Two days later, at exactly 9.30, I walked into the courtroom of the appeal court. As usual, there was nobody there yet, not even the clerk of the court, even though the time indicated on the summons was in fact 9.30. I thought of walking out again and grabbing a coffee. Then I told myself that I didn’t really want a coffee and that the idea of getting one was just a way of telling myself: I’m not here to wait on the pleasure of the judges, the prosecutor, the clerk of the court; if anything, they should be waiting for me. So, to free myself of these childish impulses, I decided to make my way to the defence bench and take out the book I’d brought with me in anticipation of slack moments.

It’s something I’ve been in the habit of doing for a few years, having a book with me to read when I go to a courthouse for a hearing or some other commitment. I started in order to fill the breaks, but I soon discovered that having a book is also an excellent antidote against pains in the arse – of the human kind.

You’re waiting for your case to be called, and next to you there’s, let’s say, Avvocato Canestrari (actually, I don’t know if there is a lawyer of that name in Bari). He’s also waiting for a case of his to be called, and in the meantime he’d like to chat with you. Not because he particularly likes you – a fairly questionable privilege, being liked by Canestrari – but because he’s bored waiting. His favourite topics are Bari’s 141soccer team (a subject that holds as much interest for me as the cultivation of organic corn in the central Ukrainian plain or the latest developments in phrenology) and the restaurants in Bari and its province where you can eat the best raw seafood, included banned varieties such as date mussels. The fact that serving date mussels happens to be a crime doesn’t bother Canestrari – or many others like him, to be honest.

But since I started bringing a book with me to read – an object that arouses mistrust and suspicion in many of my colleagues – the risk posed by the Canestraris of all kinds has lessened considerably.

When the judges are late arriving, or when they’ve been deliberating longer than anticipated in the case preceding mine, or when they’re about to deliberate on my case, I sit down at the end of the defence bench, open my book and, as they say, immerse myself. Some people, with amazing insight, ask me things like: What are you doing, reading? Or else: Lucky you, Guerrieri, having such a clear head you actually feel like reading. But mostly they leave me alone.