The boy in the interview room had looked younger than his eighteen years, with full cheeks and a tangled overgrowth of wavy hair. He wore a fresh bruise on his left cheekbone and his lip was split. He seemed scrawny and underdeveloped in his pilled brown sweater and sweatpants and scuffed sneakers. With the loose movements of a scarecrow come to life, he slammed into the seat across from them, big eyes darting between their faces. He smelled bad: mildew and body odor and toilet cleaner.
“I’m not saying anything,” he declared with a bravado Valerio recognized from his own youth.
“We haven’t told you why we’re here,” Maurizio said.
“Well, what is it?” Gaetano demanded, restless fingers thrumming and thumping on the metal table. When neither Valerio nor Maurizio answered, he slammed his palm down. “Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I didn’t do anything. They’re trying to pin this on me.”
“It was a good arrest.” Valerio’s voice was calm and dispassionate, a deliberate step back from Gaetano’s twitchy energy. “You and your friends had more cocaine in your apartment than you could use in a lifetime. I read your record and talked to the arresting officer. I also spoke with the magistrate. It doesn’t look good for you—unless you can make a deal with them, offer them something they can use.”
“I don’t know anything,” Gaetano replied, eyes defiant. “It wasn’t mine. I didn’t even know it was there. I don’t know anything.”
It was just possible he was telling the truth, Valerio thought. Maybe the drugs belonged to his roommates—maybe he hadn’t known about the plastic bin under the kitchen sink. But as far as the law was concerned, the nuances of truth didn’t matter when the burden of proof had been met.
This was how the clans ran their distribution network. By storing cocaine, heroin, marijuana, and pills in the homes of regular people, the mob eased delivery logistics, and distributed the risk of discovery and seizure. It had the added benefit of making local residents complicit in their operations, thereby decreasing the likelihood that anyone would resist, or report to authorities.
“How are you, Gaetano?” Valerio said. “Is anyone bothering you in here?”
The reply came with startling viciousness: “You can fuck yourself!”
Maurizio sighed. “He’s trying to help you, little prick. He’s your best hope right now, so I’d adjust my attitude, if I were you.”
Gaetano didn’t say anything to this, but his eyes flicked back to Valerio.
“I visited your mother yesterday,” Valerio told him. “She seems to think you’re a good kid in a bad situation. Of course, mothers are often blind to the faults of their sons. What do you think?”
Gaetano looked down and began pressing the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger. He shrugged.
“I also met the girl who used to babysit you,” Valerio said. “Ravenna. She says you have a good heart. She’s worried about you.”
Gaetano blinked and looked down at the table, where his hands were working, fingers twitching and roving. His nose started to run.
“During your validation hearing,” Valerio continued, “the magistrate ruled that you and your friends should have a pretrial detention—which is why you’re here now. This is usually only done in the case of substantial risks. In your case, she ordered you detained because of the quantity of drugs in your apartment. But you’re a first-time offender, and you’re young. Also, when I visited your mother, I saw how sick she is. I think I could ask the magistrate to reconsider your case on compassionate grounds—to let you stay with your mother until the trial.”
The boy looked up and an expression flashed across his features, something much younger, much more vulnerable than the mask of his pretense. It landed on Valerio like a punch.
Naples made you grow up fast. Children as young as ten or twelve were used as lookouts for drug dealers. Just a few years older, and you were conscripted to push drugs or run errands for the clans. Boys playacted that they were tough, wise-minded businessmen, throwing their weight around. They swore and drank like men, fucked and killed like men. And the state treated them like men when they caught and sentenced them. But this boy was still a child. Valerio saw it in that expression—some naive and earnest flame that still burned. He’d seen the same expression in his own children—in Davide and Gemma. But if Gaetano was convicted, if he stayed in Poggioreale much longer, that flame would be extinguished. A sense of resolve fixed inside Valerio’s mind. It relieved some pressure to realize that the right decision here was also the one he’d wanted to find.
“Before I ask the magistrate to reconsider,” he said, “I need to know what you plan to do if they let you out.”
“Dunno.” He wiped his nose with his hand.
“Need to do better than that, pal,” scolded Maurizio. “You need to tell us if you’re working for the clans…and which clan.”
Gaetano glared up at him, lips pursed.
Maurizio turned to Valerio. “He can’t do it. It’s no good. He’ll just go back to them. He’ll get arrested for something else, and then he’s really fucked—and you’re fucked, too. People will ask questions—they’ll want to know why you picked this one…this stupid punk…to help.”
“I won’t.” Gaetano’s voice was clear and loud. They looked at him, and his next words came out in a mumble. “I’ll go back to my mamma’s. I won’t…get into trouble.”
Valerio exhaled.
“Ravenna said you had a job,” he said. “Not for the clans. Another job. Is that true?”
The boy nodded.
“Can you work that job…stay out of trouble? Just work, and back to your mother’s?”
“Yeah.”
