'Yes. The final decision was perhaps against my better judgement. But if Galimbert wasn't keen, what choice was there? Also, there were the extreme complexities of the case.'
Curt nod and tight smile from Barielle. 'What political persuasion is Prosecutor Galimbert?'
'RPR. Rassemblement Pour la Republique - why?'
Barielle rode the question. 'And what political persuasion are you?'
'Socialist.'
Suddenly it hit Corbeix in a rush: himself Socialist, Fornier Socialist, Thibault complaining about political bias against his client; and now them both clearly spotlighted as having bent the rules. Give Thibault his due, bastard as he was, he'd sewn the package together well.
Thibault raised one hand. Barielle acknowledged. Corbeix expected Thibault's summation, his coup de grace.
But Thibault was holding out a booklet. 'Some interesting facts I think are also worthy of note about this particular illness, your justice.' Thibault started reading from the booklet: 'In severe cases, during episodic attacks, this will lead in turn to eye strain, vertigo, and may effect vital functions of the brain, causing memory loss and temporary fugue states.'
Corbeix felt his blood boil. He'd accepted that in a year or so he might be in a wheelchair, accepted that increasingly he'd lack the strength to lift his youngest daughter, that he'd have to soon sell his boat because even a short day trip would be too tiring - but what he wouldn't accept was this smarmy Paris advocate preaching what his illness entailed, what he might or might not be facing.
'... And given the effects of this disease on the brain, I think severe questions must be asked about Monsieur Corbeix' mental competence.' Thibault paused for effect. 'Or indeed, in this case, if he has allowed a combination of bias and mental impairment to colour his judgement in continuing.'
But Corbeix knew that to hammer home the point effectively, he'd have to stand, and he could feel the spasms biting deeper as he raised. He stole himself against the pain, feeling it pop beads of sweat on his forehead. He was determined not to let it show - provide a physical demonstration to support Thibault's claims. Fully upright, the spasms in his legs screamed to drag him back down. 'Monsieur Thibault is not a doctor. And I resent him taking up instruction time with amateur diagnosis. Particularly when it's my health that is at issue.'
'I was just trying to bring some clarity to-'
'I know what you were trying to do,' Corbeix cut in. 'You were challenging my mental competence to continue with this case. As it so happens, my mental competence is not affected. The effects described are only in extreme cases. I am far from that stage yet - and perhaps, God willing, I might never be at that stage. Your pathetic, amateur diagnosis is about as ridiculous and assumptive as me suggesting that three generations of inbreeding has made you the idiot you are today.'
'Gentlemen, please... please!' Barielle fought to regain order.
Corbeix threw in one last point. 'And as for Counseller Thibault's suggestion about political bias, if your justice please: this is as ridiculous as me challenging Thibault's right to represent Monsieur Duclos, purely because he too is RPR.'
Corbeix sat down. A last second, scrambled flourish, but would it be enough? Certainly earlier Thibault had done enough to convince Barielle of sufficient bias to call a mistrial.
Thibault quickly summarized the 'confronts' he'd raised: personal bias through family ties, political bias. Bias at every turn. And finally a question of physical competence: had Corbeix' judgement been sound, and would it still be so in three months? Alain Duclos' rights to a fair and even-handed trial had been severely compromised. Under the circumstances, Thibault would fully expect a mistrial to be ruled. Thibault sat down.
Barielle nodded curtly and continued for a moment with some notes. Corbeix' throat was dry; he found it difficult to swallow. Finally Barielle looked up to give his deliberation.
FORTY
'...When is it that you are due to testify in France?'
'Tuesday week.'
'I understand that the trial procedure is very different there, and in effect this will be one of a series of preliminary hearings.'
'Yes, apparently so. I'll be asked to provide the background of PLR to support the link between the two boys. And later, if the case goes to full trial, I'll be called to provide pretty much the same information in front of a jury...'
Lunch time at Boehmier & Kemp, Washington, DC. The only quiet time of the day. Jennifer McGill decided to have a quick sandwich and use the time to catch up on the morning's paperwork. CNN flickered on a 16" screen in the background, the sound on low.
A name on the TV suddenly struck a chord, but she couldn't remember from where. She looked up abruptly from the file she was reading and turned up the sound. Larry King was on with a Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio look-alike who she hadn't seen before.
'... Even the pre-trial run up is apparently turning into something of a media circus in France. Claims of political bias have been made, and of course then we have Alain Duclos' central involvement with a landmark bio-technology case. Given this intense spotlight, no doubt you will face quite hostile challenges regarding the tenuous nature of PLR in evidence: how will you answer these?'
'By keeping firmly to the evidence and the facts in hand. The sessions I was involved with alone produced almost ninety pages of transcript, and over sixty pages of notes and transcripts were prepared by an associate psychiatrist even before my arrival...'
And then the name hit: Calvan. It wasn't one of her cases, it was being handled by Gerry Sterner. But she remembered a researcher from Paris being on to Gerry just a few days back.
She picked up the phone and buzzed switchboard. 'Susan? Is Gerry still there?'
'I think he's in the library. I'll ring through.'
Seconds later Sterner's voice came on the line. 'Yeah.'
'Gerry. Jennifer here. Get to the nearest TV - fast! Your Calvan woman's on with Larry King.'
Garbled thanks as Sterner darted two doors along to the coffee room. Two secretaries were watching Pacific Drive.
He grabbed the remote. 'Sorry. Sorry. Emergency!'
Larry King's image flicked on in profile. Trademark red braces. '... to your knowledge have there been any previous incidences where PLR evidence has been presented in a murder case?'
'Two in India - though only one made it to full trial. But this is the first case of its type in a society which inherently rejects the concept of reincarnation and PLR. And so in that respect...'
Sterner rushed from the room, grabbed the first telephone in the adjoining office. His secretary was out to lunch, so he raised reception. 'Susan, can you get me Jean-Paul Thibault at Guirannet & Fachaud in France. They'll be winding down for the day there, so you'll have to be quick.'
Could it be... could it really be?
Monique had decided even after the second tape, yes, purely because she couldn't think of any other rational explanation. Nobody else but Christian could possibly have known such depth of detail. Though still that initial wall of resistance; berating Dominic that she might accept some vague psychic link, but not that it was Christian re-born.
But with the continuing sessions and tapes and then the trial, though never mentioning anything to Dominic, her view had slowly changed. At first just through attaching Christian's voice to the descriptions on tape... the many poignant memories flooding back. But then she'd become curious about Eyran Capel.
Initially only casual questions when Dominic talked about the progress of the sessions and the case: What does the boy look like? Is there a resemblance to Christian? Does he remember anything while awake? No on every count, no image or magic picture in her mind to cling to, nothing except the voice on tape. Playing them repeatedly, asking for each additional tape equally as casually, trying not to give away the mounting intensity of her curiosity.
She'd have asked to sit in on some sessions, but that too might hint of growing obsession - and Dominic had complained about the difficulties of personally
attending, the secret game between him and Marinella Calvan. He'd only been able to swing one final session with himself and a notary.
Then only a few days ago, Dominic had mentioned Stuart and Eyran Capel travelling down for the next hearing - they'd agreed to meet up beforehand. She was sure in that moment she'd have said, 'I'd like to come,' if it wasn't for where they were meeting: the wheat field! The wheat field at Taragnon. Suddenly her curiosity and everything she'd pushed away for so long were in conflict. She couldn't go back there, she could never go back there.
And so she told herself it wasn't important, clung to Dominic's earlier words that he was just a fresh faced English boy, light brown hair, a few freckles across his nose, no resemblance to Christian, remembers nothing while awake...
What would she do? Stand next to this boy she didn't know and ask questions he couldn't answer... her heart and soul ripped apart again by the memories. Perhaps she was never meant to meet this boy. It was meant to stay a private thing. Just her alone with the tapes... alone with Christian's voice...
She focused sharply back over the top of her wine glass at Dominic. Dinner had been cleared away. He looked equally as thoughtful for a moment.
'Problems?' she asked.
'I don't know. Possibly. It didn't go well today. But we won't know the outcome for a few days yet.' When the doors to the hearing room finally swung open, Corbeix' expression had been thunderous. He explained to Dominic the grilling he'd been subjected to and what Thibault was demanding, breaking off briefly as they both watched Thibault pass. Barielle wanted to consult the greffier notes before ruling: counsels to be advised in four days.
'What might happen?'
Dominic sighed. 'It's bad. A mis-trial could be called - the whole case thrown out.'
Monique's eyes softened. She grimaced tautly and reached out and touched the back of his hand. 'I'm sorry, Dominic. You've put so much into this case. Fought so hard for it.' But beneath his hesitant smile in return, she could read the pain and anguish. It was little comfort. She gripped his hand tighter. 'Look - Dominic. If the case fails, you shouldn't feel bad about it because of me. We've had a great life together. You've given me two beautiful sons. You've made me very happy. Nobody could ask for more. I don't expect it of you to set the record straight on Christian as well.'
'Thanks.' Dominic squeezed her hand back. Though he knew it was probably just to make him feel better about possibly failing. Like him, she would no doubt like to see Duclos nailed to the side of the Arc de Triomphe for what he'd done to Christian.
'You don't need to do this for me. I got over the ghosts of Christian long ago.'
But he was doing it as much for himself, he thought. To set the record straight. Though she would probably now never know his guilt over Machanaud. She was right: they'd had a great life together. Shared everything. Except a few secrets. 'Does it bother you, everything coming back now. In any way awaken the ghosts?'
'Obviously a little.' Momentary flinch. She didn't want to admit how much it had obsessed her. He had enough worries and pressure. 'But we shouldn't let it rule our lives. If Duclos is meant to be convicted, then so be it. If not, the same applies. Whatever is meant to be is meant to be. Don't torture yourself trying to change it Dominic. Don't punish yourself. You've done everything you can on this case. If it's still not enough - then let it go. Nobody would blame you, think less of you. And certainly not me.'
As ever: soft, understanding. Her eyes too implored him, added depth to her words. Soulful brown eyes that had melted him the first day he saw her, had glimmered and sparkled at him across countless candle-lit tables through the years; at the birth of Yves and Gerome and the numerous birthdays and celebrations since. A good life. God, how he loved her.
But beyond the softness and compassion in her eyes, he could still see the pain. See the shadows that had haunted her with Christian through the decades. Shadows that belied her compassion, that screamed: get him, get him! Bring Christian justice. Don't let him get away.
Betina's voice drifted from the kitchen. 'I'm bringing in the cake now.'
Joel smiled. Duclos smiled awkwardly in return. They sat at opposite ends of the dining table. Distance between them. Always more acute when Betina wasn't present. As if she was the only link between them; they couldn't communicate effectively without her presence.
Betina came in with the cake and the atmosphere eased. White icing with blue piping: Happy Birthday, Joel. Ten candles.
A miracle. Five days skirting with death in an incubator, then remarkably Joel had started to gain strength. Another two months with worries about healthy bone formation, and Joel had never looked back.
Delayed congratulations from colleagues once Joel was out of danger. Cigars. 'You must be overjoyed!' 'Yes, yes, of course.' His best politician's smile. Inside he was too numbed to know what he really felt. At least Betina would be happy, had been the overriding thought. It would keep her occupied, away from him. Some advantages.
Blonde hair, mop style. Blue eyes. Joel looked like his mother, took after her in every way. He could see very little of himself in the boy.
Betina smiled appreciatively at the two of them above the cake. 'It's good to have you at home, Alain. Especially for occasions like this.'
'Yes, it's nice to be back.' Duclos forced a smile, but thought: stupid bitch. Gendarme posted at the front door, his life and future hanging in the balance. It was hardly the ideal homecoming. But he knew what she meant: between Brussels and Strasbourg, the various business trips and weekends sneaked away - also covered as business trips - he hardly spent any time at home. Often he would see them only two or three days in as many months. Duclos laughed inwardly at the irony: such was their relationship, their sham of a marriage, that it had taken a court order to get him to spend some time at home.
Birthdays? Despite Betina's comment, one of the few times he was actually present. He could only remember missing three of Joel's birthdays: two he'd forgotten and Betina had barely forgiven him, and another had clashed with a vital business trip. He'd left a present and phoned from Prague to wish Joel 'Happy Birthday'. A seven year old's sweet lost voice on the line: 'Thank you, pappa.' Probably hardly remembering from one month to the next what his father looked like. He was hardly there.
And when he was: distance. He could feel it in the boy's eyes whenever they settled on him. Perhaps he could expect no less with the time he spent away; or was it the strong bond Joel had with Betina making him feel like a stranger, an outsider to their activities? Outside their precious little circle. But in his darker moments, the boy's gaze would unnerve him. He would wonder if it wasn't just a questioning look because of his long absences, but more knowing: as if in that moment - as he'd feared through the long years - the boy had seen through to his soul and guessed his dark secret. But he'd been so careful, had consciously made an effort. He'd never looked at Joel in that way, never. The boy's blonde hair and fair skin had made it easier. Not the type he was attracted to. But apart from that, it was his son, his son! He would never, never...
'Are you okay?'
Yes, fine. Fine.' But he could feel his pulse racing, his hands clenched in fists beneath the table.
Betina's expression was contemplative, concerned. 'I know that all of this isn't easy for you. But you should try and relax for just a moment. You're at home now, with your family. Among people who care about you.'
He let out a long, slow breath. 'Yes, yes, you're right.' Tried to let the tension ease away, slowly unclenching his hands. Three more days to know if the case had been thrown out. If not, then their next chance was with Marinella Calvan. Thibault had phoned just the day before to tell him of some juicy new leads he was tracking on Calvan; was confident that he'd be able to crush her in grand style. Perhaps he shouldn't worry. If it wasn't all over with good news from Barielle in three days, then it certainly would be by the next hearing.
But that wasn't the only worry, he reminded himself: later that afternoon no doubt Jaumard would ca
ll again, and he'd have to spend time on the phone to Geneva to arrange a transfer. The court case; Jaumard; his name in every newspaper; a gendarme at his door; a clutch of newspaper reporters beyond, clicking and jostling at the first appearance. At times it felt like everything was closing in.
With the first headlines, he'd assured Betina that it was all ludicrously fabricated. None of it true. 'My lawyer will have the case thrown out in no time at all.' She hadn't asked, but he'd wanted to answer before any questions possibly came. Betina had accepted his answer without visible reservation, but he couldn't help wondering if a part of her suspected: the business trips, the long weekends away, his rarely sharing her bed. Just the pattern that would fit in with such a secret life.
Betina was lighting the candles and smiling. And Joel was smiling too, bright eyes above the gleam of the candles.
Eyes that knew. Duclos shook the thought away. As Betina had suggested: relax. He was among family. People who cared.
But through the years, how much had he cared? A son who felt at times like a stranger. A wife who he hardly slept with. Eyes that sparkled with warmth and understanding - and all he'd done was spend the long years trying to avoid them.
And now he had been welcomed back. Family. The tight family circle of Betina and Joel which he'd stood outside for so long. Self exclusion. He let the new feeling of welcome wash through him, bathed in its warmth as he watched Betina light the last candles. Betina smiling; Joel smiling. Family closeness and warmth he could hardly remember experiencing before. But slowly beyond, he began to see something else: all the other smiles through his weeks at home. Tight smiles, anxious smiles - tension so acute that at times it could be cut with a knife. Moments when it had flashed through his mind uncharitably that he'd be better off in prison than stuck at home with the two of them.
And the falseness beneath their smiles suddenly struck him, the thought resurged: they knew. They both knew. And here he was firmly embraced within their syrupy little family circle, surrounded by candles and sweet smiles. Trapped.
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