I silently add:

Lord, remember my brother who is alone tonight. He doesn't need Your mercy. Only Your justice. Please, Lord, give him justice
.

At the door, before Mona leaves, she says to me, “Thank you.”

I nod. “It meant the world to him.”

I can't let myself say more.

Mona has fewer inhibitions. “I'd love to come back and see you both again. Do you want me to bring over some dinner tomorrow?”

Tomorrow.
So soon. I have to be at the courtroom in the morning. I have to be prepared for whatever Mignatto might ask of me at any hour of the day.

I begin to answer, but she sees my expression and waves me off. “It doesn't have to be tomorrow. You call me when you're ready. I want to help, Alex, not get in the way.” She hesitates. “I could even stay with him if you're going to—”

“Tomorrow's fine,” I say. “Let's do dinner tomorrow.”

She smiles. “Call me if you feel the same way in the morning.”

I wait. If she kisses me, I'll know we came too far, too fast. I'll have to second-guess what happened tonight.

But she places her hand on my arm and gives it a squeeze. That's all. Her fingers slip away, touching mine as they drop. She lifts them in the air, saying good night.

Tomorrow
, I think.

So soon.

C
HAPTER
28

A
T SEVEN THIRTY
in the morning, I arrive outside the tribunal palace. Brother Samuel and the other pharmacists are watching Peter because Mignatto summoned me for an early meeting. He's already here, waiting on a bench in the courtyard as I arrive, holding a paper that turns out to be a list of today's deponents. Wordlessly he shows it to me. First will be Guido Canali, then two men I don't recognize. The last name on the list is Simon's.

“Is he really coming?” I ask.

“I don't know. But this may be the tribunal's last chance.” Mignatto turns to me, as if this is the reason for the meeting. “Father, it's possible the trial will end today.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Archbishop Nowak disallowed testimony about the exhibit, it became impossible for the judges to establish motive. And without the security-camera footage, it may be impossible for them to establish opportunity.”

“You're saying Simon could go free?”

“The judges are giving the promoter of justice latitude to propose new witnesses, but if nothing changes, the tribunal could find insufficient grounds to continue. The charge would be dropped.”

“That's fantastic.”

He places a hand on my arm. “The reason I'm telling you this is that
I decided to submit Nogara's phone into evidence. The tribunal needed a voice sample for forensic comparison with the message left on your brother's answering machine at the embassy, and the voice mail greeting on Nogara's phone gave me a window to introduce it. My hope is that the judges decided to listen to the messages your brother left Nogara at Castel Gandolfo. Still, I have to condemn in the strongest terms your development of evidence this way. We're fortunate the law forbids procurators to testify, or else you'd have to answer very difficult questions. I don't know who gave the phone to you, but I need to emphasize again that, for your brother's sake, you must not let this be repeated if the trial continues beyond today.”

“Yes, Monsignor.”

He relaxes. “I've filed a petition to have Father Simon placed in your uncle's custody. I don't know whether they'll honor it. In any case, I don't see how his testimony can do the prosecution much good, since he refuses to speak.”

Mignatto takes back the list and fidgets with the locks on his briefcase before slipping the paper inside.

I put an arm around him and say, “Monsignor, thank you.”

He gives me a careful pat on the back. “Don't thank me. Thank
him
.”

In the distance, approaching the Palace of the Tribunal, is Archbishop Nowak. We watch in silence as the gendarmes admit him, then close the doors again.

JUST BEFORE EIGHT,
THE
courtroom opens again to admit the rest of us. On the hour, the judges enter together from the side door of their chambers. Without ado, one says, “Officer, please call the first witness.”

Guido is admitted into the aula. He arrives in a black suit with a gray shirt and silver necktie, a bulging gold watch on his wrist. Only his leathery skin reveals him as a farmhand. The notary rises so that Guido can take both oaths before identifying himself as Guido Francesco Andreo Donato Canali, the only man in Rome with more names than the pope.

“You were present at Castel Gandolfo,” the presiding judge asks, “on the night Ugolino Nogara was killed?”

“Correct.”

“Please tell us what you saw.”

“While I was on my shift, I got a phone call from Father Alex Andreou, brother of the accused. He asked me to open the gates for him.”

The old judge leans forward. Guido's delivery has none of the usual roughness or swagger. He doesn't even point a finger when he mentions my name.

“I drove him down in my truck,” Guido continues. “We got almost to—”

The judge thumps his hand on the bench. “Stop! You're saying you opened the gates because a friend asked you to?”

Guido shrinks. “Monsignor, it was the wrong thing to do. I know that now. I apologize.”

The presiding judge growls, “And where exactly did you chauffeur your friend, the accused's brother?”

“There's only one main road down from the gates. We headed that way. Then Father Alex got out when he saw his brother.”

Mignatto lifts a hand.

The younger judge anticipates the objection. “Signor Canali, did you see the accused? Do you know that his brother saw him?”

Guido sips some water. He jiggles his wrist to shift the weight of his watch. “I know where Nogara's body was found. It's right near where Father Alex got off my truck. So.”

The presiding judge lifts his hands in the air. “About the chronology: the defendant's brother contacted you at what time?”

“About fifteen minutes before he showed up at the gate. I checked my phone. Six forty-two.”

“And where was he calling from?”

“A parking lot at the bottom of the cliff, he said.”

The judge writes something down. “How long is the drive from here to Castel Gandolfo?”

“Seventeen miles. Three-quarters of an hour.”

“You're sure?”

“I drive it every Sunday to visit my mother.”

The judge writes another note. “But it rained on the night Doctor Nogara was killed?”

“As if sent by God.”

“So the drive would've taken longer?”

Guido shrugs. “A little weather gets people off the roads. Less traffic. It depends.”

I begin to see where the judge is going. He realizes Guido saw nothing at Castel Gandolfo, but he's calculating when Simon called me. Re-creating the timeline of Ugo's death. I notice that Mignatto looks concerned.

The presiding judge nods. “Thank you, signore.”

He seems poised to release Guido, but Mignatto makes a signal to him, and the judge motions him forward. Everyone in the courtroom watches as Mignatto slips a sheet of paper to the presiding judge, who reads it silently and then nods.

“One last thing,” he says.

For the first time, Guido glances at me. His eyes are full of hatred. I realize he's terrified. He just wants to go home.

“Sure,” he says.

“Why did you open the gates for the accused's brother?”

I sense what Mignatto's doing, and for a second I pity Guido. The point has already been made. But if this is what it takes to free Simon, then so be it.

Guido brightens. He misunderstands. “I did it because Father Alex and I grew up together. We're old friends.”

The presiding judge says drily, “Did you ask him for a bribe? Two tickets to Doctor Nogara's exhibit?”

The old judge peers cruelly down. Guido squirms like a hurt puppy.

“Well . . . I mean . . .” Guido Canali actually turns to me, as if for help. “It wasn't like that. I just said . . .”

Mignatto jots a note on his legal pad. It's pure gibberish. He just doesn't want to be seen gloating.

“Signor Canali,” says the presiding judge with disgust, “you're excused. This tribunal is done hearing your testimony.”

Guido lifts himself from his chair. He adjusts his belt and smooths his necktie on his belly with a stunned look. He leaves without a sound.

“OFFICER, THE NEXT WITNESS.”
The judge looks at the roster in front of him. “Please call Signor Pei.”

This is one of the two unfamiliar deponents from Mignatto's list.

Who's that?
I write on the pad between us.

Mignatto ignores me.

The man identifies himself as Gino Pei, driver in the pontifical car service. I take him to be a previously unscheduled witness, since Gianni never mentioned a driver being called to testify. Mignatto watches attentively.

“Signore,” the lead judge asks once the oaths are finished, “it says here that your job is shift coordinator. What does that mean?”

“It's not a job, Monsignor, just a perk of seniority. It means I'm the driver who assigns pickups to my coworkers as the requests come in.”

“In other words, you're familiar with all the incoming requests.”

“On my shift. Correct.”

“And how long have you been a driver in the service?”

“Twelve years.”

“How many passengers have you driven in twelve years?”

“Hundreds. Thousands.”

“So if we were to ask you about a specific passenger, how well could we expect you to remember him?”

“Monsignor, I don't need to remember. We keep records of everything. Time in, time out, pickups, locations.”

The judge scans a sheet of questions that must have come from the prosecutor, the promoter of justice. “Very well. I'd like to ask you about the day of Ugolino Nogara's death.”

I wonder if anyone else realizes this line of questioning is about to hit a roadblock.

“I'm sorry, Monsignor,” Gino says in a nervous voice. He gestures at the promoter. “But like I told him last night, I can't answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“There aren't any records from that day.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were ordered not to keep any logs.”

“Ordered by whom?” the old judge grumbles.

Gino Pei hesitates. “Monsignors, I can't answer that.”

The promoter of justice watches the judges. He seems to be weighing the tribunal's reaction.

The presiding judge is the first to realize what the court has just encountered. “Are you under a prior oath not to discuss this?”

“That's correct.”

The monsignor removes his dark-framed glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The promoter of justice is tense in his seat. Judges have no power to undo oaths. The pool of available questions has just evaporated.

“What's this nonsense?” the old one hisses. “Who swears
drivers
to secrecy?”

The promoter of justice bobs his head, as if this is exactly the right question. I glance at Mignatto. He's watching the promoter tensely.

“Is there anything you
are
able to tell us about the accused?” says the presiding judge.

“No,” Gino says.

“Then can you tell us about what you saw at Castel Gandolfo?”

“Monsignor, I can't.”

The silence is filled only by the typing of the notary.

The judges confer for a moment on the bench. Then the presiding judge says, “Enough. You're excused. The tribunal will hear the next witness.”

AS PEI LEAVES, I
glance at Mignatto excitedly, feeling the trial inch nearer to Simon's exoneration. The atmosphere in the courtroom has changed. The judges look impatient. One rubs a pen between his hands, back and forth, back and forth.

A sleepy-looking layman strides in. He has purses of skin under his sad eyes, and a drumstick of a nose. He bows to the judges before taking the oaths, then identifies himself as Vincenzo Corvi, forensic analyst with the Rome police. Mignatto, hearing that title, frowns.

The young judge says, “Signor Corvi, your office was consulted by our Vatican police in this case. Why?”

“For professional analysis of two items found at the scene, and verification of one voice recording.”

“Could you identify these pieces of evidence?”

“The two items from the crime scene are a spent 6.35-millimeter bullet and a human hair. The recording is a voice mail message.”

“Let's begin with the evidence from Castel Gandolfo. Were the bullet and the human hair found together?”

“No. Found separately.”

“Would you explain your findings to the tribunal?”

Corvi produces a pair of glasses and glances at a report. “The bullet
was located near the body of the deceased and has deformations consistent with the entry and exit wounds in the deceased's skull.”

“You're saying this was the gunshot that killed Doctor Nogara?”

“Almost certainly. It's the same caliber fired by the weapon in question, a Beretta 950.”

Mignatto's eyes widen. He looks from Corvi to the judges to the promoter of justice. Then he rises to his feet. “The defense wasn't aware that the murder weapon had been discovered.”

The judges seem equally surprised. “The tribunal,” one says sternly, “wasn't either.”

Corvi avoids their glances, shuffling papers and pretending to search for something. He looks mortified. No good Catholic wants to disappoint a Church court inside these walls.

The lead judge adjusts his tone. “Signore,” he says peaceably, “if our gendarmes are withholding information from us, we would appreciate knowing what it is.”

The words thrill me. If the gendarmes' version of events is in doubt, then we're even closer to Simon's freedom.

For almost a minute, Corvi says nothing. He keeps studying the pages before him. During that entire silence, Mignatto stares at the promoter of justice.

Finally Corvi pulls a sheet from the pile. “Ah,” he says. “Here it is. Yes, I was right. The weapon was a Beretta 950.”

From the bench comes a sound of disbelief.

“When did the gendarmes find it?” the lead judge asks.

Corvi looks up. “As far as I know, they didn't. This isn't an evidence inventory; it's a firearm registration.” He lifts the paper in the air. “A Beretta 950 was the weapon Ugolino Nogara registered with the state.”

Mignatto turns to me breathlessly. “
Nogara had a gun
?
”

I falter. “Not that I know of.”

“Signore,” the old judge says hoarsely, “you're telling us the man was shot with his own rifle?”

“Not a rifle,” Corvi says. “A handgun.”

“You mean a military pistol?”

Corvi shuffles his papers again and raises a manufacturer's stock photograph. It shows a small black weapon in a man's outstretched hand. The Beretta is shorter than the man's palm and fingers combined.