Past Imperfect

TWENTY

After the reconstruction, Molet's hopes had sunk of being able to clear his client, and the witness instruction before Christmas if anything lowered them still further. Madame Veillan was very sure of the time she saw Machanaud coming out of the lane: 'Just after three o'clock.' Marius Caurin was next with the time he found the boy, and then the other people who had seen Machanaud that day: Raulin where he was working that morning and the various barkeepers; Henri from Bar Fontainouille and Leon who had seen him from three-fifteen onwards. Repeats of the main testimonies which had ripped apart Machanaud's original police statement. Now all officially recorded for full trial.

Molet could imagine the image that would be built up at full trial for the jury. A day in the life of a low-life vagabond: some casual farm labour followed by a few swift eau de vies, then heading out half drunk for some poaching. Only he sees the boy and decides to spice up his lunch hour with a bit of buggery and murder. Then back to the bars again, to what: Celebrate? Drown his regrets, steady his hands again… or perhaps blot out the horror of the bloodied images still with him? Or was it that Leon's at three-fifteen was part of his regular routine and he wanted to make sure everything appeared as normal.

Molet knew that the statistics for people cleared at the final trial, having gone completely through instruction, were grim: less than eight percent. The best chances of acquittal were during instruction with the examining magistrate; but that now looked unlikely with Machanaud. He would go the full course.

The only way to introduce a lesser charge was if Machanaud admitted the assault, said that he'd only hit the boy to knock him out, there had been no intention to kill; try to get a manslaughter charge introduced which normally carried a five to eight year sentence. He'd mentioned it one day to Machanaud, tried to make him realize how heavily all the prosecution evidence weighed against him, but again Machanaud protested his innocence, was almost outraged at the suggestion. '..I'd rather that they did hang me or send me to Devil's Island than admit to something I didn't do.'

In February, the instruction hearings started to involve witnesses more as character assessments of Machanaud. Molet watched Machanaud's ex-girlfriend give evidence to his unpredictable and sometimes violent nature, then a succession of townspeople testifying to his drinking habits and his oddball nature — and Molet was suddenly struck with an idea. Perhaps he'd be able to save his client's neck after all.

Each Christmas Dominic spent with his mother, he wondered if it would be her last. Six months to a year, the doctors had said; already seventeen months had passed. Clinking glasses over the Christmas table, was it just seasonal celebration, or partly because they knew she was cheating death? Another year.

His elder sister Janine, her husband and two children had come down from Paris for the week and for once the house was full. Janine and Guy took the spare room with their daughter Celeste, while their boy Pascal, now just nine, slept on a mattress in Dominic's room.

When his sister got a moment alone with him, she enquired about the latest round of hospital tests. The message was clear: they could only visit once or, at most, twice a year; was mother still going to be around when they visited in the summer? Dominic didn't know either way. There were times when he counted her time left in weeks, others when it seemed she might soldier on for months.

Dominic's uncle had sent him another package of the latest sounds from the States: 'Sugar Shack', 'Mocking Bird' and two recent hits from a new producer called Phil Spector: 'Then he kissed me' and 'Be my Baby'. Edith Piaf had died two months previous and his mother, not yet satiated by the many commemorative Piaf hours on the radio, was still playing some of her tracks — so Dominic ended up playing the records for himself and Pascal up in his room.

Innez Fox's 'Mocking Bird' was Dominic's favourite, but Pascal preferred Phil Spector. The boy had never heard such a powerful sound system, and the strong orchestral background and echoing beat were quite awe inspiring. Dominic started warming to the records more as he edged up the volume. As the music suffused the room and he felt its rhythm washing through him, he found himself smiling. God knows what the neighbours would have thought if they could hear: Phil Spector upstairs and Edith Piaf downstairs. Dominic turned it down a bit.

Seeing young Pascal's excitement over Christmas — opening presents, getting drunk on wine sneaked from his father's glass, and now bouncing up and down on his bed to Phil Spector — brought home even more to Dominic how terrible it must be to lose a child. What Monique must have suffered, must still be going through.

Dominic had seen her only once in the village since the memorial service. Louis mentioned that she'd only started to venture out a month before Christmas, and then only rarely. If she could avoid going out, she would — but she felt guilty continuing to rely so heavily on the Fievets. Dominic thought she looked better than at the memorial service, the dark circles beneath her eyes had mostly gone and a faint glimmer of life was back in her eyes. She didn't notice him, and he was careful not to look too long; her beauty he found somehow intimidating, and he didn't want to make her feel awkward.

Village life in Bauriac and Taragnon had settled back, though news from each instruction filtered back via the various witnesses called. Dominic started to worry about details of Machanaud's car statement arising again at the instruction in January, but it passed without incident.

The instruction process was due to finish in late April, but at the last moment Molet introduced a new element which kept it going through May — calling character witnesses for Machanaud in the same style that Perrimond had paraded an assortment against. The resultant coup by Molet, probably the main turning point of the case, had Dominic smiling as much as Poullain had been cursing when he brought news of it back to the gendarmerie. Molet was giving Perrimond a run for his money.

The instruction process ended in early June and twenty-two days later both Perrimond and Molet received notification from the Palais de Justice that the case would be presented to full trial at the Cour d'Assises in Aix, and the date set: 18th October. By then, fourteen months would have passed since the attack on Christian Rosselot.

'What makes you think I can afford that?'

'Okay, I'll be generous. One half now and the other in two months time, just two weeks before the trial starts.' They'd done the same as before: Chapeau put a call through to the general Limoges office and Duclos went out and called him back minutes later.

It was still 5,000 Francs, thought Duclos. Outrageous! Almost as much as he'd paid Chapeau in the first place. 'I don't think I can manage more than four. Even splitting it in two parts.' And even that would mean taking a small overdraft from his bank.

Chapeau sniggered. 'You know, I should ask you for six thousand for being so cheeky. I'll accept it this time — but next time you try and bargain, I'll put the figure up.'

'What do you mean — next time. If I pay you this now, I don't want to hear from you again.'

Chapeau sighed, his shoulders sagging. 'And just when we were getting on so well. You think I phone you just for the money — has it never occurred to you that I might like to hear the sound of your voice…'

'Oh, fuck off!'

'It's true. Practically no family left except my brother, and he's away at sea most of the time. Apart from killing people every now and then and phoning you, there's few pleasures left in my life. You think I'm going to pass up on that?' Chapeau smiled slyly and let the silence ride a second, let it sink home that he would be calling regularly. Duclos didn't respond. 'Don't worry, I'm sensible enough to realize that I'll have cleared you out for now. I know your salary, everything about you — so I also know when best to phone. You won't hear from me for a while.'

'How long's that?' Duclos asked cynically. 'Six months, a year — two years?'

'I don't know. It depends how quickly I think you can save — or how well you do. But just think, when you get that pay rise or promotion — I could be the first one calling to congratulate you!'

Duclos didn't rise to the bait this time, sensed the pure joy Chapeau was deriving from his anger. 'Let's just settle the business at hand. When and where?'

Chapeau said that he'd make a small concession by driving in Duclos' direction to Montpelier, but no further. He suggested a roadside bar on the A7 heading north out of town, 'Eau de Herault'.

'I don't want to do this in a crowded bar,' Duclos protested.

'It's okay — the few times I've been there it's not been that crowded. But if you feel uncomfortable, they have a large car park in front. We can stay there. When you see my car, come over and get in.'

They arranged to meet the following Saturday at 6.15 pm.

The three judges filed in: the presiding judge in a red robe and the two assessing judges in black robes who took up seats each side of him, the 'pots de fleurs'. The nine jurors were then chosen by picking names out of a pot of thirty-five by the presiding judge, Herve Griervaut and his greffier. The nine selected took their seats flanking the judges.

Molet had advised Machanaud of his right to challenge up to five jurors, but cautioned that often it aggravated and unsettled the rest of the jury. The defence made no challenges, the prosecution made only one: Perrimond singled out an old man in a crumpled suit and beret. Looked like a farm worker out for the day, thought Molet. Perrimond probably feared he might identify too readily with Machanaud. A replacement juror was picked out of the pot.

Machanaud was first on the stand. He was asked by Judge Griervaut to first of all provide an account of his activities on the day in question, then was questioned by Griervaut on specific points. This was mainly for clarification rather than angled at areas which might cast suspicion. That would come later with Perrimond, thought Molet. For now Griervaut was merely setting the scene for himself and the jury. The only contentious point he raised was Machanaud lying in earlier statements, confirming if Machanaud considered his final statement and later testimony at instruction to be correct. Hesitant 'Yes.'

Perrimond was next. He made much of the earlier lies and changes in police statements, sewing a strong opening image in the jury's mind of Machanaud desperately lying to cover up his dark deeds that day. He then focused on Machanaud's claim of not seeing the boy or seeing or hearing an attack, confronting him with the earlier police instruction entry that 'the boy was not seen at any time in the town centre, so must have reached the river by crossing the fields behind.'

Molet cringed as Perrimond took Machanaud through each stage of the gendarme's position at the reconstuction. Molet tapped his fingers impatiently to each reluctant 'yes' to twenty metres back, forty… sixty.

'So you saw absolutely nothing, Mr Machanaud,' Perrimond concluded. 'A boy was attacked and killed not yards away, and you had a clear view of the only point where he could have crossed the river. And yet you saw nothing?'

Perrimond kept Machanaud on the stand for another thirty minutes, ripping apart his earlier statements, magnifying the inconsistencies, and planting clearly in the jury's mind that not only was Machanaud at the scene of the crime, but it was stretching credulity that anyone else could have possibly been there. Machanaud would have seen them. Perrimond closed with the equipment that Machanaud used when fishing. 'Apart from your rod and bait — you had a bucket with water for the fish, and what else?'

'Some waders if I have to walk into the shallows.'

'Anything else? Any other sort of plastic protective clothing?'

'Oh yes, a plastic front apron to go over my shirt or overalls.'

'And what is that for?'

'If I have to gut any fish, it stops the blood getting on my clothing.'

Perrimond passed the floor. 'Thank you.'

A more complete legal bombardment Molet had hardly witnessed. Machanaud was clearly rattled, his few weak protests and arguments laying in tatters. But Molet wondered why Perrimond had finished with details of Machanaud's fishing equipment; surely a stronger image to close on would have been Machanaud standing in clear sight of where it was suggested the attack took place.

'Monsieur Fornier, when you realized that the car description given to Briant was different to the one mentioned to you, were you surprised?'

'I don't know. I didn't really think about it.'

Molet looked down thoughtfully. The first hour after recess had been taken up with police testimony, dominated by Perrimond asking Poullain carefully weighted questions to support his earlier arguments.

Molet had gone over the same points with Poullain for almost twenty minutes without finding a significant flaw to build on — then came to Machanaud's car statements and the later changes. After a gruelling quick fire session, Poullain finally conceded that it was incorrect of him not to have passed on the changed statement to instruction, then added hastily '… But as the investigating officer it is my duty to enter the information that I trust the most and feel is accurate.' All early advantages were lost.

Molet had dismissed him shortly after and called Dominic Fornier. After the first few minutes with Fornier, he had the feeling Fornier was more nervous about the car incident, might be easier to crack than Poullain — if he knew anything.

'When Machanaud mentioned changing his car statement to you in the bar that evening- you apparently showed surprise. Is that correct?'

'Yes.'

'So that was the first time that you had heard about the change in car description?'

'Yes, it was.'

'Quite a few surprises and changes that evening, it seems,' Molet commented cynically. Perrimond looked as if he was about to object, then changed his mind. 'As the assistant investigating officer, would it not be normal for you to be advised of such a change in statement the moment it was made?'

Dominic's hands sweated profusely on the lectern. His chest felt tight, constricted. 'No, not necessarily.'

'So tell me — what would the circumstances be under which you might not be informed?'

'As perhaps in this case, where my commanding officer has already determined the information was false.'

'And when did he share this information with you?'

'A day or so later perhaps.'

'Was that the reason for him not entering the change in the file?'

Dominic was sure his face looked flushed as the blood rushed to his head. He glanced across briefly at Machanaud, but his mother's image was stronger… reaching out to him. Poullain and him being questioned, charged with perjury for their earlier false statements. What price for Machanaud's life? He just couldn't lie! But in the end, as the images receded and he saw Molet staring concernedly and about to prompt, he did the next best thing and only told half the truth. 'Yes, it was — from what he told me later.'

Molet looked down at his file and flicked back a page.

If he just asked one more question, thought Dominic: 'Was that the only reason?' He was sure in that moment he would have told him everything, told him about Duclos and the call from Marcel Vallon relayed through Perrimond, the pressure from Poullain to cover up — the whole sorry mess that would probably ruin his career along with Poullain's, yet might at least save Machanaud's neck. And he realized then that he was almost willing it, hoping that Molet would look up and ask the question.

But Molet nodded to the bench and resumed his seat while Griervaut dismissed Fornier. Molet was still thoughtful. There had been a glimmer of recognition in Fornier's eye, almost a look of apology as he'd glanced towards Machanaud. But then just as quickly it was gone. What was it that Fornier knew? The thought preyed on his mind for a while afterwards, through the remainder of the police testimony and the start of forensic evidence.

When Perrimond came onto the gap between the two attacks estimated at forty minutes and Dubrulle pointed out that this had been determined mostly by the hospital medical examiner, not forensics — Perrimond ended the session abruptly.

Molet noted that Perrimond's questioning of Dubrulle, head of the Marseille forensics team, was scant, but put this down to the fact that Griervaut had already covered most of the key points.

Molet took the floor. 'Monsieur Dubrulle. You had the benefit of blood samples for matching supplied by my client, I believe. Is that correct?'

'Yes. We were supplied with samples after he had been detained.'

'And did Monsieur Machanaud's blood match any of that found at the crime scene?'

'No. We found only the victim's blood present. Type B positive. That of Christian Rosselot.'

Molet flinched slightly at the mention of the boy's name and blood together: too vivid an image for the jury. 'Items of clothing were also taken from Monsieur Machanaud's house and tested for any fibre matches and blood deposits from the boy. Is that correct?'

'Yes.'

'Were any fibre deposits found that matched that of my client's, or any blood deposits on his clothing that matched the boy's blood group?'

'No, we found no such matches. But in this case, there were no significant-'

'Is it in fact not the case,' Molet cut in sharply, 'that you found absolutely nothing at the crime scene or after — no deposits left by my client or stains on his clothing — that could have possibly linked him in any way with the crime.'

'No, we found nothing.'

Dubrulle was more subdued. But as Molet concluded expecting Griervaut to dismiss him, Perrimond requested a re-examination. Only the second time he had done so.

'Monsieur Dubrulle. You were about to comment that there were no 'significant' somethings or other, when my colleague interrupted. I wonder if you'd be so kind to now complete your comment.'

'Well, it was just that we found no significant fibres of any type at the scene of the crime.'

'Any blood or semen deposits or indeed anything at all linking to any individual?'

'No, we found nothing.'

'So the fact that nothing was found linked to Monsieur Machanaud was not particularly significant?'

'No, not particularly.'

'But in one area of blood stains, I understand you did find something significant. An area of stains that was weaker and pinker than other areas. How do you think this occurred?'

Molet tensed, sat forward keenly. He'd known the information would come up at some point. He should have caught on when Perrimond didn't cover it earlier with Dubrulle. Perrimond's earlier tactic of grandstanding the fishing apron suddenly made sense, and now again he'd carefully engineered everything to make it a closing point.

'It looked as if someone had washed down with water, perhaps from the murder implement or their body. Washed away the boy's blood. It was the same group as the boy's, but had been mixed with water.'

'Now, if somebody in normal apparel,' Perrimond ran one hand down inside his suit lapel, 'say standard cotton shirt and trousers, had tried to swill off bloodstains in this fashion — would the blood have washed off successfully or left stains?'

'Very little of it would have washed off. Most of it would have soaked into the clothing.'

'But if this person was wearing some sort of protective waterproof clothing — say a plastic apron or bib of some type. Would it have washed off in this fashion then?'

'Yes, probably.'

'And such a bib would also have protected their clothing from stains, I presume?'

'Yes, obviously.'

'Thank you.' Perrimond sat down and Griervaut dismissed Dubrulle from the stand.

Molet's spirit's sank. Scanning the jury, the impact of the point had gone home strongly.

Testimony from attending medics and doctors was next. Looking at his watch, Molet realized that part of it was probably going to spill over to the next morning. Little arose as the day's events drew to a close to raise his spirits again. Now that Perrimond had stolen his thunder over forensics, there were precious few ace cards left to play. Any chance of clearing Machanaud had probably now gone. All that remained was the testimony of an ageing resistance fighter, an army doctor, and his own closing arguments to be able to save his client's life.

'And how long were you practising at the Military Hospital in Aubagne, Doctor Lanquetin?'

'Over twenty years. Though I'm retired now — just four years ago.'

'During that time, what did you specialize in?'

'In treatment of cranial injuries. I was a practising surgeon who dealt almost exclusively with head injuries incurred by soldiers or legionnaires in active service.'

'I see.' Molet looked down thoughtfully. It was an idea he'd struck on late in the instruction process, seeing the procession of character witnesses from Perrimond testifying to Machanaud's strange and oddball character. One of them had commented, 'I believe he even has a metal plate in his head, from a sabotage operation that went wrong while in the resistance.' Machanaud had originally fought the idea, felt that playing on his old injuries was merely supporting the opposition's case that he was mad and had done something strange that afternoon. Molet admitted then that he thought his chances of clearing Machanaud were remote, and this was probably their only hope of getting a lesser manslaughter charge introduced. Reluctantly, Machanaud had given him the name of the hospital where he was treated.

His old doctor had since died, but Molet managed to find a retired army doctor, Lanquetin, who was an expert in head injuries. He'd introduced him along with an old resistance colleague at a later instruction and argued strongly that a lesser charge of manslaughter should be introduced. 'Half of the prosecution case rests on the fact that Machanaud is slightly odd. Yet he has never done anything like this before, and in months of talking with my client, if indeed he has done this, he clearly has no memory of it. This is an old resistance fighter, one with a metal plate holding his head together. And we are going to argue on one hand that he is odd and slightly mad, yet on the other claim that he knew exactly what he was doing and condemn him to be hanged. Ridiculous! I move for a lesser charge of manslaughter to be introduced on the grounds of diminished responsibility, and will produce the medical evidence to strongly support it.' Predictably, Perrimond opposed the suggestion. Naugier accepted it reluctantly, but only as an alternative charge. The manslaughter charge would ride alongside that of premeditated murder. It would be up to the jury to decide of which they thought Machanaud was guilty.

'So your knowledge in the area of cranial injuries is quite extensive?'

'Yes.'

'And during this period have you had experience with metal plates and their effects on patients?'

'Yes, I have. Quite a bit.' Molet merely looked at him expectantly. Lanquetin continued. 'The effects can vary, but the plate is no more than a drastic, emergency solution to hold together two parts of the cranium that could possibly shift. As such, they may be affected by cold or hot weather, or even sudden movement. Electrical and chemical imbalances can be sparked off.'

'What would be the affect of such imbalances?'

'It varies enormously. It could be nothing more than a mild headache, slightly irritable behaviour or anxiety. Or at the other extreme, quite irrational, even violent behaviour.'

'So it is quite conceivable, Doctor Lanquetin, that someone with a metal plate — given the right conditions — could suffer a temporary memory loss. Have absolutely no recall whatsoever.'

'Yes it is.'

Molet produced the X-rays Lanquetin had viewed earlier, and Lanquetin confirmed that it was quite an extensive implant and that indeed, given its proximity to the parietal lobe which controlled both some motor and behavioural functions, given the right conditions there could be adverse affects.

'Thank you, Doctor Lanquetin.'

Perrimond spent very little time cross-examining Lanquetin, his main thrust was an attempt to discredit Lanquetin's grasp of 'modern medicine' due to the fact that he had now retired. But the ploy partly backfired when Lanquetin reminded him that metal plate implants were not particularly akin to modern surgery, and indeed the practice was fast dying out.

The conclusion of medical testimony and the various incidental and character witnesses had taken up most of the morning. Only one witness was left to call, Machanaud's old colleague from the resistance, Vincent Arnaud. Molet realized that the closing arguments would probably now have to follow after lunch, there wouldn't be time before.

Arnaud's testimony transported them back to another age: 1943. He and Machanaud were both in their late twenties, colleagues in the resistance fighting the Germans near Tours. A rag-tag bunch with limited resources doing the best they could. Arnaud described the dynamite set one day so that they could stop and ambush an ammunition truck. But the dynamite was damp, it went off late and the truck veered off the road, striking Machanaud.

'And was it this that caused your colleague Gaston Machanaud to be hospitalized and have a metal plate inserted?'

'Yes it was. It was days before we even knew whether he'd live or not.'

Whatever was decided later, thought Molet, with Arnaud on the stand it was once again Machanaud's finest hour. Machanaud's eyes welled with emotion. Old colleagues, old memories. And confirmation at last for all his doubters and detractors that his day of glory, the story he had spun over so many bar counters, had not just been drunken ramblings. Perhaps now everyone would believe him.

The first fifteen minutes of Perrimond's closing arguments were predictable. How Machanaud was the only person present, his extensive lying when first questioned, the re-construction which had proved conclusively that he was within sight of not only where the boy crossed the river but also where the first attack had taken place, and the forensic evidence which had demonstrated that blood had been swilled away with water. 'Who else but Machanaud would have been equipped with not only waders and a plastic apron, but also a bucket of water for such an exercise?'

Perrimond swung around dramatically, surveying each juror in turn. 'Make no mistake, this was a very measured and deliberate act. Machanaud knew that if the boy was found on the lane and it looked like the assault took place there, then if by chance it was discovered he was down by the river that day — he could claim that it was somebody else that committed this atrocity.' Perrimond looked down thoughtfully, giving the jury due time for consideration. 'And lo and behold, when he is confronted with being by the river that day, this is exactly what he claims.'

Perrimond then started to pre-empt the arguments Molet might propose. 'You will probably hear from the defence that his client was just some poor misfortunate who happened to be in the same place on that dark day. That the first attack might have even taken place elsewhere and the child was transported to the lane for the second attack. But how?' Perrimond scanned the jury. 'Each car that passed up and down the lane while Machanaud was there was accounted for. One was in a restaurant for over an hour just beforehand with his car in full sight in the car park. A friend visiting spent all his time speaking with Marius Caurin, and Caurin himself when leaving was seen at various places in town.'

Perrimond looked imperiously at the bench. 'This was Taragnon, a small rural village, and it was lunch time. The streets were busy. The police spent painstaking weeks and months questioning, and with only one conclusion: Christian Rosselot did not pass through the town. Nor did he pass through from the farm behind, it was too far out of his way — and besides Marius Caurin would have seen him. So desparate are the defence, that they would have you believe anything. Anything but the facts.'

Perrimond shrugged and smiled caustically, then quickly became grave again. 'No, the boy crossed at only one point — the small bridge down river fully in sight of where the accused was fishing. It was there that their fatal meeting took place — and it was also there that the accused relentlessly assaulted the boy and left him for dead. A cold, merciless act perpetrated by only one person, who sits before you now — the accused, Gaston Machanaud.'

Perrimond finished by asking for the harshest possible sentence, that it was ridiculous to consider anything but a guilty verdict on premeditated murder, anything less would not be doing service to themselves, justice, or to the memory of the young boy '…Who can now only beg for justice silently from the grave. And trust that in your hearts and souls you will make the right judgement.'

Perrimond closed his eyes briefly and nodded as he sat down, as if concluding a prayer, and left the floor to Molet.

'No blood. No fibres. No semen. Not a single thing that links my client to the crime scene itself. I just want you to remember that when you sentence him to be hanged!' Molet surveyed the jury, audibly drawing breath. 'Except the fact that he was there. There at the time fishing, poaching — as he had been so many times in the past. And yes, the prosecution is right — I am going to suggest that someone else came along and committed this crime. Because that is exactly what happened.'

Molet paced to one side. 'A thorough police investigation that discounted all other possibilities? This is the same investigative team that could not even enter a change in car description accurately from one day to the next. That when confronted started clinging to the excuse that my client was drunk to hide their error. A vital change not even entered at instruction — that the examining magistrate openly admonished them over. Yet we are supposed to believe that they conducted a thorough investigation. One that eliminated all other possibilities. When they could not even pass a bit of vital evidence from one stage to the next when it was laid on a plate before them!'

'I think the police merely latched onto the first obvious target, my client, and have been constructing a case out of thin air ever since. One built on a single circumstance — that he was there. And not a single fact or piece of concrete evidence to support this circumstance. What are we all doing here? How could we all have been dragged this far on such a pitiful illusion? A harmless poacher and local drunkard who one day, suddenly, decides to molest and kill a young boy. No history of molesting young boys, no sexual predilections in that area whatsoever — yet we are supposed to believe that this day, this one day, all reason and normal instincts were suddenly thrown to the wind. Unbelievable! How did the prosecution even raise the audacity to try and get us to swallow such a ridiculous story.'

'So let us think afresh — what are we left with? Let us strip away all the ridiculous coincidences slotted into place by the police and the prosecution — and see what we are left with. A simple man with a long history of poaching and no history whatsoever of harming young boys. We ask him what he was doing that day? What do you think is the most likely explanation? That, as he claims, he was poaching, or the more ludicrous suggestion that then starts to stretch all precepts of credible thinking — that he suddenly broke with past form and harmed this young boy. Because that, exactly that, is what is being suggested today.'

Molet waved one arm dramatically. 'Even what the prosecution are asking for here today and the evidence they are providing in support are at odds. On one hand, they want you to believe that this was a cold blooded, premeditated murder. On the other, they would have you believe — from the various witnesses they have produced — that the accused is mad half the time and drunk the rest. A complete oddball and misfit. A village idiot who can hardly premeditate his life from one day to the next. Let alone plan a murder like this — so meticulously in fact that the police and a whole team of forensics could not find a single trace of evidence.' Molet slowly shook his head. 'The two just don't go together. The only honesty you have seen here today was just before lunch: Gaston Machanaud's old resistance colleague and the army doctor. That is the real Gaston Machanaud. The resistance fighter who fought bravely for his country, suffered an horrific injury that still plagues him as a consequence, and is now just left with a few fond tales to tell in the local bars. This is the man that the prosecution wants you to hang. Pathetic!'

Molet drew a long and tired breath. 'Yet I had to fight with my client to bring them here today and to the earlier instruction — even though it was the only way to bring some honesty to this whole charade. Introduce the charge that, if anything at all, my client should be facing — manslaughter. Manslaughter due to diminished responsibility. It is outrageous that any other charge should have even been discussed today.’

Molet looked down; reluctant dismay. ‘But in doing so, I have partly turned my back on what I believe: that my client is innocent. That only one thing is true about the prosecution's claim — he was there. Nothing more. No blood. No semen. No fibres. No scheming individual who could successfully hide those elements. And no reasonable explanation from the prosecution of what he was doing there that afternoon — except the one he gave himself. That he was there fishing. As he had been so many afternoons before.'

Molet nodded in turn to the jury and the three judges and sat down.

The jury returned after almost two hours. Between the nine jurors and three judges the votes — counted painstakingly by the greffier and then passed to Griervaut to announce — were 7 to 5 not guilty of premeditated murder, 9 to 3 guilty of manslaughter.

Molet felt a twinge of disappointment at no aquittal, followed quickly by relief: it could have been worse. Much worse. But Machanaud looked destroyed. Molet knew from the earlier instruction when he fought with Machanaud over getting the lesser charge introduced, that Machanaud would probably never understand, or accept. Understandable for someone who was probably innocent. Despite his strong closing arguments, Molet knew how strongly the jury had been swayed by much of the prosecution's presentation and witnesses, and that without the mid-ground of the lesser charge they would probably have found Machanaud guilty of premeditated murder.

Because the charge for manslaughter partly hinged on diminished responsibility, Judge Griervaut raised the subject of medical and psychiatric assessment. Molet argued for private assessment, while Perrimond predictably argued for state assessment. After consultation with his two assessing judges, Griervaut cleared his throat summarily and looked up to pass final sentence: That Machanaud be detained in prison for no less than six years, and that he be treated and assessed twice each year by a state psychiatrist. 'At the end of that period, if not deemed to be mentally fit, he should be released to the care of a state psychiatric hospital where he would undergo suitable treatment until fit for release.'

At the outside Machanaud would do the full six with maybe another year in an institution, Molet considered. If things went well, he could get parole in four years and be cleared to leave immediately. What Molet hadn't noticed was the look that passed between Perrimond and one of the assessing judges when they were deliberating on the issue of state or private psychiatric assessment. All that struck him as odd was Perrimond's slight smile when the final judgement was passed down. A strange reaction to what surely must have been considered mostly a defeat by Perrimond.