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My friends were all there; I wondered which one was trying to fool me by arranging for this anonymous prank call. “Listen, Ancelotti, this is serious business; we need to talk.”

“Sure, but I don’t know who you are.”

“My name is Auricchio.”

“Again? I got that part. I just don’t know who you really are.”

“This is the carabinieri of Rome.”

“What is this, a broken record? If this really is the carabinieri of Rome, send me something official—a warrant, a radiogram.”

“Ancelotti, the Italian police haven’t used radiograms since World War II.”

“Listen, Auriemma …”

“Auricchio!”

“Right, okay, Auricchio, send me anything you want, but I want something from you to prove that you’re telling the truth. How about this: send a fax to the carabinieri in my hometown, and they can contact me.”

I addressed him with the informal “tu,” while Auricchio continued to use the formal “Lei.” Something didn’t really make sense; as a prank, it was verging on the excessive.

“Signor Ancelotti, you are a public figure. We’d really prefer to keep this private and confidential. It’s for your own good. Come to Rome in two days.”

“Why would I want to come to Rome? Will you cut this out or not? What do you want from me? Who is this, anyway?”

“This is Auricchio.”

We sounded like Jiminy Cricket and Pinocchio. Or maybe Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, because Pinocchio was already training over at Internazionale.

“Listen, Ancelotti, let’s do this. I’ll call you back in two or three days.”

“Do as you like.”

“Buon giorno, Ancelotti.”

“Buon giorno, Auriemma, or whatever the fuck your name is.”

I had induced an identity crisis in the poor policeman. I was increasingly certain that it was all a joke, partly because the timing was just too perfect. Auricchio had called me at the exact moment in which I was talking about the investigation with my friends.

Just out of curiosity, I started asking around. And it turns out there really was a Warrant Officer Auricchio. Even worse: he was a big wheel, a major figure in the ongoing investigation. I suddenly imagined myself in handcuffs, being indicted for insulting a public officer in the pursuit of his duties, moving steadily away from the coach’s bench of Milan, and closer toward a bench in the prison of San Vittore. A bench that maybe didn’t even wobble.

In the end, I had to go to Rome to the carabinieri barracks. Once I got there, a young man with short dark hair was waiting for me. It was him, the original, the one, the only, the inimitable Warrant Officer Auricchio. And he was really a very nice guy.

“Pleasure to meet you, I’m Ancelotti.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m Auriemma.”

“Auriemma?”

“No, what am I saying? Auricchio.”

We enjoyed a jolly laugh, and it was the last. From then on, everything turned serious, damned serious.

He accompanied me into a room. There sat the investigating magistrates, Narducci and Beatrice, on one side of the table with a third person. I was on the other side of the table: just like back in school at finals. They were the professors, and I was the student. Or perhaps I should say the person of interest, the subject of the interrogation. Because I was a person with knowledge of the events, I couldn’t just say whatever came into my mind, or I could have been charged with perjury. I had to tell the truth, and that is what I did. In particular, they asked me about the years I spent at Juventus, and whether I knew anything about Moggi’s relations with referees. I also listened to a wiretap of Leonardo Meani, the former chief of referees at Milan, who was talking with the chief of the assistant referees after a Siena–Milan match in which he had disallowed a regulation goal by Shevchenko. In that conversation, Meani complained about the treatment we were getting. At a certain point, he had said, “I have Ancelotti here in the car with me.” And that is why I was now sitting in a room with Auricchio. They let me go after about an hour.

The second deposition was held in the investigations