Corrado, the ever-present ‘grand old man’ who emerges behind Lavitola

The brief but intense story of ‘Corrado’, a non-existent gentleman who, for a few weeks, became the imaginary protagonist of the grand conspiracy against Sigfrido Ranucci and Report, offers us the opportunity for a twofold reflection. Firstly, because we now know (thanks to an incisive investigation by *Domani*) that this sensational hoax stemmed from the erroneous transcription of an ambient recording of a conversation between the now-confessed accomplices in the fake attack, This in itself is a fascinating topic, which ought to teach us something (though it won’t) about this untouchable totem for investigators and journalists (particularly ‘investigative’ journalists). Secondly, Mr Corrado has, in the eyes of Ranucci himself – and subsequently in the eyes of all the most fervent theorists of ‘who’s behind Lavitola’ – become, with clockwork precision, the inevitable ‘grand old man’ of this now utterly hilarious Italian-style farce we are living through in these wretched times of ours. This, too, is a fascinating theme: in any self-respecting legal, criminal or political affair, there must necessarily be a ‘grand old man’, whose lethal existence we mere mortals would not even imagine were it not for the providential work of a select few – namely, the investigative journalists – who, by natural talent, are accustomed to venturing far beyond our narrow cognitive horizons. Without a ‘big old man’, there is no story worth telling.

Let us begin with the marshal’s mishearing—which, in truth, appears to have been caused by a dialect from the Campania hinterland that is incomprehensible even to a native of Campania. He writes, more or less, that the attackers agreed amongst themselves that, whilst the Rome Public Prosecutor’s Office was conducting a frantic investigation, they urgently needed to speak to ‘Corrado’, and the precautionary order contains this glaring error. First and foremost, it should be made clear that our country’s judicial history is rife with transcription errors of this sort—and even far more serious ones. Indeed, it might be suggested to the editor of this newspaper the idea of a rigorously documented national collection of decisively erroneous transcripts, to be published for posterity: it would, moreover, make for a most entertaining read, albeit often a tragic one. In the Taranto trial known as ‘Ambiente svenduto’, just to give one example, a prominent administrative lawyer acting on behalf of the Riva group was implicated and swept up in the investigation, primarily on the basis of a wiretap in which, according to the police sergeant, the unfortunate man said – much to the investigators’ delight – ‘we have polluted the documents’ (can you believe it?!), whereas – as will be definitively established at trial – he had obviously said ‘we have challenged the documents’. But really, any criminal lawyer could recount hundreds of such stories. Let us assume the marshals’ good faith (though this is not always easy, nor are we – as they say in Rome – made of soap), and yet let us draw the only sensible conclusion from these stories: wiretaps, and their transcripts, are probably the most unreliable tool for gathering evidence there is, if only because the translation of spoken language into written form is, for that reason alone, a form of genuine falsification of that data; and also because adequate professional training is required for those called upon to listen and transcribe (for the future, perhaps we can place our trust in the wonders of AI). This realization alone should be enough to put an end to the rampant idolatry of wiretapped conversations – a delicious prize for sleuth-like journalists, and, above all, all too often the definitive investigative conclusion, particularly for public prosecutors and investigating magistrates, rather than a cautious starting point requiring double or triple verification, as well as a sound dose of common sense. It should, I said, but I doubt it will happen.

Let us return, then, to our Mr Corrado, who also provides us with an insight into the natural reflexes of ‘clams-style’ investigative journalism. Even before carrying out the slightest verification of the transcript (for this category of journalists, police reports, wiretap transcripts and statements from turncoats represent truths set in stone), Sigfrido Ranucci, guided by his investigative instincts, tells the man whom he is, at that very moment, unaware is the mastermind behind the attack on him, ‘listen to me, we need to find out who Corrado is’, and the case will be solved. He then swiftly carries out his investigations and declares to Il Fatto Quotidiano (and who else, indeed?) that ‘Corrado’ was the nickname, or perhaps the alias, of none other than Marco Mancini, the grand vizier of our intelligence services (who denies this and takes legal action). The picture is now clear, is it not? Here is the grand old man; here is the plot to assassinate free investigative journalism laid bare. “You should know this,” a real-life Corrado (Guzzanti, for the few who do not know) would say. In the wake of this brilliant insight, this masterstroke, a whole string of imitators will take to the stage in the coming days – on social media, in newspapers and on current affairs programmes – offering the most fantastical and assertive reconstructions of the ‘grand old man’s’ identity, whether he is Mancini or whoever else – it doesn’t matter. What matters is the confirmation of the existence of the ‘mastermind behind the mastermind’; we’ve got him now, we’re breathing down his neck, and soon the great conspiracy will be unravelled. He is called, or is referred to as, ‘Corrado’ – hold on tight – as guaranteed by a sacred wiretap, and confirmed and assured by the Marshal. Curtain.