John Grisham - 2007 - Playing for Pizza.pdf - fuyuhoshikim

points with these guys, and help them discover the truth, whatever
that was. Romo nodded down the street and walked beside Rick
as they followed the first cop.
"Can I make a phone call?" Rick asked.
"Of course. A lawyer?"
"No."
Sam's phone went straight to voice mail. Rick thought about Arnie,
but little good that would do. Arnie had grown increasingly hard to
catch by phone.
And so they walked, along the Strada Farini, past the small shops
with their doors and windows open, past the sidewalk cafes where
people sat almost motionless with their newspapers and little
espressos. Rick's head was clearing, his stomach had settled.
One of those small strong coffees might be welcome. Romo lit
another cigarette, blew out a small cloud of smoke, then said,
"You like Parma?"
"I don't think so."
"No?"
"No. This is my first full day here, and I'm under arrest for
something I did not do. Kinda hard to like the place." "There's no
arrest," Romo said as he lumbered heavily from side to side, as if
both knees were about to fold. Every third or fourth step his
shoulder nudged Rick's right arm as he lurched again.
"Then what do you call it?" Rick asked.
"Our system is different here. No arrest."
Oh well, that certainly explains things. Rick bit his tongue and let it
pass. Arguing would get him nowhere. He had done nothing
wrong, and the truth would soon settle matters. This was not, after
all, some Third World dictatorship where they ran
domly rounded up people for a few months of torture. This was Italy, part of Europe, the heart of Western
civilization. Opera, the Vatican, the Renaissance, da Vinci, Armani, Lamborghini. It was all right there in his
guidebook.
Rick had seen worse. His only prior arrest had been in college, during the spring of his freshman year when he
found himself a willing member of a drunken gang determined to crash an off-campus fraternity party. Fights
and broken bones ensued; the police showed up in force. Several of the hooligans were subdued, handcuffed,
knocked around by the cops, and finally thrown in the rear of a police wagon, where they were poked a few
times by nightsticks, for good measure. At the jail, they slept on cold concrete floors in the drunk tank. Four of
those arrested were members of the Hawkeye football team, and their adventures through the legal system
were sensationally reported by several newspapers. In addition to die humiliation, Rick got thirty days
suspended, a fine of four hundred dollars, a scathing tongue-lashing from his father, and the promise from his
coach that another infraction, however minor, would cost him his scholarship and send him to either jail or
junior college. Rick managed the next five years without so much as a speeding ticket. They changed streets
and turned abruptly into a quiet cobblestoned alley. An officer in a different uniform stood benignly by an
unmarked opening. Nods and quick words were exchanged, and Rick was led through the door, up a flight of
faded marble steps to the second floor, and into a hallway that obviously housed government offices. The
decor was drab; the walls needed paint; portraits of long-forgotten civil servants hung in a sad row. Romo
selected a harsh wooden bench and said, "Please have a seat."
Rick obeyed and tried Sam's number once more. Same voice mail.