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Authors: Sara Moliner
Tags: antique
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proscecutor for the crime below. They all wanted champain and women. They were partying for a wile with plenty whore, as you can imagine. Round one I saw the aforesaid Pablo Noguer sell cocaine to several people. It wasnt the first time, I saw him several times sell in La Paloma Blanca, on Tapia Street, and La Gallega, on the Rambla Santa Mónica, both rough place where the poch little lord go looking for cheep women
.’
Pla looked at him.
‘That last part isn’t particularly important because it doesn’t give any precise information. But in the first accusation, there is a place, date and time. I still haven’t spoken with your colleagues. Given your name and your family’s name, Noguer, I chose to talk to you first. Which is why I am asking you: is what he says true?’
Pablo swallowed hard. If he denied having taken cocaine and any of the other three admitted it, he could lose his credibility with Pla. He had no choice but to lower his eyes and say, ‘Only one of the points is true, Don Jaime; I think I tried the cocaine. I admit it was foolish, but…’
Pablo trusted that Pla would see it as a minor infraction. The fact was, cocaine could be bought in the pharmacy on prescription. Although it had to be registered. But not everyone had a doctor who would prescribe it. Which was why the black market flourished. Those who did business in it ran the risk of a long sentence. The repercussions that an accusation such as this one could have on a career in the law were obvious.
‘… But I assure you that I was not the one who passed it round, much less sold it.’
Pla nodded gravely. Did he believe him? Pablo continued his counter-attack, trying to deflect attention away from himself. ‘Besides, the declaration doesn’t hold much weight. An anonymous eyewitness who surely wouldn’t be willing to testify under oath.’
‘You already know, Noguer, that anonymous accusations are taken very seriously in this country.’
He knew it well. An anonymous denunciation was enough to get you called into the police station. It was enough to make you the victim of interrogations that some people came back from with broken arms or legs. When they came back. But that couldn’t happen to him, could it? If it did, perhaps his father could pull strings. He would have to write pleas, pay large sums of money or perhaps call in a favour to stop the process. His shame turned to mortification as he thought of what his father would say, the disdain in his voice when he spoke to him, his mother’s aggrieved face.
Yes, he would get him out of the jam, but there’d be no end to his reproaches. And his father wouldn’t be able to stop everyone in Barcelona from finding out about it, and his career would be ruined.
Then Pla asked him, ‘Do you have any idea who could have written this letter?’
‘No. I haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe someone from the brothel? One of the girls? One of the pimps?’
‘One of the girls? Did you treat them… did you treat them badly?’
Pablo blushed.
‘No. For the love of God! It was just the regular,’ he cleared his throat, ‘the services we agreed upon and the corresponding remuneration.’
Pla started to twirl the fountain pen around again. It was a German model, a Pelikan with green and black stripes that blended together as the lawyer spun it fast.
‘But the man or woman who accused you knew your name,’ he said finally.
‘That’s not hard. We were all calling each other by our names.’
He remembered that when Calvet had ordered the champagne, he had egged him on: ‘Come on, Noguer, let’s see what you’re really made of. In court you act like an altar boy.’ Pablo held the bottle between his legs. They all shouted when the foam started to emerge in a spout and chanted his name when Calvet held the bottle to his mouth for him to drink. He didn’t want to remember anything from that point on. That night wasn’t one of the proudest moments of his life.
Pla’s voice
.’
Pla looked at him.
‘That last part isn’t particularly important because it doesn’t give any precise information. But in the first accusation, there is a place, date and time. I still haven’t spoken with your colleagues. Given your name and your family’s name, Noguer, I chose to talk to you first. Which is why I am asking you: is what he says true?’
Pablo swallowed hard. If he denied having taken cocaine and any of the other three admitted it, he could lose his credibility with Pla. He had no choice but to lower his eyes and say, ‘Only one of the points is true, Don Jaime; I think I tried the cocaine. I admit it was foolish, but…’
Pablo trusted that Pla would see it as a minor infraction. The fact was, cocaine could be bought in the pharmacy on prescription. Although it had to be registered. But not everyone had a doctor who would prescribe it. Which was why the black market flourished. Those who did business in it ran the risk of a long sentence. The repercussions that an accusation such as this one could have on a career in the law were obvious.
‘… But I assure you that I was not the one who passed it round, much less sold it.’
Pla nodded gravely. Did he believe him? Pablo continued his counter-attack, trying to deflect attention away from himself. ‘Besides, the declaration doesn’t hold much weight. An anonymous eyewitness who surely wouldn’t be willing to testify under oath.’
‘You already know, Noguer, that anonymous accusations are taken very seriously in this country.’
He knew it well. An anonymous denunciation was enough to get you called into the police station. It was enough to make you the victim of interrogations that some people came back from with broken arms or legs. When they came back. But that couldn’t happen to him, could it? If it did, perhaps his father could pull strings. He would have to write pleas, pay large sums of money or perhaps call in a favour to stop the process. His shame turned to mortification as he thought of what his father would say, the disdain in his voice when he spoke to him, his mother’s aggrieved face.
Yes, he would get him out of the jam, but there’d be no end to his reproaches. And his father wouldn’t be able to stop everyone in Barcelona from finding out about it, and his career would be ruined.
Then Pla asked him, ‘Do you have any idea who could have written this letter?’
‘No. I haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe someone from the brothel? One of the girls? One of the pimps?’
‘One of the girls? Did you treat them… did you treat them badly?’
Pablo blushed.
‘No. For the love of God! It was just the regular,’ he cleared his throat, ‘the services we agreed upon and the corresponding remuneration.’
Pla started to twirl the fountain pen around again. It was a German model, a Pelikan with green and black stripes that blended together as the lawyer spun it fast.
‘But the man or woman who accused you knew your name,’ he said finally.
‘That’s not hard. We were all calling each other by our names.’
He remembered that when Calvet had ordered the champagne, he had egged him on: ‘Come on, Noguer, let’s see what you’re really made of. In court you act like an altar boy.’ Pablo held the bottle between his legs. They all shouted when the foam started to emerge in a spout and chanted his name when Calvet held the bottle to his mouth for him to drink. He didn’t want to remember anything from that point on. That night wasn’t one of the proudest moments of his life.
Pla’s voice
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