Michael Gregorio


Corrier della Sera 28.03.2015

date: 28 March 2015 at 18:29:10 - 0 comments

  Meredith Kercher was murdered in Perugia, Italy, in 2007.

Within months, Amanda Knox, her flatmate, and Amanda’s boyfriend, Raffaele Sollecito, were arrested. They were found Guilty of the murder in 2009, but appealed against the sentence. The Appeal Court found them Not Guilty in 2011. The Court of Cassation ordered a retrial. The second Appeal Court found them Guilty in 2014. And yesterday, the Court of Cassation overturned that verdict, and declared the pair Not Guilty once again. 

How is that possible, you may ask?

Well, the Italian legal system is defined as being ‘garantista,’ which means that while you may be found guilty, you have the right to appeal against the sentence. If the trial and the appeal verdicts differ, the case is then referred automatically to the Court of Cassation, which analyses the technical aspects of the defence and prosecution in both cases which have created the conflicting verdicts, and it instructs a new appeal court to clarify the out­standing questions regarding the presumed guilt or innocence of the accused.

In the Kercher-Knox-Sollecito case, the third verdict was contrary to the second, which was contrary to the first, so the Court of Cassation was called upon once more to decide whether the evidence pointed to one or other of the two possible verdicts. As a result, Amanda and Raffaele are now, finally and officially, innocent.

Having exhausted the gamut of ‘guarantees,’ the final verdict is absolute and cannot be challenged. 


So, what does this real-life case tell us about the Italian crime novel?

As a matter of procedure, it tells us a lot. If a novel ends with an arrest, then the reader has no way of knowing whether the arrested person is actually guilty, whether he/she will end up in prison or be released eventually. Indeed, a final chapter arrest in an Italian crime novel heightens the tension, and increases suspense. As we can see in the Knox-Sollecito case, the final verdict, which has only been reached after eight years and four trials, is totally unpredictable, and often surprising.

Equally, the process of reaching a final verdict seems interminable.

In this instance, because of the unusually high-profile status of the people involved – intelligent and good-looking university students from the USA (Knox), Italy (Sollecito) and Great Britain (the unfortunate victim, Meredith Kercher) – the names and the deeds, whether presumed or actual, have remained alive in the minds of the public for eight years, but this does not happen as a general rule. Many names of victims and perpetrators never reach the front pages of national newspapers or the banner headlines of the tv news. Their undulating progress from Guilty to Innocent, or Innocent to Guilty, and back again, is largely ignored by the media and public opinion, too. Indeed, it becomes increasingly a technical matter which involves only judges and lawyers. And, as happened yesterday, the accused is not even required to appear in the Court of Cassation.

Clearly, this is not the stuff of John Grisham or Scott Turow novels.

Finally, the fact that it does take so long to convict or redeem the accused in the Italian system means that the name of anyone who has been associated with a crime – whether innocent or guilty – is forever besmirched in the public eye. Things happen so quickly in the media world today that the majority of people don’t recall what happened last week. If they do remember a protagonist’s name, it is because that person has been found guilty at some point in their expanding case history. Thus, most Italians believe, and will continue to believe, that Amanda Knox is guilty, and that she ‘fled’ to America (after being found Not Guilty) to escape Italian justice.

This is bad for the Italian legal system, but also for the Italian crime novel.

It suggests that there are no hard and fast facts, that scientific evidence is questionable, and that there is always a smaller or greater degree of guilt in being simply associated with a crime, whether one has committed it, or not. Italian tv doesn’t help, as there is little restriction on what can be said while a case is sub judice (ongoing), and the excessive amount of air-time given to real-life crime on popular television leads to the wildest and most unscientific speculation about motives, modus operandi, and possible guilt or innocence. With such prolonged legal and public debate about the nature of the crime, the interpretation of the evidence, and the degree of possible guilt, together with the relative ‘weight’ which attaches to particular aspects of a crime at certain stages in the legal process, Italians are led to believe in the final analysis that all crimes are only partially explicable.

What it means for Italian crimes novels is that they are either too simple or too complex to convince the average reader.

Equally, the fact that Amanda Knox and Raffaele Sollecito have been declared innocent after eight years means that Italy and Italian justice has a duty to answer two vital questions: a) did the ‘third man,’ Rudy Guede plead guilty to murder when he was really innocent to avoid a non-life sentence, and b) who did kill Meredith Kercher?

After eight years, we still don’t know...

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Il Cuore Nero delle Donne

date: 23 March 2015 at 19:07:13 - 0 comments

I was reading an article today about Internet as Big Brother.

They use algorithms apparently to chart your tastes, then target you with appropriate offers.

To be honest, I had already noticed that I was being ‘tracked.’

We went to Bologna three weeks ago for the launch of an anthology entitled “Il Cuore Nero delle Donne” (The Dark Heart of Women, published by Guanda, Italy), which includes one of our short stories. Since then, we have been bombarded by online advertising for high speed trains to Bologna, hotels in the ‘heart’ of Bologna, heart pills, love potions, and novels along the lines of Fifty Shades of Idiocy...

But then I started thinking: What would Big Brother make of my Internet track record over the last month or so? That is, I began thinking about what they are going to bombard me with next. And what would our readers make of such a list, I asked myself?

We are working on the second novel in the Sebastiano Cangio series at the moment, you see. So, if you would like a preview of some of the topics which may turn up in it, here is a selective history of my online excursions. You may even like to guess what the new novel is going to be about.

So, here we go!

In the last month I have used Google, Yahoo and other search engines to find me information about the following topics:

Masons and murderers

Eleven reasons why Italians are your best friends

Dental differences between races

Can you tell a person’s race from his/her skull?

The human mandible

Tit for tat

Dr Scholl’s women’s work shoes

Italian breeds of sheep

The meaning of Tarot cards

The Maremma breed of dogs

Catanzaro – Google maps

The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain

Industries in Perugia, Italy

The Camera of Commerce – how it works

Tuber Melanosporum Vitt

The population of Crotone (Calabria)

The twelve most shocking cases of real life vampire killers

Death Metal

The Beasts of Satan (Italian serial killers)

The Tyrrhenian coast

The Kalashnikov...

In the next few weeks I expect to be overwhelmed by online invitations to join the Masons, visit hotels in various Italian locations, purchase at least one automatic weapon, study medicine in an online Asian university, and visit an Australian sheep farm. That is, unless the vampires get me first...

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Thomas Hardy Selected Poems

EXCIPIT 13 Enringed with a purple zone
date: 19 March 2015 at 18:18:09 - 0 comments

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men/Gang aft agley.”

So wrote Robert Burns in his poem, To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough.

My best-laid schemes sometimes “gang aft agley,” as well. As do yours, no doubt. It can happen to the best and the worst of us, I suppose. Sometimes your schemes just fall apart...

As a rule, I try to produce a couple of blogs a week. Not that I expect anyone to read them (though people do, strangely enough), but because I enjoy sounding off about this, that, or anything else that happens to takes my fancy. I am a chronicler by nature, I suppose, so I like to put my thoughts onto paper, then file the paper (or the .doc) away for future reference.

Recently, I have been blogging about how crime books end. As Alfred Hitchcock once said, “A film must have a beginning, a middle and an end, though not necessarily in that order.” I love that definition. It reveals the essence of mystery, and the secret of storytelling, too. However, I am a bit more schematic regarding books. I blogged about how crime books begin for a while, and now I’m doing the same thing with the way that the crime and mystery novels in my personal library end, but then, as the poet, Rabbie Burns, foresaw, my best-laid schemes got sidetracked.

For a lot of reasons.

I have been ill, been busy, been distracted. There’s been too much football on the tv, too, and I do love my football, so what am I to do?

I want to blog, but I’ve been busy writing all morning. We are working on the follow-up to CRY WOLF, which was published on 31st December in the UK, and is scheduled for release in the USA on 1st April, All Fools’ Day.

I want to blog, but I’ve been ordered to take long rehabilitating walks after lunch by my family doctor after various life-threatening disruptions to my sedentary life of writing (novels), smoking cigarettes (Pall Mall) and drinking (wine, whiskey and beer, but never mixed).

Now, I have fifteen minutes before I need to start preparing dinner, and I HAVE to blog, but I haven’t had time to pick a crime novel at random from my bookshelves, read the opening and closing chapters, and decide what I want to say about it.

So, what’s to be done?   

Like Rabbie Burns, who ploughed his way through a field mouse’s nest, I’d like to write a poem about the fix I’m in, but I can’t. Poetry is not my thing. Which is not to say that I don’t like poetry. My favourite poet is Thomas Hardy, who swings from the ridiculous to the sublime, but is always his own man. So, here’s a ‘Hardy’ thought for you.

Is it the beginning, the middle, or the end of a story?

And where, in any case, do stories begin, middle, and end?

Out of the past there rises a week –

Who shall read the years O! –

Out of the past there rises a week

Enringed with a purple zone.

Out of the past there rises a week

When thoughts were strung too thick to speak,

And the magic of lineaments remains with me alone.

Ps: The mysterious painting of crows and footprints in the snow is by Joseph Farquharson, and it’s in the Manchester City Art Gallery.

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The Love of Stones

EXCIPIT 12 - how crime books end - Tobias Hill
date: 09 March 2015 at 18:38:23 - 0 comments

  Have you ever finished a book and thought: hey, they should make a film of this!

When you see some of the rubbish tv and cinema churn out, however, you begin to wonder whether anyone in the film industry can actually read.

Okay, that’s my daily rant out of the way.

On a more serious note, one novel I always thought would be a ‘natch’ for a film was Tobias Hill’s The Love of Stones (Faber & Faber, 2001). It is a fascinating historical thriller with a mysterious jewel and a (potentially fascinating) heroine at the core of the story. Following on in the line of ambitious ‘intellectual’ thrillers that began when Umberto Eco first published The Name of the Rose in Italian in 1980, the ‘stone’ at the heart of the novel is a fabulous assembly of gems known as The Three Bretheren – a great film title, if ever there was one – and the search for the elusive bauble which launches gem-lover, Katherine Sterne, on a hunt which takes her to strange lands, and lands her in the strangest of company company.

You see the way it all fits into a familiar filmic pattern – a beautiful young woman, a passionate quest, danger, and the possibility of a thrilling conclusion?

The history bit – the story of how the jewel was made in the early fifteenth century, and how it was passed down from ever-less royal hands into the mean streets and the nasty by-ways of international smuggling and gem-trading – could easily have been accommodated within the film in a series of flash-backs which would have added colour, mystery and intrigue, while the contemporary chase for the jewel in the dark-and-dangerous world of crooks, auction houses and big money would have brought the house down.

In the right hands, The Love of Stones, might have brought in Oscars (Academy Awards as they were then known) for best picture, best actress, best costumes, best screenplay, and more besides.

Instead, they didn’t make the film.

“Why not?” you may ask.

In my personal opinion, it all comes down to the Excipit, which is just too slow, too drawn out. Rather than waking you up, it lulls you gently to sleep. Oddly enough, rewriting and remodelling the finale – with dramatic flashbacks to recall the Three Bretheren as it once was – might have been Hollywood’s big chance to make a significant contribution to a project that was very close to cinematographic perfection on paper.   

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The Football Factory

EXCIPIT 11 - how crime books end - John King
date: 19 February 2015 at 12:13:19 - 0 comments


As an undergraduate (B.A. Hon. Eng Lang & Lit), I read lots of ‘stream of consciousness’ novels – Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, Proust et al. At the time I thought I was pretty swish, but later I came to detest those writers. Who wants to be locked inside somebody else’s muddled mind full time? I have a hard time living with my own endless and inconclusive ‘interior monologues.’

On my way to bed last night, I picked a book blindly from my book shelf – The Football Factory by John King (Jonathon Cape, 1998). I remember buying and reading the trilogy – The Footie Factory, Headhunters and England Away – as they came out in rapid succession in the last decade of the last century. I don’t recall how I hit on them, but I was an instant fan and I recommended them to all my friends.

The funny thing was this...

Last night I realised that The Football Factory is a pure ‘stream of consciousness’ novel. I’d been too busy reading and enjoying King’s novels to realise that here was a (dull and hackneyed) literary device being used to perfection.

We are in the mind of the narrator, and he’s no aesthete like Woolf, Joyce or Proust. Indeed, we are inside the mind of a brand new form of literary human being, the sort that always ‘got stuck in,’ but never pushed his Doc Martens deep into the guts of English Literature. Our hero is a Chelsea fan, a lager lout, a street-fighting man, a racially prejudiced ‘git,’ the sort of person that I, for one, would not like to be, i.e., a soccer hooligan. Also, in my opinion, he supports the wrong team and slags the teams from my home town, Liverpool. Maybe the verbal aggro went to my head? Maybe even now I’m getting too steamed up again? 

On reflection, a decade and a half later, I have to say that The Football Factory lives up to the blurb by Irvine Welsh: “The best book I’ve ever read about football and working-class culture in Britain in the nineties. Buy, steal or borrow a copy now.”

The nineties were a time when Great Britain was trying to put an end to football hooliganism after a series of disasters that had rocked public opinion at the end of the eighties: the Bradford stadium fire which killed 56 spectators; the Heysel disaster which led to an international ban on English clubs when another 39 died; the Hillsborough (Sheffield) disaster when 96 people lost their lives.

Tom and his rowdy mates are the (anti-)heroes of The Football Factory, which was a valiant attempt to get inside the (intelligent, but twisted) mind of the dedicated thug. They are boozers, sexists, racists, always looking for a rumble despite the increased number of police on patrol, the video cameras, and the changing mentality that the disasters had provoked. They have just changed their tactics.

And yet, things haven’t changed so much...    

I was watching the news on Sky last night, and saw a remarkable video clip: a train pulled into a London underground station, and a young black man stepped aboard. A moment later, he came flying out of the door, followed by kicks and punches. A crowd of thugs wouldn’t let him on the train, didn’t want a black man in their carriage. They were Chelsea fans, the announcer reported. Just like the characters in The Football Factory, which was published twenty years ago.

“You have to fuck them before they fuck you,” wrote John King.

That’s the guiding principle of the novel.

By the way, the Excipit, Derby at Home, is exactly like the Incipit, Coventry at Home: plenty of booze, a mindless act of violence, then “It’s time to be moving, We don’t want to get boxed in by the Old Bill.”

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