Judges

by Andrea Camilleri, Carlo Lucarelli, Giancarlo De Cataldo

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Camilleri, best known for his Inspector Montalbano series, presents the charming Judge Surra who moves to a small Sicilian town in the late nineteenth century. He does not quite understand the quirky welcoming gifts from the locals, but nothing stands in the way of his quest for justice - and pastries. Lucarelli brings us a far darker story. Judge Valentina Lorenzi - La Bambina - is so young and inexperienced she hardly merits a bodyguard. But when she barely survives an assassin's bullet, her black-and-white world of crime and punishment turns a deathly shade of grey. In The Triple Dream of the Prosecutor , De Cataldo, a judge himself, crafts a Kafkaesque tale of a lifelong feud between Prosecutor Mandati and the corrupt Mayor of Novere. When the mayor narrowly escapes a series of bizarre assassination attempts, Mandati begins to realise that all his dreams may just be coming true. From Italy's premiere crime authors, three novellas from every tradition of crime writing.

Release date: October 6, 2015

Publisher: Quercus

Print pages: 176

Sample

Judge Surra arrived in Montelusa from Turin a fortnight after the first prefect of the United Italy, a Florentine called Falconcini, had taken up his post on the island.

Even before the judge reached the town, a few things about him became known. How? By what means? Perhaps one of the staff who came with Falconcini had known him previously and spread the word.

For instance, it became known that even though his Christian and family names were Sardinian, he himself was not—his great-grandfather on his father’s side, who was from Iglesias, and who had moved to Turin when the Piedmontese bartered Sicily for Sardinia, had children with a Turinese woman and never again ventured away from the city.

It was also established that Judge Surra was around fifty, that he was a little less than average height, that he invariably dressed soberly, that he was married with one son who was a lawyer but that he would be coming to Montelusa on his own.

At least to begin with.

Further, that he was a man of few words and kept himself to himself.

On the other hand, little was known about him as a judge, since he had always been employed inside the ministry and had not seen service in a courtroom.

The challenge facing him on his arrival was anything but straightforward. It consisted in totally reconstructing a court of law which quite simply no longer existed. In plain terms, the task was to replace the previous president of the court, Fallarino, whom Garibaldi’s followers wished to arrest on account of his intractably pro-Bourbon views—he had refused to recognise the Savoy monarchy and had in consequence resigned; then to bring back those judges who had worked with the Bourbons and who would be happy to continue in post in the new state, but only after their outlook had been changed; and finally to introduce the Piedmontese code of law, which was still unknown to judges and lawyers alike.

Obviously, even in the nobles’ club, whose membership consisted not only of noblemen but also of wealthy landowners and tradesmen, there was much discussion about the judge who was due to arrive. “Surra,” Don Agatino Smecca said. “In our towns and villages that’s a word meaning ‘belly’ which, as you all know, is the most delicate and tasty part of the tuna fish. So, going by his surname, this judge is very promising.”

“You are talking like that because you’re a man of the sea,” Don Clemente Sommartino said. “But I’m a man of the fields, a peasant, and I’m here to tell you that ‘surra’ is the name of a bitter, smelly herb which, when chickens eat it, gives their eggs a nasty taste that makes you spit them out. So his surname, as far as I’m concerned, promises nothing good at all.”

“That’s enough of this nonsense. A name tells you nothing about the person who bears it,” Bonocore, the sulphur dealer, cut in. “You remember that judge who was called Benevolo but who was anything but? He never acquitted anyone, and was worse than an executioner.”

“That’s true enough,” Don Clemente thought to himself. “And while we’re at it, you’re called Bonocore, and far from having a good heart as your name implies, you bankrupted two of your colleagues.”

But he did not say a word.

When the ship from Palermo docked at Vigàta, a clerk from the prefect’s office introduced himself to the judge.

“His Excellency Falconcini has procured comfortable lodgings for you in Montelusa. I’d be delighted to take you there in my carriage. You get in; I’ll load up your luggage.”

The apartment in the upper city, in the vicinity of the cathedral, turned out to be comfortable, spacious and elegantly appointed with eighteenth-century furniture. It was part of the palace belonging to the Marchese Bontadini, but it was completely self-contained, with its own door along from the main entrance.

Before leaving him, the clerk handed him a card from the prefect. It informed him that in the stables on the far side of the street, opposite the entrance to the house, a carriage, a mule and coachman by the name of Attanasio, a trustworthy person, had been put at his disposal.

The judge changed his clothes and crossed to the stables.

“At your service. I am Attanasio. Do you require the carriage?” Asking the questions was a curly-haired man of some forty years of age with intelligent eyes, dressed in livery.

“No, I’d rather go on foot. But would you mind doing me two favours?”

“You have only to ask, your Excellency.”

“I require the services of a woman to clean the apartment and keep it tidy. And to prepare my meals, because I don’t like eating out.”

“Excellency, I will tell my wife, Pippina.”

“If she could come tomorrow morning at seven-thirty . . .”

“Very well.”

“And then I would like to purchase a pointer dog, but you would need to look after it for me somewhere else.”

“I will have three or four dogs brought along no later than tomorrow, and you can make your choice. And I will be happy to look after it.”

The judge thanked him and was about to go when Attanasio gave himself a slap on the forehead.

“Ah, Excellency, I forgot. Earlier today, a servant from the Bontadini Palace gave me this, and said to tell you he found it under the main door.”

He pulled out a letter and handed it to him.

Surra looked at him in amazement. How could this be? They knew his address even before he had arrived.

The letter had been delivered by hand. The address was printed and read: To His Excellency Efisio Surra, Palazzo Bontadini, The City.

The judge was certain the letter would be anonymous. Indeed it was.

Excellency, what happened to the papers relating to the hearings in the cases of Milioto, Savastano, Curreli and Costantino? Why not discuss it with Don Emanuele Lonero, known as Don Nené?

A friend of Justice.

He slipped it into his pocket and went off to meet the prefect.

Who did not have good news for him.

Of all the court’s staff, only the head clerk, three assistant clerks, two ushers, four court officers, two presiding judges and four judges were prepared to cooperate with the new government.

In principle, the court was capable of being reactivated, but in practice it was not at all easy to see how this would work. The prefect assigned to the court a corps of one maresciallo and four carabinieri. It was the best he could do. Judge Surra asked for the address of the previous president of the court, Fallarino, and then told maresciallo Solano, who had in the meantime been introduced to him, to instruct those who were willing to work with him to present themselves at the court the following morning at nine o’clock.

Since the invitation from the prefect was for dinner, he was left with some time on his hands. He wrote to the ex-president of the court, Saverio Fallarino, requesting the pleasure of a meeting, and told one of the carabinieri to deliver it.

The reply was brought by the same man: President Fallarino would meet him at his house at five o’clock the following day.

When the judge left the prefecture, it was after nine o’clock.

It was such a lovely night that he felt inclined to go for a stroll along the corso. He was surprised to find so many people about, weaving in and out in a continual ballet of deft moves, bows, smiles and compliments.

The thing which most powerfully attracted his attention was the window of a big caffè with its display of multi-coloured cakes. The judge had one vice, a badly kept secret: an overwhelming fondness for sweet things. It had been the cause of many quarrels with his wife, who feared for his health. He saw before him a pile of strange sweets—brownish tubes of crisp pastry of about twenty centimetres in length, filled with white cream and flecked on the sides with tiny pieces of candied fruit.

He could not resist and went in. The tables were all taken. When they set eyes on him, the company fell silent for a moment, but then the conversation struck up again.

“What are those cakes called?” he said to a waiter behind the counter.

“Cannoli, Excellency.”

Could they possibly have recognised him already?

“I’ll have one.”

He ate it standing at the bar. Madonna! It was really good.

“I’ll have another.”

He went over to the till to pay, but the cashier waved him away. “It’s been paid for.”

“Paid for? By whom?” The judge could not conceal his disbelief.

“By Don Nené Lonero.”

The judge turned and looked around the room. At one table four men were seated, one with a beret and two with hats. A stocky fifty-year-old man, with fair skin and reddish hair, rose to his feet, removed his hat and said: “Accept it as a gesture of welcome.”

Without replying, the judge turned back to the cashier and stared him straight in the face. The cashier felt a cold quiver run down his spine. What eyes that man had! Blue and ice-cold, like the sky on a winter’s morning. Then, without another word, Surra placed a large coin in front of him. The cashier, head bowed, gave him his change. The judge moved slowly over to the table where Don Nené was still on his feet, glowering at the snub. Inside the caffè, there fell a silence that could have been cut with a knife.

“Are you Emanuele Lonero?”

“I am.”

“I’d like to take advantage of this opportunity,” the judge said, with a courteous smile.

“To do what?” Don Nené asked.

“Be patient one moment.”

He took the anonymous letter from his pocket, opened it out, took his glasses from his waistcoat pocket, calmly put them on and finally spoke in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear: “I do not know who each of you is, and I have no wish to know, but it appears that you have unlawfully taken the records of the hearings of proceedings against Milioto, Savastano, Curreli and Costantino. Be good enough to r. . .