Past Imperfect

THIRTY-NINE

Jean-Paul Thibault pushed through the throng of reporters on the courtroom steps. Cameras clicked, microphones jostled for position. At first they concentrated on Duclos, but as Duclos held one hand up and Thibault's assistant clerk Madeleine led him hurriedly to the car, they swung back towards Thibault. The lawyer touched his steel-rimmed glasses, moistened his lips. The microphones moved in closer.

'As you can appreciate, my client doesn't wish to make any comment at this stage. I can only say that I will seek to demonstrate my client's innocence in short order: that these charges against him are totally unfounded and without merit.'

A confused barrage of questions returned: Match… Le Monde… Provencal… when will… what do you propose… will Monsieur Duclos now… Thibault picked out one question: Why do you think these charges have arisen now, so many years later? Girl at the back: Le Figaro.

'Good question. Why now? Monsieur Duclos provided a full unflinching statement when this case was originally heard. He has nothing to hide. A suspect I might add was found, fully tried and convicted. A re-opening now is a complete legal sham, especially on the evidence presented. I think that given what Monsieur Duclos has been involved in lately politically might provide more of a clue to why it has arisen now. Thank you.' Thibault started moving down the steps towards the car.

The pack followed: more questions. They'd taken the bait. Again, Thibault picked out just one: 'Which particular political involvement?'

Thibault turned just as he opened the car door. Reluctant admission, as if the press were dragging it out of him. Thibault sighed. 'As you probably know, Monsieur Duclos has recently been rapporteur in a patents dispute which has gone the wrong way for the EU bio-tech industry. If he's discredited, the case could be re-opened. Also, I'd like to remind you that all of this comes rather soon after a scandal involving a certain Socialist politician from Marseille. Rather convenient, one might say.' Thibault smiled. 'If I were you, I would look no further than Monsieur Duclos' political enemies for those behind this ridiculous fiasco.'

Thibault held a hand up behind him as he stepped into the car, ignoring the continuing barrage of questions. It had ended on the note he wanted. Madeleine drove off.

He smiled across at Duclos. 'A good day's work, I think. Should be interesting press tomorrow.'

'Yes, I think so. Well done.' Though Duclos' smile in return was more hesitant. He had half an eye on the black police Citreon following. His shadow for the next few months.

Two days after the bail hearing came the first official RPR statement: from the party Secretary General and acting Prime Minister. 'We have spoken at some length with Minister Duclos, who completely repudiates these charges as false and unfounded. He will fight them vigorously, and the party will offer its moral support. However, it is Minister Duclos' personal opinion that it would be improper for him to continue his duties representing the party as a regional constituent or in Brussels, while this case remains unresolved. His resignation of today has been accepted with due regret by the party President.'

The statement was as expected. 'Moral' support meant that the party could offer no tangible support, but their thoughts were with him. Good luck and bon voyage.

Eight days. All that Duclos had spent behind bars before being bailed. Quite a contrast to Machanaud, Dominic thought sourly. The system at work. Egalite its middle name.

But it wasn't full bail, Corbeix was eager to point out. More house arrest, with a gendarme permanently in Duclos' shadow. Posted by his front door in Limoges or his hotel room in Aix when Duclos travelled down for instruction hearings. His passport surrendered, his bank accounts frozen, and practically all his assets tied up in bail funding. 'It was the best we could hope for in the circumstances.'

Two days since the bail hearing. A more sober meeting this time with Corbeix. No whisky. Not much to celebrate. Corbeix' desk was strewn with the main newspapers: most carried the story on the front page.

The bail decision hadn't been entirely a surprise. As soon as Corbeix heard about Duclos' appointed lawyer, Jean-Paul Thibault, Corbeix was at least forewarned what to expect: arrogance, brashness, cries of 'outrage' at every opportunity. Thibault's firm was a leading Paris cabinet, with associate offices in Brussels and Washington. Heavy on corporate law, their criminal law division was smaller, but nevertheless competent and aggressive. Thibault was one of their youngest partners and had risen to prominence in the eighties representing a leading Paris haute couture director's wife charged with murder. A number of similar high profile cases followed, making Thibault's mark as a good 'celebrity lawyer’,

Thibault's steel-rimmed glasses, gelled back hair and double breasted suits had cut a good clean, up-and-coming yuppie lawyer image a decade ago. But his image hadn't changed with the years, and now, in his late forties, it made him look shady and sharp.

Dominic was thoughtful as Corbeix covered Thibault's background. 'Doesn't sound too far removed from a younger Duclos.'

'Perhaps that's what endeared Duclos to Thibault. Sees a bit of himself in him.'

Predictably, Thibault had come in all guns blazing for his client at the bail hearing: Duclos' status, his long years as a publicly elected official, his strong commitment to France. Corbeix had answered with the seriousness of the charges and the fact that Duclos had money; he had the means to escape.

They argued the toss for almost an hour before the examining magistrate, Claude Barielle, ruled: bank accounts and assets frozen. Passport held. House arrest. Counsels to be advised of the order of play for instruction hearings within ten days.

Corbeix had initially been enthused with Claude Barielle's appointment. Only thirty-two and with a sharply inquisitive mind, Corbeix felt that Barielle would be more open-minded to the background of PLR than some of the older examining magistrates. But during the bail hearing, he began to worry that Barielle might turn out too much of a lightweight faced with someone like Thibault. A master manipulator, Thibault was used to ruling the roost in the main courtrooms of Paris. In a provincial Aix courtroom with a young examining magistrate, Thibault could have Barielle carrying his luggage in no time.

In most instruction hearings, defence lawyers were mainly passengers aboard an examining magistrate's inquisitorial flagship. Present only when his client was called, defence could only demand presence when witnesses were called by posting a 'request to confront' notice. Prosecutors too could, if they wish, coast along during instruction, merely make notes and suggestions, appear at only half the hearings, generally let the examining magistrate do the running.

Corbeix grimaced. Given his current condition, such a stance would have probably suited him. But he could see by the spread of newspapers on his desk that it wasn't going to be that type of instruction. Thibault was going to be posting a lot of 'request to confront' notices, calling foul at every turn.

'I think we're in for a rough ride. And possibly earlier than I thought.'

Dominic too glanced at the newspapers. One had already nicknamed Duclos the bio-tech MEP. The rest made strong reference to it somewhere in the article. The murder case and the bio-tech dispute had already been successfully fused in the public's mind. 'What do you think Thibault's tactic is?'

'On the surface, just a convenient smoke-screen. A distraction. But beneath, it's a very clever manipulation. The bio-tech ruling is pro-life, pro rights of man. At the same time we are expected to believe that the man responsible is also a murderer. Thibault is trying to paint Duclos as a saint before it has even started. He's going all out for an early kill.'

'Any particular reason? He has his client bailed, so why the time pressure?'

'Think about it. Thibault has made the bold claim that this whole case is unfounded. But as the instruction drags on, not only will people begin to doubt such a claim but, win or lose, Duclos' political career will be over. Only if Thibault can get the case thrown out quickly does Duclos have any chance of bouncing back.'

They'd discussed the daunting task ahead at the last meeting, shored up the final barricades, Dominic reflected. Now Corbeix was raising the portent of an early defeat. Was Corbeix just hardening him up against a possible let down, or did he really see losing as a strong possibility?

Twelve days later, with the agenda for the first six instruction hearings in hand together with Thibault's 'request to confront' notices, Corbeix' fears were confirmed. It was going to be a gloves off fight at every stage. Though one confront notice surprised him. He stared at it long and hard before laying the papers aside, and wondered: bluff, or did Thibault know something they didn't?

Marinella Calvan cradled the phone to her ear with her shoulder, turning the top page of the official notice she'd received. 'Yeah, yeah. The sixteenth. Just over three weeks from now.' Her agent, Stephanie Bruckmann, was at the other end. 'That's right, yep. The expense this time is on them. No more pleading for departmental funding.'

'Who told you what the notice said?' Bruckmann asked. 'That cute French tutor you mentioned finding on campus.'

'No. Inspector Fornier phoned me directly. Went through it with me. I use Tom just for the newspaper articles. There was something else just the other day.' Marinella flicked through the copy of Le Figaro to one side. 'First instruction hearing, whatever that is, next Tuesday. Bit more about this Duclos' involvement with the bio-tech case.'

'The bio-tech stuff's good for us. The John Moore case was splashed across most of the papers here. Generated some great headlines: "Spleenless in Seattle" was one of the best.' She heard Marinella chuckle at the other end. 'So it should help build up some national exposure.'

'Let's hope so.'

Stephanie Bruckmann was thoughtful. She'd spent the last month setting up lecture tours, book deals and chat shows — then held back. The preliminaries done, the market primed — far stronger impact would be gained once the case hit the press. And stronger still with the confirmation of Marinella testifying at trial. She'd asked Marinella to phone her as soon as she received trial notification from France. 'Look — I think I'm going to go for Larry King straightaway. His office were on just a couple of days ago, right after the Washington Post story. Let's save Oprah and the rest till later. Right now it's a strong international-political story — but not yet a strong American story. Let's give it a couple more weeks to brew on that front. But it's great for King right now. I'll call his office first thing tomorrow.'

Thibault behaved himself at the first two instruction hearings. Sat for the most part taking notes with his assistant Madeleine at his side, peering imperiously above his glasses at anything questionable, but generally saying little. Few objections or interruptions.

Corbeix hadn't been sure what to expect. Because Duclos' presence was necessary at both initial hearings, Thibault didn't need to post 'confront' requests in order to be present.

Barielle sat with a greffier tapping notes into a computer to his left. Despite his years, Barielle had strong presence. He was receding prematurely and had sharp, piercing blue eyes. Broached no nonsense. The hearing room was no more than eight metres by six.

The main purpose of the first hearing was for overall presentation of the case: the main prosecution foundations in support, and general aims — followed by defence rebuttal. Corbeix started with the background to the 1963 investigation and trial, though only the key points — the main details would be presented by Fornier at the third instruction. Then he came quickly onto the link between the two cases: Eyran Capel and the final PLR sessions. Corbeix was careful not to dwell, he wanted to get swiftly to the coin — the main tangible evidence — without attracting objections and interruptions from Thibault over PLR. Thibault raised his eyebrows to the ceiling at its mention, half smiled and leant over to whisper something to Madeleine — but no objection came.

Still, Corbeix was keen to push PLR as far out of reach as possible. 'Much evidence will be presented about the authenticity of PLR work. Not just with this case with Eyran Capel and Christian Rosselot — but hundreds of authenticated cases stretching back through the years. Countless eminent psychiatrists and psychologists all bearing testament to its authenticity. Hours of tapes and reams of transcripts available. Marinella Calvan, the main psychologist who conducted the sessions, one of the world’s leading PLR experts, will also appear before us — as will the initial psychiatrist who recommended PLR sessions for Eyran Capel. And finally a French notary who witnessed one of the closing sessions.' Corbeix rested one hand firmly on his trial folder. 'But despite all of that, the prosecution case will not, I repeat not, be fought on the basis of such evidence. All of that will be purely texture and background to the main evidence: a coin discovered by a garage worker in the boot of Alain Duclos' car.'

'PLR is therefore only a means to an end — but not the end itself. And the coin is significant because it is not just any coin: it is a relatively rare Italian silver lire given to Christian Rosselot by his grandfather, who brought it in turn from Italy. Christian Rosselot left his house that fateful day with the coin in his pocket, and it was subsequently found in the boot of Monsieur Duclos' car — albeit only coming to light all these years later.'

Corbeix held out a hand towards Thibault. 'I'm sure, your justice, that much will be made in argument against PLR by the defence, purely because of its unusual and speculative nature — especially in trial evidence. But I can only emphasize again that in this case it is purely for texture and background. However much the defence tries to discredit or throw doubt on PLR — it does not escape the simple, irrevocable fact that the coin was there. A physical, not a mythical discovery. And the only tangible explanation for it being there is that the boy — Christian Rosselot — was in the boot of Alain Duclos' car on the day of his murder.' Corbeix nodded abruptly to Barielle, then to Thibault, and sat down.

Thibault spent the first ten minutes mainly with character references for his client — almost a repeat of his bail pleas. How it was unthinkable that anyone of Duclos' stature and contribution to the community at large could commit such a crime. A ludicrous travesty of justice that charges should have even been brought to bare. Thibault jumped deftly to the background of PLR and psychic evidence.

'Nothing else demonstrates stronger just how ludicrous. Shows fully the pathetic desperation of the prosecution's case.' But to Corbeix' relief and surprise, Thibault spent little time on the subject. 'These elements are so obviously questionable, as to hardly be worth my time in trying to discredit them.' As if already half assuming that Barielle would also consider them obvious nonsense. Or perhaps saving his big guns for the hearing with Marinella Calvan, thought Corbeix.

Thibault emphasized the sensitivity of his client's political position and the rather suspicious and convenient timing of all this now arising hot on the heels of a controversial bio-technology ruling. 'Every politician has enemies — but when industry at large has been hit to the tune of eight billion dollars — the incentive is suddenly there to crush those enemies. So why this charge has suddenly materialized against my client should be very clear. Emerging out of the blue after over thirty years. But the how is far more interesting. How a rag-tag collection of coincidences and falsehoods have been strung together by the prosecution, with a few mystics thrown in for good measure — in support of this ridiculous political witch hunt.' Thibault stared resolutely at Barielle. 'Certainly, your justice, in all my years I have not seen a more blatant case of fabrication of evidence and bias in support of a prosecution — and I will see it as my pleasure to expose this for what it is: a case totally without substance or merit.' Thibault cast his eyes down for a second, drawing a tired breath. 'Unfortunately for my client, regardless of the outcome, politics being what it is — his career will probably be over. His enemies will score their victory in any case. Which I think has been their intention all along — knowing full well that such tenuous evidence would be thrown out in short order. But let us hope at least that justice will be seen to be done on one front. Thank you.'

Thibault's only bout of band standing. Bold claims, Corbeix thought. Bias? But overall tame by Thibault's normal standards. There was obviously much worse to come.

As Thibault sat down, Barielle smiled. 'Yes, well. I think your aims in this case Monsieur Thibault have already been made clear to anyone reading the newspapers. In future, I would ask you to address your aims to me first before telling the world — not the other way around.'

Thibault was red-faced, but just nodded with a slight shrug. Couldn't quite wrap his tongue around an apology.

Corbeix smiled in turn. Perhaps Barielle wouldn't be such a walkover.

The first part of the second instruction hearing was taken up with Serge Roudele: confirmation of his name, the dates he worked in the Limoges garage, and then the reading of his statement about the coin.

Duclos was present because later he would be asked to testify. He looked uneasy as he listened to Roudele's account. And so he should, thought Corbeix: the main physical evidence that could convict him. Duclos would have already known about the coin from the trial papers, but not all the details. Corbeix felt a twinge of pleasure at Duclos' discomfort. Duclos probably thinking of the many times he'd opened the boot in those seven months without seeing the coin. Or wondering why, oh why couldn't he have had a flat tyre?

Thibault waited for Barielle to finish his questioning, and then requested the right to confront; but with only three questions. Barielle nodded, and posed them: 'Did you steal the coin in question?'

'Well, yes. I took it, at least.'

'Would you consider this an act of theft?'

'Yes… I suppose I would.' Slight fluster. Uncomfortable.

'And was there a reward offered for coming forward with information about the coin?'

'Yes, there was.' Roudele was defensive. 'But not excessive in comparison to its normal value.'

Thibault made no concluding remarks and Roudele was dismissed. But the points were in the file, and Corbeix was sure that Thibault would make much of them later: try and discredit Roudele. Corbeix summarized with the statements from the coin shop owner, reading out key segments of his statements — then passed it to Barielle and the greffier to note.

Duclos' testimony predictably stuck to his original account given in 1963: travelling through Taragnon, calling in at a restaurant, a quick stop-off at a garage, then on to Juan-le-Pins.

When Duclos had finished, Barielle asked: 'Did you at any time meet a young boy travelling through Taragnon?'

'No, I didn't.'

'Did you at any time have a young boy in your car. Either in the passenger seat or in the boot?'

'No.'

'How long did you spend in the restaurant in total?'

'An hour, an hour and a quarter…'

Barielle continued with a series of straightforward, mechanical questions, eleven in all, making short notes between each one. He would ask the same questions from a dozen more angles before the instruction was over. Each time sharpening the angle or confronting with conflicting testimony from witnesses. The main skill of an effective examining magistrate digging for the truth. But Corbeix could hardly imagine Barielle commenting that according to the voice on tape of a boy long since dead, a different account had been proposed: 'What do you say to that, Monsieur Duclos?'

A reminder to Corbeix, listening to Duclos' account, that his claim at the last instruction of PLR just providing background and texture, was in part inaccurate: the case hinged on the physical evidence of the coin, but Eyran Capel's PLR transcripts provided the complete picture of what really happened that day.

All the details Duclos was now carefully omitting.

Jean-Paul Thibault had purposely coasted through the first instruction hearings. First of all he liked to listen, tune himself to the mood of the proceedings: the sensitivities and nuances of the prosecutions and the examining magistrate, their strengths and vulnerabilities. Where to hit and where to avoid. When he knew where he would have most impact — then he would start striking out.

But there was another strong reason for him biding his time: research and background. Uncovering the most vulnerable areas of witnesses. The day after receiving the main file, he'd assigned two of his best researchers to get information on Roudele, Fornier and Malliene in France, Lambourne and the Capels in England, and Marinella Calvan in America.

Day by day the threads of information filtered in. Unfortunately, there was nothing on Roudele. No past convictions for theft; the coin possibly an isolated incident. He'd decide later if he would press the point.

But with Dominic Fornier, they'd struck gold. Enough threads to weave a blanket. A shroud to hopefully smother Fornier, nail him in grand style at the next instruction.

'How did we fare?' Dominic tapped a pencil on his desk. Papers and files, telephones ringing, interruptions. The normal morning. Dominic had hardly been able to pay any of it strong attention. He'd phoned Corbeix' office twenty minutes before to learn that he was still not back: still in instruction. On the second call he was put through to Corbeix.

'We're probably ahead after the second as well. Thibault tackled Roudele over the theft of the coin, but nothing serious. And Duclos gave the same lame, ridiculous account of his movements that day as when you first took his statement back in 1963.'

'I suppose we didn't expect any less.'

'Suppose not.' Corbeix was thoughtful. Voicing the ease with which they'd sailed through the first two hearings reminded him of the onslaught he feared was coming. He'd already warned Fornier about the 'confront' notice posted against him and Malliene for the next hearing. Dominic had joked: 'So either Thibault is booking his ringside ticket and will just sit it out — or we'd better warn Malliene what he's in for.' Corbeix too had laughed, but nervously. They both knew who Thibault was gunning for.

'Can I talk? Is your line secure?'

Duclos' heart sank. It was Jaumard. Thibault was due out of court soon. He'd hoped it might be him: news of how his assault on Fornier and Corbeix had gone.

'Yes, it's fine. You can talk. No bugs.' Betina downstairs, gendarme at the front door. The phone was probably the only secure place. Thibault had made a big issue of it at the bail hearing. Emphasized that because his client was under house arrest, by necessity many of their conversations would be by phone. A secure line was therefore essential. Any line-tapping would breach client lawyer confidentiality, and he would immediately call for a mistrial. Barielle agreed: no line-tapping. Duclos suddenly pinched himself. Perhaps he should have said, 'No, it's not safe.' The last person he wanted to hear from right now was Jaumard. But yet another part of him was morbidly curious. 'Still, you shouldn't be phoning me here. What do you want?'

'Isn't it obvious. I've read the papers. You're going down for this, aren't you? That's my old age pension straight out the fucking window!'

'No, no — it's all complete nonsense. The whole thing will get thrown out quickly. Maybe even at this instruction — by the next at the latest. My lawyer's in court nailing them right now.'

'I've only got your word for that. And I'm not prepared to wait just on the off chance. As soon as you know you're going down for it, you'll stop paying me.'

No point in a clumsy denial; Jaumard's claim was patently true to both of them. 'You've phoned early. Normally you phone at night.'

'Yes, well. I wanted a clear head. This involves my future. I might only have one shot at it.'

Duclos sensed what was coming, but he didn't want to ask, invite it. As with everything else, delaying the ultimate. Though part of him also clung to hope that he was wrong.

Long breath from Jaumard. 'I want to cash in my pension now. Half straight away — the rest a week before your trial. That way if you go down I've got something put away.'

'And if I don't get convicted?'

'You won't hear from me again for three years.' Jaumard paused. 'Three hundred thousand francs now. Three hundred thousand just before the trial.'

Duclos spluttered. 'That's outrageous — I can't get you that sort of money. In fact, I can't get you any money at all. All my bank accounts and assets have been frozen.'

'Don't give me that shit. People like you can always get their hands on money somewhere.'

'Not when they're on trial for murder. I've had bail bondsmen and court officials crawling over every account and asset — I can't shift a thing.' But Jaumard was right; despite everything, he could get his hands on some money. Though the money in Switzerland from Marchand's bio-tech people he dared not let anyone know about: $400,000 at the outset of conciliation, another $400,000 when the ruling had come through. $120,000 for each successive year without a new patents ruling, to a maximum of seven years. His escape fund if all went wrong. Jaumard was the last person he'd let in on such a secret.

'I don't care how you find the money — just find it! Because I'm not waiting. I'll call you tomorrow and give you a bank account number for the transfer.'

Duclos' stomach sank. This was a new Jaumard: tense, irrational, but for once sober. Abstaining Jaumard: high octane mix of DTs and raw tension. 'It's impossible. I told you, if I try to-'

'Find it!' Jaumard snapped. 'If by the time I call you haven't worked out how to get three hundred thousand transferred to me within twenty four hours — then the very next day I'll be on the phone to the police with my brother's little folder. Aix Palais de Justice, isn't it?'

Jaumard left a brief silence, then the line went dead.

Corbeix saw where Barielle was heading from the first few questions, saw the problem approaching like a truck aimed head on. More pre-hearing pressure from Thibault.

'And how long have you been married to the victim's mother, Chief Inspector Fornier?'

'Twenty-nine years.'

'Was this involvement made clear to Prosecutor Corbeix when you first approached him with the case?'

'Yes it was.'

Corbeix raised a hand to interrupt. Barielle broke off from asking questions and nodded.

'Much of this was entered in my initial file folder, your justice.' Corbeix half-raised. Thankfully no pains had hit at the previous instructions, and the last few days had been clear. But now he could feel the first onset of muscle cramps. 'We have made no secret of Chief Inspector Fornier's involvement with Monique Rosselot.'

'I appreciate that. But if you indulge me a moment more. Or, in this case, defence counsel.' Barielle gestured towards Thibault. 'Hopefully all will become clear.'

Barielle had already cleared the small hearing room for ten minutes private consultation with Thibault before resuming with the questions. All instruction questions had to be posed by the examining magistrate to avoid direct intimidation of witnesses.

'What initially caused your involvement in the re-opened investigation?' Barielle asked Dominic.

'The fact that I was one of the only people still traceable connected with the original investigation when Marinella Calvan first made contact.'

'And the reason for your continuing involvement?'

'Very much the same reason: knowledge of the original investigation. I was therefore in a far better position to piece things together from any new evidence uncovered.'

'At what point was the case handed over to Inspector Malliene to head?'

'After my discussing the case with Prosecutor Corbeix.'

'And what were the reasons for this?'

'Partly because Inspector Malliene was under the Aix jurisdiction, from where the case would be prosecuted, and partly because Monsieur Corbeix was concerned about any possible bias that I might bring because of my attachment to Monique Rosselot.'

'I see.' Barielle's tone was flat. 'And not purely as a smoke screen, a cover for any perceived bias?'

'No. Inspector Malliene had full signing-off powers. He was fully at liberty to discount or discard any portion of the investigative enquiry with which he didn't agree.'

'Inspector Malliene was controlling the investigation?'

'Yes.'

'So as the chief investigative officer, let us see: what exactly did Inspector Malliene do in this case? Then let us compare with what his normal duties as someone leading the investigation should be…'

As Barielle continued with a chain of questions tying down Malliene's and Fornier's respective investigative involvement, Corbeix looked down. He doodled absently on a pad. Concentric, diminishing squares: everything closing in. A cold tingle ran up the back of his neck. The rest of his body was too numbed, too cramped and bombarded by steroids to feel anything. Either Thibault suspected Malliene had been just a front, or he'd been tipped off internally. And now he'd convinced Barielle, who was like a fox with a rabbit now that he'd gripped hold. Corbeix' fist gripped tight on his pen. Damn Thibault. He'd hardly been able to give Thibault even a decent run for his money. Any minute now Thibault would cry bias, Barielle would probably agree, and Thibault would call for a mistrial. It could all be over before he'd finished doodling.

At one point, Fornier fought back: 'Because so much of the later evidence linked to earlier findings — obviously it fell upon me to do most of the legwork. To run things any other way just wouldn't have worked.'

But it did little good. The overriding image was that it had been Fornier's investigation with Malliene just a nominated figurehead. Barielle wasn't happy.

Barielle asked Fornier's political persuasion, and then dismissed him. Odd question, thought Corbeix, looking up briefly. Malliene, who had already appeared before Fornier, was recalled.

Malliene tried to beef up his own role and involvement, but as the questioning focused on what exactly he'd done at each stage, it was easy to read between the lines.

At one point, Corbeix half switched off. There was nothing he could do. He rubbed his eyes, felt them stinging as the muscle spasms gripped harder. Often the two came together: blurring of vision, sometimes extreme vertigo and dizziness. But now it was just a faint haze and a watery stinging. Through the haze, the proceedings washed around him. Barielle would finish his questioning, a quick summation and demand for a mis-trial from Thibault, and Barielle would rule. Hopefully, Fornier's small fight back and Malliene's attempts at claiming stronger involvement, however transparent, might at least cast some doubt. If not…

Corbeix looked up sharply as he heard his name called. That was quick, he thought. Malliene had been dismissed, but surely Thibault was just starting his summation? He nodded and raised up, but he could feel the pain jarring his legs, the spasms biting sharper. It took him a moment to re-focus on what was being said.

'I find this all highly irregular,' Barielle commented.

'Under normal circumstances, yes,' Thibault agreed. He held out a palm to indicate Corbeix without looking across at him. 'But as I think has already been clearly demonstrated, these are not normal circumstances. This is merely an extension of the earlier points raised about bias against my client. Though, as I think you will see, equally as valid.'

Barielle looked awkwardly towards Corbeix and waved Thibault towards him. After a short spell in the clinches with Thibault pointing to a page in his folder, Barielle waved for Corbeix to sit down and shrugged apologetically: sorry this could take a while, or for what might be coming?

And suddenly it hit Corbeix: Thibault was trying to get Barielle to question him! Outrageous. What on earth did Thibault have up his sleeve? What could he hope to achieve? Bias? One chink of intense clarity struggling up through the haze.

At length, Thibault returned to his seat. Barielle looked up at Corbeix. 'I'm sorry, counsellor Corbeix. I know that this is somewhat irregular. But some questions have arisen regarding your involvement which require clarification.' Barielle scanned the typewritten sheet Thibault had left with him a moment longer. 'I understand that you are ill, counsellor Corbeix. Can you tell me, what is the nature of your illness?'

'I have multiple sclerosis.'

'And has this been diagnosed very long?'

'About three years now.' Corbeix glared at Thibault, outraged that his illness should come under attack. 'But this is no particular secret. I informed the Garde de Sceaux at the Palais as long ago as last October. My semi-retirement aiming towards full retirement has already been planned. I just don't see the relevance of all this.'

'I know. I know.' Barielle held one hand up, calming. 'I know that your semi-retirement has already been planned.' Barielle read from the sheet. 'And as part of that semi-retirement, you had planned to hand your case load over to Prosecutor Galimbert, I understand.'

'Yes, that's correct.'

'Except this case, I believe.' Barielle stared at Corbeix directly. 'This is the only case you're not handing over to him.'

Corbeix blinked heavily. Suddenly he could see where it was all heading. God, was there anything that Thibault hadn't discovered? 'Yes.'

'What is the reason for that?'

'I discussed it with Galimbert, but he just wasn't keen. I decided to continue myself.'

'Even though you had previously decided that you might be too ill to continue with full case loads in court after the summer recess?'

'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.