A livid dawn.A cold and damp wind.A man walks alone through the darkness of the night.It’s the Deputy Police Superintendent Francesco Prencipe, on his way to meet his best friend,Judge Giovanni Mastropaolo. He hasn’t seen him for almost two years. Two hours of driving just for a couple of words. One question. One answer. That morning,the Judge is found dead:a single shot in the head. Francesco is the last person, who saw him. Only his fingerprints in the house. Only his time to kill. Francesco is arrested. According to the Public Prosecutor, Paola Maralfa, there’s also a valid motive: the unblemished relationship between the Judge and the Deputy Police Superintendent had deteriorated a long time ago; their friendship - dating back twenty years, when they were university students - had lost all utopias, ethics and dreams, deflagrating in a state of empty silence, implying something greater and inexpressible. The trial. Prosecution, defense, evidence, legal reports. Rituals that Francesco had never dreamed of experiencing on the wrong side. The night before the verdict – both desiring and fearing the bright sky announcing the imminent outcome – Francesco recalls. He recalls everything. Too much. Images of his life overlap inconsistently, while he desperately seeks to uncover the real murderer as time runs out. He recalls the fragrant colors of the summer evenings spent together with their wives, Vittoria and Katherine. With their respective children, Martina and Anthony, who today are sixteen-year-old strangers to one another. He recalls the sour and fascinating taste of his betrayals. Especially the one with Beatrice – a beautiful, teenage prostitute, who then became his permanent lover. All the projects they had together, dreaming a different life, far away. The attempt of escaping from all of his mistakes… Giovanni’s ambiguous wife, Katherine… And Giorgio, the alcoholic attorney he turns to, asking him for help in the trial. The third friend. The unlucky musketeer; the one who introduced him to Giovanni at a party, twenty-two years ago. The Public Prosecutor’s sharp words; The boring and equally evil words of her assistant, Michele Monno, a Judicial Police Officer; Their arguments and accusations; Convincing and relentless; Francesco defends himself, clear-headed and desperate.He doesn’t deny his lovers, his vices and insuppressible apprehensions that changed his life.He denies having killed his best and unique friend. He’s left with the pain of having lost him for ever Being wrong, doesn’t mean you’re an assassin. Francesco suddenly recalls the retro design of a bright red helmet, worn by a mysterious motorcyclist. That morning, he saw him drive away from Giovanni’s villa. Accompanied by a music. The live recording of a vinyl record from 1971, which was recorded the day in which Giovanni was born: “Just as my mother was pushing me out,” he had told him. This music became the music of their friendship,nd today, maybe even the music of the truth.