A Consuming Rage

By Chris Chesney

Arrested in Paris in May 2009 for a crime in Italy he didn’t commit, “A Consuming Rage” tells of Chris Chesney’s experiences in various prisons over the ensuing five months. Firstly, Chris was locked up for a month in the high security Parisian gaol of La Santé. First built in 1700, its graffiti-covered walls and w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Chesney Books
• Release date: Nov 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781950981274

Chris Chesney

Qualified as a chartered accountant, Chris joined the European leasing subsidiary of Security Pacific Corporation, the Californian banking giant, in 1975. By 1987, Chris had become its Executive Vice President, also spending two years in Paris as President Director-General of its French bank subsidiary. Having transferred to Bank of Boston, Chris worked in senior positions in London, Istanbul and Dublin before retiring in early 2000 and returning to the UK. There, Chris set up his own consultancy company. Doing so, Chris was introduced to an Italian entrepreneur who wished to expand his activities across Europe. However, this Italian businessman had been acting fraudulently for some while and, ultimately, was arrested by the Italian Guardia di Finanza early in 2007. This Italian businessman claimed that the fraudulent acts totalling €67 million had been masterminded by Chris and the Guardia di Finanza obtained a European Arrest Warrant in early 2007. Chris was arrested in the UK in 2008 and, although this EAW was dismissed by the Court in London, when Chris visited Paris in mid-2009 he was arrested by the French Police. Chris spent the next 5 months in various French and Italian prisons before he was released back to the UK. Once home, less than impressed with Italian justice, Chris wrote this, his first book, "A Consuming Rage" on these experiences.

Book preview

THE ARREST

The female French police officer at Gare du Nord took my proffered passport, giving me a brief smile whilst effortlessly continuing her conversation with her male colleague about the weekend she’d enjoyed with her family out at Disneyland, of all places. She passed the passport to him, seated in front of a computer monitor, and he quickly entered the details on my passport into the system. Not being able to view the screen, I had no idea what then transpired but, from the look on their faces and the immediate cessation of their banter, it had to be something fairly dramatic. For a split second they both froze then, after a quick, searching stare at me by both of them, the male officer presumably cleared the screen and re-input the data into his system. From their reaction, they’d obviously received the same message, and a quick glance passed between them. Then, to my astonishment, the female officer’s hand went to the holster of her gun and, whilst she did not draw it, she politely asked me, Vous etes M Christophe Chesney?

I stared at her; who else did she bloody well think I was? She had my passport which, only recently re-issued, contained a pretty reasonable photo of me, even if it did resemble an axe-murderer in a distinctly foul mood. Oui, I confirmed, Bien sur.

Still staring at me and keeping her hand on her pistol, she stood away from the desk and requested me to accompany her to the nearby office of her superior. I immediately suspected that, despite the confident assurance I’d received to the contrary from my barrister, this was all related to that bloody European Arrest Warrant, or EAW, issued by the Tribunale di Roma, even though it had been dismissed at the Westminster Magistrates’ Court the previous year. Typical of the Italians, I thought, they’d failed to remove the rejected EAW from their systems. Thank God I’d arrived over an hour before the departure time of my Eurostar train; if I’d arrived later I’d probably be unable to sort it all out in time. I therefore followed the female police officer to a small lean-to like cabin set against a wall about 20 metres away. Inside, a seated officer, initially patently irritated at being interrupted when attending what could well have been long overdue paperwork, quickly focussed his attention on me when briefed by his reporting subordinate. He rose from his desk, sending my escort back to her previous task, and asked me to turn out all my pockets.

Looking back, why didn’t I make more protest at this point, demand to know exactly what was going on? Partly, I suppose, because I was already convinced that it was connected to the EAW issued by the Tribunale di Roma and, secondly, because I was certain that this was all an unfortunate misunderstanding that would soon be sorted out and I’d then be allowed back on my way. Indeed, I was more concerned that I’d be able to get away in time to catch my scheduled Eurostar train and, if I didn’t, whether I’d be charged for a second, replacement ticket for a later departure. In the interim, virtually wordlessly, I complied fully with the instructions given me by the senior police officer. Having done so, the officer asked me to move away from the desk on which I’d deposited my possessions and, rising from his own desk with one hand resting casually on his side-arm, he began sorting through the pretty meagre collection. Since they only consisted of my wallet, my mobile phone, some loose change in both euros and sterling, my house and car keys, a couple of pens and some assorted papers and receipts, I was not sure what he was hoping to find. Having satisfied himself there was nothing immediately incriminating there, he opened my wallet and glanced through its contents but the lack of emotion on his face showed that there, too, he found nothing to interest him. He then returned to his desk and made a phone call to what, it became obvious, was a yet more senior officer elsewhere. This conversation completed, he called out and two additional officers, albeit in plain clothes, appeared through a separate door at the other end of the cabin. He duly instructed them I was to be escorted to the principal office of the police at Gard du Nord and, in case I hadn’t picked this up, he explained to me in slower, more carefully enunciated French that he would like me to accompany his colleagues to more suitable premises for a lengthier interview. All I could think was, shit, I’m going to miss my bloody train.

The three of us then left the cabin on the raised floor above the general concourse and made our way downstairs to the usual milling crowds wandering at various speeds across the cavernous hall of the station. Nobody took the blindest notice of us, mostly keeping their primary focus on either the overhead boards showing the departure times of trains, or on the individual notices besides each platform indicating the various stops to be made by the next train leaving there. We then walked down a side corridor running parallel with the platforms before exiting into a little lane that led to what turned out to be the local railway cop shop, located in a side building on the general site of the Gare du Nord. There, I was greeted as if I was on the list of the 10 most wanted criminals in France. My details were duly entered into the duty log and I was asked, politely but firmly, to hand over not just my small travelling valise but also my jacket, trousers, shirt, tie and shoes. Not content with that, I was then handcuffed and seated on a bench facing the front desk whilst the two officers who’d brought me there turned my jacket inside out and then carefully examined the seams of all my other clothes. I was then called over to the desk and requested to watch and subsequently confirm the list of my personal possessions that they drew up in long hand. Having taken off my handcuffs to enable me to sign my agreement as to the accuracy of this list, I was handed back my shirt and trousers and then placed in a small holding cage about 2 metres wide by 2.5 metres deep, with a cell-wide bench at the rear on which had been heaped 3 thin, vinyl-covered mattresses. And there I was left to stew for a couple of hours. At this stage, although I couldn’t properly recognise it at the time, I proved incapable of rationally analysing my situation. When I was a young boy and watched the old newsreels of Jews being rounded up by the Germans and packed into railway trucks for their long, disgracefully inhuman journeys to the Nazi death camps, I could never understand why they didn’t fight back; if they knew (or strongly suspected) they were all going to be killed, why hadn’t they put up some opposition? I had felt certain that I would never have behaved in such a servile manner; if you’re going to die anyway, why not go down fighting? Of course, with the passing of the years, my infantile reactions to those heartrendingly distressing newsreel scenes had become far less condemning of the reactions of its Jewish victims but, even so, I had still had a sneaking suspicion that I might have behaved differently if I’d been one of those who were to be condemned to the Nazi death camps. Yet here I was, surrounded not by the archetypal brutality we’d been told occurred at such events, but by courteous, well-behaved representatives of the French railway police, and I was behaving as meekly as any lamb on its way to slaughter. Where were my wholly justified, loud vocal protests, my demands for the British Ambassador to France, if not the British Solicitor-General or Foreign Secretary? Why did I not refuse to allow myself to be handcuffed and, instead, toss a few French police officers around for having the gall to even ask me to collaborate in such a disgraceful affront to my innocence? Truth is, I haven’t a clue; they requested and I immediately acquiesced. What was I thinking about? Now, I find it extremely difficult to recall exactly; it never even crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be released in more than a few hours. I do remember thinking that I’d probably have difficulties in getting on a later train without paying for a replacement ticket, and wondering whether the French railway police would pay for this. It also occurred to me that, having left my car at the secure parking unit at Ashford International Station, this delay would be pumping up my parking fees. After a couple of hours of such earth-shaking contemplations, I was removed from the holding cell and taken to meet with what I took to be the senior duty officer. He sat behind a desk in a spectacularly crowded office, determinedly pecking at a computer keyboard with the index fingers of each hand. Presumably in his 40s, and looking as if he was more than ordinarily weighed down by the sins of others, he looked up when I was ushered in and motioned for me to be seated. There were two government issue chairs in front of his desk and, since they were covered by stacks of files, I removed one such stack and seated myself. The senior officer looked up, frowned when he saw me squatting there with a bunch of his files in my lap, and gestured impatiently to one of the two officers who had accompanied me to remove such documents from my possession. We then went through a short session designed to determine yet again who I was, why I was in Paris and why an EAW had been issued for my arrest. The first parts of his question were easy to answer, the last part far less so. But if there’s an EAW issued for me, doesn’t it specify the charges against me? I asked the senior officer in some surprise.

No, he replied, rather curtly, we only know that one has been issued for your arrest. So what have you done?

I looked at him with a degree of uncertainty. The only EAW issued for me that I’m aware of is one that the Tribunale di Roma issued over 2 years ago ....

Aha, the senior officer interjected with satisfaction.

.... but that was wholly rejected by the English courts last June, I concluded.

After a pause, during which he stared at me thoughtfully, the senior officer stated, I don’t understand; please explain.

Christ, I didn’t have the computer detailing whatever it was under which I’d been arrested in front of me, he did. It was at about this time that a little common sense began to return to me. My French is not unreasonable, but only for general or social conversation. Trying to explain to a French policeman the ins and outs of the rejection by the English courts of the EAW of the Tribunale di Roma would not only push my linguistic capabilities to the limit, but a good deal beyond. I therefore shrugged my shoulders and did my best to explain my French vocabulary was not adequate for this task. The senior officer again eyed me and then asked if I wanted an interpreter. When I nodded and told him I thought that would be best, he gave me a slight smile and said, in English, No interpreter ‘ere, now – in few hours, maybe. You ‘ave to wait. Excuse. Then, turning back to his monitor, he gestured to my two guards to take me away.

I spent another couple of hours back in the holding cell, the object of fairly disinterested curiosity of police officers ending their duty shift, and of others coming in to start theirs. Finally, I was again taken to the same senior officer’s office where a short, dumpy woman was already seated in one of the two visitors’ chairs. Since my last visit, I noted that an effort had been made, albeit with little seeming conviction, to tidy up the office. I therefore sat on the remaining visitor’s chair and the senior officer leaned forward to introduce me to his other visitor who, as I’d suspected, turned out to be an official interpreter. She having confirmed to me her role, the senior police officer immediately cut to the chase and firstly went through a series of basic questions designed to establish my identity, address and reasons for being in Paris. All this data was carefully input into his computer and then we came to his question as to why an EAW had been issued in my name. As I told the interpreter, I found it rather bizarre that, having arrested me, this officer was now demanding to know from me what was the reason; wasn’t it ordinarily the other way around? She smiled sympathetically but stated that, whilst she understood why such a question might perplex me, she felt it was in my best interests to be as helpful as possible. On reflection, and considering the shit I was in, this didn’t seem unreasonable advice. So, I gathered my thoughts together, took a deep breath and explained my experiences with a certain Signor Truffatore and his merry crew of crooks.

Having qualified as a Chartered Accountant and then worked for more than 25 years in international banking, much of it outside the UK, I finally decided to retire from what had generally been extremely enjoyable experiences and return to the UK, not least because my 2 sons were asking, with ever-increasing interest, When are you coming home, Dad? However, my former wife and I having chosen to give our 2 sons a private education, I still had to pay for such extravagance plus, thereafter, their attendance at university. Accordingly, in early 2000, I set up my own company, Total Administration Limited, which provided accounting, consultancy and other administrative services to small, mostly UK incorporated companies, and my initial clients were almost exclusively old friends, colleagues and clients from my days working abroad, and who, for varying reasons, now wanted a UK incorporated business, and wanted it run by a UK national whom they’d known previously and had cause to trust. This venture not only proved successful but both rewarding and stimulating and, soon after I’d returned to the UK in early 2000, I was introduced to one Subdolo Truffatore, an Italian involved in telecommunications, and whose businesses were headquartered in Rome. Truffatore was introduced to me by another non-UK client, one I had known for many years and with whom I had also worked when we were both in senior management positions in a major Californian banking group. Truffatore was a distant relative of my former colleague’s wife so when he asked my former colleague if he could recommend anyone to form and run a UK holding company for him, my name and that of my company were suggested.

So, why did I get involved with Truffatore? Well, he might best be described as what used to be called a likeable rogue, although I was wholly unaware at that time how shallow such an impression was. Also, the project for which he needed my help and advice seemed not only wholly credible but also one to which I was well suited from my past experiences. The way it was portrayed to me by Truffatore (and which he could well have actually then intended to carry out) was that he had built up a small group of companies in Italy that were all engaged, one way or another, in mobile telecommunications. Now, for various reasons, Truffatore not only wanted to create a Pan-European group of companies, but to headquarter it in the UK. The reasons given were all perfectly creditable and generally accurate and, once such UK holding company was formed, Truffatore would transfer ownership of the shares in his various Italian companies to this new UK holding company.

Given the laws now existing to prevent money laundering, drug trafficking and terrorism, although he’d been introduced by an old and much trusted friend and former colleague, I also received what appeared to be clear and unequivocal endorsement of Truffatore from his stockbrokers in Belgium, an old and extremely well respected firm in Bruxelles. Not only that, but, once I’d set up Truffatore’s new holding company in the UK and opened an account for it at HSBC Bank, it received a transfer of well in excess of €1 million from this firm. Having thus got the show on the road, the UK holding company soon after formed a Spanish subsidiary. Then, it bought 2 existing but wholly independent mobile telecommunication companies; one in France and the other in Germany for a total outlay on the 3 entities of close on €10 million, all of which was channelled through the Belgian stockbrokers. So far, so good. However, from there on in it all started going downhill. Whilst my own knowledge of the technical aspects of the telecommunications industry would, if written on the back of the proverbial postage stamp, still leave a great deal of unoccupied space, Truffatore had assured me that, in himself and within his team of Italian technicians, he had all the expertise necessary to successfully develop and grow this new empire. That was probably true, but what Truffatore lacked, in spades, was any idea of how to manage a business and motivate his staff. To my complete astonishment, he had agreed the purchase of both the French and the German companies referred to above, including the price, without ever performing a due diligence examination. If I was amazed when this happened with the French company, this was as nothing compared to my feelings when, even though I had explained to him, in detail, the danger of such a cavalier approach, he damn well went ahead and did exactly the bloody same with the German company. For Christ’s sake, I demanded of him, why?

Without the slightest qualm he dismissively stated that, having learned at a trade conference held in Monte Carlo of the availability of the company, he’d met with its principal shareholder and I looked into his eyes and could see he could be trusted.

Shit. This did not bode well, and so it proved. The sale contract for the French company had been prepared by the vendors’ lawyers and signed by Truffatore, virtually without question. Amazingly, it contained no clause prohibiting the vendors from setting up in competition with a brand new company and, once they’d enjoyed a month or so on the beaches wherever, that’s exactly what they did. Not only that, but they soon approached their old customer base and quickly poached the majority of them. If this wasn’t bad enough (and I spent a number of visits to Paris with newly appointed lawyers there, unsuccessfully trying to rescue this sinking ship), the German acquisition also turned out to be a pig in a poke. In fact, I remain convinced to this day that, had I been allowed to perform only a limited due diligence, it would have quickly revealed that the sale price had been grossly inflated by non-existent debtors and fixed assets, as well as under-declared creditors. As it was, I had to spend weeks out in Germany desperately trying to save the company but, ultimately, we had to accept the inevitable and place this German company in liquidation, along with its French associate. Whilst my attention was thus directed elsewhere, mayhem was apparently occurring at the Spanish subsidiary. Given all these wonderful experiences, the lack of any demands from Truffatore for help on the transfer of ownership of his Italian companies to the UK holding company was, to be frank, a considerable relief. Whilst any number of other issues arose during my relationship with Truffatore, there was never other than a sense of wholly ill-directed panic and, not surprisingly, my day-to-day involvement with his affairs gradually but conclusively subsided. Even though this also meant that my unpaid fees continually grew, albeit at a gradually diminishing rate, I was more than happy for this to occur. Why didn’t I pull the plug on the bastard, and earlier? I suppose I felt it would be unprofessional to walk away from Truffatore as regards his UK companies; he was an Italian, normally resident in Italy, and completely without knowledge of UK corporate and tax requirements and regulations. What a stupid and naive position I chose to adopt.

Finally, I received a tearful visit from Truffatore in late January 2007 to state that he’d been telephoned by the Italian Guardia di Finanzia, who’d told him they’d a warrant for his arrest for fraud and that he should return to Italy immediately. What should he do? Well, there were possibly matters which had less interest for me but I couldn’t immediately think of any, so I strongly recommended him to go back to Italy. This he did and I believe was arrested when he arrived at Rome Airport; hopefully, I thought, this would be the end of my endlessly bizarre relationship with Truffatore.

Sadly, this proved to be a forlorn hope as, having gone down to Bristol in late November 2007 for the university graduation ceremony there of my younger son, Ben, I was extremely surprised upon my return home to be advised by John, my friend and neighbour, that a large black vehicle containing 2 police officers had called to see me in my absence. After John advised them I was currently away, the police officers gracefully withdrew after requesting that he give me their phone number and ask me to contact them. I duly did so and was absolutely astonished to be advised that the Italian Tribunale di Roma had issued a EAW for not only me but for a number of others, all accused of being part of an international criminal organisation that had defrauded a number of Italian creditors, principally Telecom Italia and TIM, its mobile phone subsidiary, of some €67 million. I was therefore asked to report to the Westminster Magistrates’ Court the following Monday, and to bring my passport with me. Having first met with my solicitors the next Monday, I was then accompanied to the Westminster Magistrates’ Court, where I was formally arrested and I handed over my passport.

At this first hearing, my solicitors pointed out that the EAW was very incomplete and woolly, and requested that much greater supportive detail be obtained from the Tribunale di Roma. This took a substantial period of time, and it was not until 16 June 2008, that a ruling was delivered by District Judge Nicholas Evans at the Westminster Magistrates’ Court. This was the seventh time I’d had to present myself there, but I still didn’t have enormous confidence in the outcome as, during the previous hearings, the barrister representing the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) had seemed to me to be determined to ignore what, to me, were obvious failings in the allegations listed in the EAW. However, my own barrister had explained to me that, now that Tony Blair had cavalierly agreed to have English law brought in line with that of other states within the European Union (EU), it was no longer necessary for the EU state issuing the EAW to show just cause, as used to be the case. Instead, unless the crime allegedly committed outside the UK was not considered a crime in England, or the EAW had been incorrectly or improperly prepared, the English court had no option but to have me immediately extradited to Italy. Apparently, the way it works is that if an EAW is issued by one EU state, the others are cordially invited to adopt the attitude that there’s no need for us to see if this EAW is kosher, we can fully trust our fellow EU judicial systems not to make a cock-up – off you go. Even so, I had already managed to delay my possible extradition once by refusing the court’s invitation to voluntarily comply with the EAW and go to Italy. Once the court hearing had first started, back in January 2008, my barrister and solicitors had both advised me that I would receive such an invitation, and strongly recommended I should gracefully decline. Since this exactly matched my intention, I had no problem in accepting such advice but was curious why they were all so adamant. Simple, they explained, if you force the court to extradite you under the EAW then, once you’re in Italy, the Italians can only try you for the alleged crimes on the EAW. If you go there voluntarily, once you’re in prison there, they can raise any other charges they like against you. What’s more, because of their poor if not corrupt administration, this is something for which the Italians are renowned.

So, when I presented myself at the Westminster Magistrates’ Court that morning of 16 June 2008 to hear the ruling of Judge Evans, accompanied by my sons and my daughter-in-law, I was feeling not overly confident. Nothing I’d heard to date from any of the participating legal actors seemed to indicate they had any understanding of the commercial world; they all seemed to make up their own rules as to how the world should operate, and usually as they went along. The one exception had been when, at the previous hearing, having heard the CPS barrister effectively brand me as a modern day equivalent of Al Capone, Judge Evans, seemingly musing aloud, asked if it were not possible for an honest English accountant to be caught in a web of deceit woven by the accused Italians and in connection with crimes that had been committed in Italy, by and to Italian companies, without any apparent direct involvement. This had given me a flicker of hope that at least one person in the court had some understanding and knowledge of the real world but, even so, as I sat there awaiting the final outcome, I was only too conscious of the joint estimation of my barrister and solicitors that my chances of the EAW being rejected were only about 20% to 40%.

Compared with the beautiful facade of the Royal Courts of Justice, The Westminster Magistrates’ Court is entirely unimpressive; it looks very much like the dingy steel and glass office blocks that surround it. Even the entrance is unprepossessing; just a narrow combination of a small stairway and a ramp up to normal double doors. Once inside, there’s just a narrow hall with a pretty small and ancient security inspection facility manned by fairly bored officers. Having passed through this, I went to the large notice-boards on the left of this hall to determine which court I was due to appear in; as in every single visit I made there, my name was conspicuous by its absence. From the benefit of my previous experiences, I therefore mounted the stairs to the next floor and queued up before the numerous windows there of which, as usual, only 2 were manned, by extremely willing but clearly over-worked officials. Finally it was my turn and, having discovered which court was concerned, the 4 of us proceeded to the floor in question. I presented myself to the official at the door of the court and retired to the external seated public area to await the arrival of my legal representatives. Once they appeared, we had a quick discussion of what was likely to happen that morning, including how soon I could expect to be sent to Italy, how and with what clothes, etc., if the verdict of the court went against me, and then we all filed into the court.

The Westminster Magistrates’ Courts can best be described as functional; pleasantly constructed, light and airy, but presumably designed by either a midget or an amputee. At the far end from the entrance was a very wide, raised dais, at which the Judge sat and, in front of such individual in the well of the court, rows of smaller benches and seats, at which the legal representatives of both the Crown and the defendants were placed. To the left and rear of and at right angles to these worthies were a couple of rows of seats to accommodate lesser court officials whilst, at the back of the court were another couple of rows for both defendants awaiting their cases to be heard and any of their supporters or other members of the public who wished to observe events. Once my case was announced, however, I had to enter the dock, which was a smallish area at the far right hand rear corner of the court. Curiously, whilst a defendant could sit in open court before his or her own case was heard, once in the dock the Judge was protected from any incandescent rage or immediate threat of violence from the defendant by the dock being enclosed in bulletproof glass, albeit with small openings cut into it so that, supposedly, the defendant could hear what was happening. This worked well enough when the Judge was speaking but, when any of the legal eagles in front of him were making their presentations, it was very difficult to discern what was being said as they were facing away from the dock. As irritating as this was, of far more annoyance was the fact that the triple row of seats in the dock were so tightly packed together that you had to sit side saddle; thus I was forced into the position of being jammed into my seat with one ear close against the opening in the bulletproof glass to try and follow my likely fate.

However, despite my forebodings, and much to my joy and overwhelming relief, Judge Evans came up trumps. He had prepared a written judgment that he read out to the court. Consisting of 6 pages of carefully argued evaluation, Judge Evans systematically dismissed point after point of the EAW. Whilst this was increasingly heartening news, I kept waiting for him to conclude with something like, Notwithstanding such failings in the EAW ...... Instead, to my scarcely contained satisfaction, his judgment ended, .... it follows I have no jurisdiction to continue the proceedings and I order the discharge of the defendant.

Wonderfully buoyed by such result, I had a closing meeting outside the court with my solicitors and barrister. What, I enquired, does this actually mean? Could the bloody Italians issue a replacement EAW and put me through all this again?

No, said my barrister, definitely not. That would be double jeopardy; there is no danger whatsoever of you being arrested again for these alleged crimes in the UK.

What about if I visit other member states of the EU?

My barrister considered this possibility carefully. I don’t believe so, she said. The reasons why Judge Evans dismissed the EAW are as equally applicable elsewhere in the EU; the EAW is, after all, an instrument of European law, not just the laws of England. She smiled but then added, Even so, I wouldn’t recommend you going back to Italy for a while. This sounded like excellent common sense to me and so, accompanied by Scott and Ben, my sons, plus Scott’s then fiancée, Judy, we went off in search of a local hostelry to celebrate the termination of what had been a somewhat stressful 6 months.

That was in June 2008. Due to various other matters that occurred later, including both the continuing economic downturn that caused me to eventually lay off all the other staff of my company, plus the sudden deterioration of my mother’s health that, after just 3 months in a local nursing home, resulted in her hardly unexpected death at the ripe old age of 92, I had had neither the opportunity nor incentive to travel abroad for some while. However, in April 2009, a client resident in Paris asked me if I could visit him for a series of meetings in Paris, as he was having difficulty in fitting a visit to London into his travel schedule. Well, that was a difficult decision to have to make; would I be able to visit Paris in May, in the springtime, at someone else’s expense? Is the Pope a Catholic? Nevertheless, I’d heard a number of horror stories about the incompetence and corruption of the Italian judiciary system; Christ, you could hardly pick up a newspaper without reading about some fresh attempt to arrest their Prime Minister, Sylvio Berlusconi, on some new corruption charge that he’d then managed to evade by some devious mechanism. So, to be on the safe side, I sent an e-mail to my lawyers to ask them for their unequivocal confirmation that I would suffer no problems if I visited Paris. My actual words were, "Whilst I have no plans on visiting Italy again, another of my clients