“So ask everyone else—don’t ask me.”
Another murmur, and the judge calls Cousin to order.
“The overriding impression we get from your different, yet remarkably unanimous, testimonies is that this hostage taking was something of a picnic in the park. But if Monsieur Delambre really didn’t represent any danger, why did it take so long for you to intervene?”
Paul Cousin shifts his whole body and stares right at him:
“In any situation, sir, there is a time for watching, a time for understanding, and a time for action.”
Magnificent, Cousin.
The audience is mesmerized. Hats off.
I’d said to Fontana:
“What about old Jean-Marc Guéneau—he’s not going to pull a fast one on us? If he tries anything, I’ll have him back in his panties and sobbing before the jury!”
The man’s a shadow of his former self.
I remember how he used to be all smartly dressed and swaggering. Now he’s like a ghost. He confirms his identity and status: an out-of-work professional.
That’s the nice, official way of saying “unemployed prick.” Exxyal fired him two months after the event. He’s clearly had a rough time, his employers would have said, but we simply cannot maintain our confidence in a finance manager who goes around with women’s lingerie on under his suit. Despite being fired, Guéneau has agreed to testify, and he says exactly what’s necessary. Because everyone knows it’s a small world, and even if Exxyal is no longer his employer, the company still has a major say if he ever wants a job in the sector again.
I inspect him more closely.
Fourteen months out of work, and he looks like he’s still firmly in the rut. Guéneau reminds me of myself after a year and a half of unemployment. He carries himself like he still believes. He’s clinging on. I picture him in six months’ time revising (downward) his expected salary by 40 percent, and then in nine months negotiating some temp work, and in two years accepting a low-level position to cover half the cost of his bills. In five years he’ll get kicked in the ass by the first Turkish supervisor willing to stoop low enough to bother. At one point in his statement, I thought the sleeve of his suit might rip. The audience would have found that hilarious.
I also said to Fontana:
“As for that wanker Lacoste, make sure you keep him on a short leash. If he struggles to get the hang of it, you have my full permission to snap every single one of his fingers. I know from firsthand experience how much that helps clarify matters.”
Fontana’s face did something that no one except his mother could call a smile.
Lacoste’s testimony is delivered with great humanity. His firm has gone into receivership—nothing to do with the present scandal, of course, but just another casualty of the economic crash. The very same crisis to which Monsieur Delambre fell victim, along with so many others. He does well, Lacoste. I hope that Rivet girl has given him his just deserts.
Lucie is looking at me more and more often.
Soon the assistant public prosecutor will be summing up on behalf of the enemy forces. Lucie has prepared for war, and all the combatants appear eager to sign the truce. She questions the witnesses with a light touch. She realizes that the odds are in our favor, but that we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves.
The day before, Nicole had expressed her amazement:
“It’s quite remarkable. Your father’s going to the high court for a hostage taking, but no one seems fazed by the fact that a big company can arrange precisely the same thing to assess its staff. With complete impunity. If they hadn’t organized the role play, there wouldn’t have been a hostage taking, right?”
“I know, Maman,” Lucie replied, “but what can we do? Not even the employees seemed to bat an eyelid . . .”
This argument has obviously played on her mind. She was even considering cross-examining the witnesses to put the matter in the spotlight, to push the point about the company’s cruelty—to make Exxyal responsible for my actions. But aside from the fact that I’m on trial, not them, it’s not even necessary anymore. At one point, Lucie looks toward me, concerned about the proceedings. I make a little two-handed gesture at her to show my surprise. I try to implore her as much as I can, but Lucie, seeming more and more dazed, has already turned back to attend to the litany of witnesses.
“As for you, Fontana,” I said in the lead-up, “you’re going to do what you do best: play the good little soldier. No doubt you’re getting paid for results?”
Fontana didn’t flinch, which meant I was spot-on: he’s on commission. The more money Exxyal recovers, the more he pockets.
“I know you’d love nothing better than to crush me like a piece of shit, but you’re going to be disciplined. You’re going to go the extra distance for me. And I’ll make it easier for you. For every syllable that’s not perfectly on song, I’ll take away one of those big ones that Dorfmann’s hoping to get back. I’ll let you explain that to him when he notices the shortfall and comes looking for an explanation.”
You don’t have to be a mind reader to guess that at that moment, if I didn’t have such a strong advantage over him, he would have had no qualms about sticking my feet in a concrete block and dropping me into the canal Saint-Martin with an oxygen bottle and six hours of free time. What’s going to happen when all this is over and I’m poor again? I hope he’s not the sort to hold a grudge and get all personal about it.
In any case, for now, he’s obedient.
He plays along with the general “not dangerous” analysis. Lucie makes him run through his credentials to lend weight to his opinion. David Fontana—a man who has rubbed shoulders with warriors, soldiers, and worse—can assure the court that Delambre, Alain, is a little lamb. His wound? Just a scratch. Any grievances on his part? Nothing of the sort.
Perhaps I laid it on too thick. We need to get the testimonies over and done with—all this unanimity is becoming a nuisance.
At the start of the afternoon, it’s time for the defense’s closing statement.
Lucie is glorious. Her voice is steady and compelling as she summarizes the arguments, carefully negotiating the witnesses’ statements to avoid patronizing the jury. She addresses each juror in turn, both the men and the women, and does what she does best: explaining that my story could have happened to any one of them. And she does it well. She highlights her client’s challenging living conditions, the decline of his self-esteem, the humiliation; then the brutal, incomprehensible action, then the turmoil and the inability to escape after cornering himself. Her client was alone and desperate.
She now needs to defuse the bombshell that is my book.
Yes, Monsieur Delambre wrote a book, Lucie explains. Not, as has been too often said, to achieve any sort of fame, but because he needed support. He needed to share his ordeal with others. And that’s precisely what happened. Thousands, tens of thousands of others just like him saw their own plight reflected in his, identifying with his misfortune and humiliation. And they forgave his actions. Actions that, let us not forget, were of no consequence whatsoever.
Her client’s extenuating circumstances are no different from the circumstances endured by anyone in a time of crisis.
It’s really not bad at all.
If I weren’t so afraid of the nasty public prosecutor, who’s shaking his head throughout—at times scandalized, at others deeply dubious—I’d be saying that Lucie’s prediction looked likely: no jury could ever acquit me. I came to the assessment with a loaded weapon: premeditation, pure and simple. You can’t expect a thirty-year sentence to be lowered to under eight or ten years. Yet Lucie leaves no stone uncovered. And if anyone can reduce my sentence, it’s her, my daughter. Nicole looks at her with admiration. Mathilde wills her on, giving her confidence.
Lucie was right: the assistant public prosecutor’s case is exemplary.
It rests on three pitilessly simple arguments.
One: Alain Delambre, three days before coming to the Exxyal assessment, had sourced, found,
and purchased a pistol, which he had then loaded with live bullets. He evidently had aggressive, possibly murderous, intentions.
Two: Alain Delambre exposed his story to the media in order to sway his trial; to influence the jury by manipulating and intimidating them. The hostage taker has turned master blackmailer.
Three: Alain Delambre is setting a dangerous precedent. If his sentence does not serve as an example, tomorrow every unemployed person will feel entitled to take up arms. At a time when dismissed workers are resorting more and more often to brutality, arson, threats, looting, extortion, and kidnapping, can the jury really rank a hostage taking as an acceptable, legitimate form of negotiation?
In his view, this question answers itself.
We need an example. He continues addressing the jury:
“Today you are the last bastion against a new form of violence. Be aware of your duty. Realize that to afford mitigating circumstances when real bullets are involved is to prefer civil war to social dialogue.”
We need a firm indictment. Fifteen years?
He calls for thirty. The maximum sentence.
When he sits back down, the crowd is left stunned.
Not least me.
Lucie is shell shocked. Nicole holds her breath.
Charles, for the first time in his life, looks sober.
Even Fontana lowers his head. Given how long I’m going to spend in jail, he won’t be seeing his loot anytime soon.
As per protocol, the judge passes the floor back to Lucie for the final word. Inevitably it’s the result of so many months of intense work and sleepless nights, but she chokes. She tries to speak, but the words don’t come. She clears her throat and utters a few inaudible phrases.
The judge seems perturbed:
“We didn’t hear you, maître . . .”
A heavy, stormy atmosphere has fallen on the room.
Lucie turns to me, tears in her eyes. I look at her and say:
“It’s over.”
She gathers her strength and turns to the jury. But it’s beyond her—nothing comes out. The entire room holds its breath.
I’m right. It is over.
Lucie, deathly pale, raises her hand to the judge to signify that she has nothing to add; nothing she is able to add.
The jury is invited to deliberate.
Late that evening, to everyone’s surprise, they still haven’t reached a unanimous verdict. Deliberations are to continue tomorrow.
In the transport back to prison, I can’t stop running through the possible scenarios. If they haven’t reached a decision, it’s because there are some sticking points. The trial went as well as it possibly could, but the verdict is set to go against me. If they were convinced by the prosecution, some will no doubt see themselves as upholders of justice and appeal for an exemplary sentence.
That night in prison is like being on death row, long enough to die twenty times over. My life flashes before me. All that for this.
I don’t sleep a wink. Thirty years is unthinkable. Twenty years is impossible. Even ten years . . . there’s no way.
An unbearable night. At one point I thought I was going to cave completely, but no, my anger returned, perfectly intact. A terrible fury, like in the good old days: death wishes about the injustice of it all.
The following day, I return to the courtroom white as a sheet. I’ve made a decision.
I closely examine the police officer in charge of transferring me. The doppelganger of the one guarding me in the dock. I scrutinize the lock system on the holster of his weapon. As far as I can make out, there’s a large push-button that releases the tongue, leaving the gun to be lifted out unhindered. I rack my brains to recall Kaminski’s information from before . . . Sig Sauer SP2022: no manual safety, but a slide catch lever.
I think I’ll know how to use it.
I’ll have to be very quick.
Once I’m in the dock, I see my opportunity: barge him powerfully, send him off-balance, and pin him with my shoulder. Then use my hand with the good fingers.
Lucie hasn’t slept either. Nicole’s not much better. Mathilde, too.
Charles is distraught. His anxiety has contorted his face into a dramatic mask. He tilts his head as he looks at me, as though deeply affected by my fate. I feel a terrible urge to say good-bye to Charles.
Fontana is prowling around the back of the room, as watchful and supple as a sphinx.
Suddenly Lucie leans toward me and says:
“Sorry. For yesterday . . . I just couldn’t speak anymore . . . I’m sorry.”
Her shattered voice rings in my ear. I squeeze her hand and kiss her fingers. She feels all my tension, says kind words that I don’t listen to.
The policeman guarding me is considerably taller and chunkier than the one yesterday. Square jawed. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s doable.
I stand a little farther back in the dock. I need good, efficient leverage from my legs.
I can secure his weapon in under five seconds.
39
The jury returns. It’s 11:00 a.m.
Solemn silence. The judge begins. Words pour out. Questions echo. One juror stands and answers.
No. Yes. No.
Premeditation. Yes.
Extenuating circumstances. Yes.
Verdict: Alain Delambre is sentenced to five years, of which he will serve eighteen months.
Shock.
I’ve already been remanded in custody for sixteen months.
With special remissions, I’m free.
My emotions overwhelm me.
The room erupts in applause. The judge demands silence but brings the session to a close.
Lucie hurls herself into my arms, screaming as the photographers flock around us.
I start crying. Nicole and Mathilde join us immediately. We become four sets of hugging arms, squeezing each other and choking on our tears.
I wipe my eyes. I could hug the entire world.
There’s a commotion of some sort at the back of the room. Some shouting, but I can’t make out the words.
Standing a few yards away, Charles lifts his left hand and makes his humble, complicit salute.
A little farther away, Fontana, flanked by his two minions, gives me his first proper smile, albeit with those predator’s lips. He even stretches to a thumbs up.
Genuine admiration.
The only person hanging his head a little is my publisher: a good, chunky sentence would have really boosted sales.
The policemen pull me backward. I can’t figure out why—everything is so unexpected.
“Just formalities, Papa, it’s nothing,” Lucie assures me.
I have to go back to prison to be formally released from custody and collect my things.
Lucie hugs me tightly again. Mathilde holds both my hands. Nicole has coiled up against my back, her arms around my waist and her cheek on my shoulder.
The policemen are still yanking at me. Not violently—just respecting the rules and evacuating the room.
The girls and I say silly things to each other, like “I love you.” I hold Lucie’s face in my hands, trying to find the words. Lucie plants an enormous smacker on my lips. She says: “Papa.”
This is the last word.
It’s time for our hands to unlock, our fingers to part. Except Nicole, who continues to cling to me.
“That’s enough, madame,” says one of the officers.
“It’s over,” Nicole says to me, kissing me passionately on the lips.
She extricates herself from me, crying and laughing all at the same time.
I would do anything to leave with her now, right now. A quick getaway with Nicole, the girls, my life—everything.
Mathilde says: “See you tonight.” Lucie nods as if to say, of course, she’ll be there, too. Tonight, all of us together.
Time to leave. More hand gestures, promising each other a thousand things.
From the other side of the room, Fontana smiles at me with a barely percepti
ble nod of the head.
His message is clear: “See you very soon.”
40
I come to my senses in the bus on the way back to prison. The news has spread like wildfire among the inmates. I hear tin trays banging on iron bars. Congratulations. A few whoops and cheers. Returning here knowing I’m a free man is almost a pleasant experience.
Officer Morisset is on duty, and he pays me a visit to offer his congratulations. We wish each other good luck.
“And don’t forget, officer: outline your argument in your introduction, not after.”
He smiles at me and we shake hands.
I walk into my cell for the last time, piss in the latrine for the last time. Everything’s for the last time.
Sixteen months in jail.
What will I have to show for it all?
I try to fast-forward to tomorrow. My girls. I start crying again, but they’re good tears. My fingers feel better, even though a couple of them, the left index and the middle right, don’t bend like before.
I get back my civilian clothes. They’re fairly worn out—last used during the hostage taking. For my official discharge through the custody office, lots of things need signing, and I’m handed endless papers that I shove in my pocket. A painfully slow process, lots of waiting. I’m sitting on a bench.
A creeping bitterness overwhelms me as I add up the damage on my crooked fingers. I have:
aged ten years in here.
ruined Mathilde.
extorted Lucie.
drained Nicole.
estranged my son-in-law.
sold the apartment.
spent the proceeds from my book on the trial.
postponed my retirement indefinitely.
wound up in a depressing one-bed.
still haven’t found a job.
I’m back to square one.
It’s been a story of abject failure, and it’s unbearable.
All I wanted for tonight was my freedom, but now that I have it, I see that it’s not enough.
I have to give back the money now; what little I’ve won will end up in the hands of those institutional crooks.
But have I lost everything? I can’t let this happen to me.
Inhuman Resources Page 28
