Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 41
Then, finally: “Zut alors, it is late. I will come back in the morning, madame, and we can talk. Bon soir!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Michel Redier slipped his silver Mercedes neatly into a parking slot behind the Greek Revival courthouse in Périgueux, the Palais de Justice. The sedan was big and powerful, taking the winding back roads through the Dordogne with ease. Redier obviously enjoyed his car. Or he enjoyed making Merle cling to the door handle.
But you wouldn’t know that by looking at him. He had the face of a ice block hardened by many winters. No smiles as his vehicle hugged the turns. The only expression he made was clenching his teeth as he powered along at high speed.
He gathered his briefcase and files from the back seat, and looked over the roof of the Mercedes at Merle. He wore a black suit with a dark green tie and a white shirt, all very severe. “I will see you at four then.”
He’d barely spoken after ushering her into his beloved car. He explained he needed quiet to think while he drove. She respected that, the trial preparation mode. But she now had no idea what was to take place at the arraignment, what defense he was preparing for James, or what charges carried what penalties.
And she was tired. She’d barely slept last night, hearing bumps in the dark, startling awake. The house on rue de Poitiers was meant for company. She didn’t like staying there alone. She’d slipped out through the garden gate before nine, before the men returned to pound on her shutters again. What would they attempt in daylight? She didn’t want to speculate. She’d made sure the house was locked tight, plus the garden gate. She couldn’t do more. With two hours to kill before meeting the lawyer, she sat in the bakery with a croissant and a café au lait, reading the International Herald Tribune she’d bought at the tabac. She wrote a postcard to her parents, and another to her friend Betsy, in which everything was golden and lovely, and fixed the postage. She was getting to be quite the accomplished liar. Her coffee was almost done, the paper perused front to back, when Father Cyril entered the patisserie.
His face looked better. Both eyes looked usable now, though still discolored. The swelling of his nose had gone down and his upper lip appeared normal. His right hand was wrapped in a bandage, something she didn’t notice the other day. He wore the usual all black, with the roman collar, and his mousy brown hair was brushed forward. It gave the impression of a gladiator after tangling with the lions.
Cyril and his companion, a stoop-shouldered young man with spiked hair bleached platinum, ordered coffees then turned to sit down in the bakery. Father Cyril saw Merle and nodded, then as if suddenly remembering who she was, stiffened.
She stood up and offered her hand. “Father Cyril. Good morning.”
He shook her hand with his left, unbandaged one. “Madame. I am sorry, I have forgotten your name.”
“Bennett,” she said. “Merle Bennett.”
“Yes. The friend of Monsieur Silvers.”
Was that a sneer? Difficult to tell with all the bruising. “How are you feeling, Father?”
“Somewhat better, thank you. The surgery will take place soon.” He glanced back at his friend who was sipping his espresso. “In the meantime I have services to perform, here and in several other villages. I am very busy.” He nodded and almost clicked his heels together. “Good day, madame.”
So he wasn’t attending the arraignment, it appeared. That would be a plus for James. Now, abandoned by Redier in the midday sun in Périgueux, she took out her phone and texted Pascal.
Then she wove through the parking lot, around to the front of the elegant building, through a square with a statue of Montaigne, in search of the tourist office and a restaurant recommendation. It was after noon. All the stores were closed anyway, might as well do as the French do and eat lunch.
Map in hand, she followed the directions to a restaurant called Hercule Poireau. It made her smile. Whose Agatha Christie joke was that? On the way Pascal texted back:
* * *
Her rossini de canard had just arrived at the table when she spotted him coming through the door. He wore a sports jacket, blue shirt, and a tie of all things. Still in black jeans though. He wove his way through the red checked tablecloths and slipped into the chair opposite, next to the window. Before he sat down he leaned in and kissed both her cheeks.
“What is that lovely aroma?”
“Duck with foie gras, in a truffle sauce. It smells heavenly, doesn’t it? I wasn’t even hungry.”
With quick work Pascal ordered a rossini de canard for himself, plus wine and coffee. He looked at his watch. “We don’t have much time. No leisure for me.”
“The arraignment isn’t until four.” They had nearly two hours.
“I’ve been to the Palais de Justice. Two cases were dismissed in the morning. The judge comes back from lunch in one-half hour and he will move things up.”
Merle dug into her food, wishing she had more time to enjoy it. Her nerves suddenly buzzed. What was Redier’s plan?
“Did you see the mayor over there?”
“Going to lunch with the judge.”
She swallowed some foie gras and set down her fork. “What?”
Pascal nodded. “He is not to be trusted, blackbird.”
* * *
They arrived in the ornate nineteenth-century courtroom forty-five minutes later, as James was being led through a doorway and into his seat. Wood panels lined the walls halfway up to the soaring ceiling where ornate chandeliers hung. Wooden pews lined the gallery, like a church. A platform rose in the front of the room, where a long desk with three microphones waited for judges. Only one appeared, a balding man in his sixties who looked like he enjoyed a good meal. His frameless glasses sat on a bulbous red nose. He wore a black robe with a large white cravat, sweeping up his skirts as he sat behind the middle microphone.
Pascal and Merle slid into the second row, behind James. He wasn’t handcuffed and wore one of his own suits, gray with pin-stripes, a bit rumpled. He glanced at Merle nervously then turned away.
Michel Redier and James sat at one side of the courtroom while the government prosecutors occupied a place of honor near the middle. There were two of them, wearing plain black suits, one short, one tall, their backs to the gallery, standing before the judge.
“Is that him?” Merle asked, looking at the judge. Pascal nodded. Then the proceedings began, in language and at a pace that meant she couldn’t follow. She wondered what James thought, sitting so still, hunched over in his chair as to make himself a smaller target.
Pascal seemed to be following just fine but there was no opportunity to ask what was happening. Merle pulled a notebook and pen from her purse and wrote ‘?’ on it. She passed it to Pascal.
He scribbled on it and passed it back: ‘Making case for juge d’instruction. Unusual.’ He listened some more, as the prosecutors continued their argument. Then Merle wrote: ‘Why is Redier not speaking?’ Pascal: ‘Juge d’instruction usually limited to major crimes. Murder, rape.’
Merle turned the page: ‘Can you say something?’ He shook his head. Merle felt her blood pressure rise. James had no idea what was going on, they weren’t translating for him, and his attorney appeared to be taking a nap.
She scribbled: ‘Translator?’ Pascal raised a finger and nodded. The droning of legal voices went on, and then finally there was a pause. Pascal rose to his feet and buttoned his coat.
He cleared his throat and begged the pardon of the judge. In a clear voice, to a rather startled row of attorneys, he said he was a friend of the defendant and wanted the court to be aware that Monsieur Silvers was an American and had no French. He understood nothing that was being said in the proceedings and thus could not participate in his own defense.
The judge, clearly put out by the interruption, asked Pascal for his name. “Pascal d’Onson, Capitain, Police Nationale, Monsieur.” He added that he was also a witness in the case so had grounds for the interest of justice.
The judge wavered between glowering at Pascal and at James. And back to Redier. “Monsieur Redier? C’est vrai? Il ne parle pas français?”
The former mayor stood slowly, half bowing as he nodded in deep respect. He said, yes, it was true. James spoke no French. He would of course appreciate a translator if the court saw fit.
A general commotion then, as orders to find a translator were given to a bailiff type person and the judge announced a short break. He stood, saying they would reconvene in half an hour. Pascal and Merle stayed in the courtroom, as did James and his lawyer. The judge and prosecutors disappeared.
“What’s going on?” Merle whispered. “What is juge d’instruction?”
“It means examining judge. He can do his own investigation.” Pascal shook his head. “It is not done in these minor crimes. I don’t know what the prosecutors are thinking. Maybe the judge is about to retire and wants to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“Do you think the judge and Redier concocted some plan over lunch?”
“I cannot imagine what.” Pascal glanced at her. “I think Redier has not forgotten the past.”
Merle felt a chill. “Will they let me speak?”
“Possibly. It is not so formal at this point.”
A translator was rustled up, a blonde woman in a navy suit, glasses, and sensible shoes. The prosecutors then the judge returned. The translator sat next to James and, as soon as they reconvened, began whispering in his ear. Merle wished she could listen in.
As best she could figure, evidence began to be presented. Photographs of Father Cyril’s face. Medical records. Other documents, testimony from police officers. Merle heard Albert’s name.
Merle scribbled on the pad: ‘Why didn’t they get statements from you or me?’ Pascal shrugged.
‘Tell me when to speak. I’m getting up,’ she wrote.
Another half hour went by, slowly, with long pauses for reading documents, looking at photographs. Pascal put his hand on Merle’s knee: not yet. Then, after Redier stood and made some sort of statement, as he was sitting down, Pascal waved her up.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur le juge. Je voudrais de mettre une déclaration. Je demande le traducteur.”
The judge huffed, annoyed again. This time a female was asking to make a statement: how rude. He waved the translator over to the center of the room. The young woman started with the judge’s question. “Please speak in English. Your name is?”
“Merle Bennett. The incident in question was at my home. I was a witness. I talked to the gendarme but no one asked me for my statement so in the pursuit of truth and justice I came here today.”
The judge listened to the translation, pursed his lips, and told her to proceed.
“James Silvers is my friend and has been a guest in my home,” she said, speaking slowly, pausing for translating. “He is a lawyer in the U.S. and a father of three children. He had just arrived from a long day of travel from New York City and was very tired the night of the incident. He may have been walking in his sleep. He acted strangely, yes, but no one was in any danger. I did not feel threatened. None of my other guests felt they were in danger from Mr. Silvers.
“Then Father Cyril, who I had only met that night, jumped into the situation. He didn’t know any of the Americans. He was under the misconception that I needed his help. I did not. Mr. Silvers reacted rashly, but it wasn’t personal. It was a misunderstanding. I beg the court to have pity on Mr. Silvers as he is not the sort of man who hits people. He is kind and gentle.”
After the translation she turned to Pascal. “Agent d’Onscon was also a witness to the events and he can corroborate my statement.”
The judge listened to the translator then cocked an eyebrow at Pascal. “C’est vrai?” Is that true? Pascal rose and said, yes, it was true. He added, Monsieur Silvers may have been affected by a sleeping pill he took that night.
The judge waved to the translator. She resumed her seat by James. Pascal sat down, staring straight ahead. Merle also sat, unable to tell if she had made any dent in the proceedings.
The prosecutor made another statement; the translation was whispered to James. The judge said something to Redier who nodded, then the hearing was over. The prosecutors and Redier rose, the judge swished out in his black satin.
Merle sat stunned. “What happened?”
Pascal turned to her. “I’m sorry, Merle. James will stand trial in two weeks. But they are letting him out until then, under Michel Redier’s supervision.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
They waited in the courthouse lobby for over an hour for James and his attorney to appear. Merle and Pascal sat on a hard bench, paced, used a drinking fountain, worked their phones. The marble floors caught every whisper, sending them bouncing to the soaring roof. Better to keep to oneself here.
Courtrooms didn’t scare Merle anymore. Starting when she was seven she went with her father to court, watching from the last row in the balcony, playing with her shoestrings and occasionally thrilled by her father’s oration. By the time she got through law school the magic of the courtroom had dimmed. Stuffy, formal, and often care-worn, it was a place of business like any other. Business that decided people’s fates, their futures, their fortunes, yes. But to look at it with any sort of mystery would be a mistake. Only go in with the ‘knowns,’ the professors said. Never with the ‘unknowns.’ There were no Perry Masons in real life.
French court though felt strange, an alien world. She couldn’t understand what was going on. Procedure was a blur. The conventions and rituals were superficially similar but underneath lay philosophies, tradition, and values she didn’t know. She made a note to herself to study French law and its foundations. Some fun winter reading.
Finally James appeared through a side door, blinking in the sunshine streaming through high windows. He was pale, shaken. He carried his suitcase in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Redier followed him, giving a uniformed officer some paperwork as they departed.
“James.” Merle walked up to him, uncertain if she should give him a hug. He looked like he needed one though so she made it quick. “How are you?”
“Been better, ya know,” he wheezed, glancing up at Redier who stood almost a foot taller. “At least you got me a lawyer. A very tall one.”
She turned to Redier. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t plea bargain. Drop some of the charges for a guilty plea. Get James out of this.”
Redier looked down his long nose. “That is not done in France, madame. The charges stand.”
“But why go to trial for one punch? Isn’t that a waste of everyone’s time?”
Pascal said, “Unless the whole thing is dropped they go to trial, Merle.”
“This is not America, madame,” Redier said haughtily.
“So I’ve noticed,” James said. “I have to go home with him.” He nodded toward his lawyer.
“Is he to be your houseguest?” Merle smiled, hoping Redier would be whipping up cappuccinos for James.
“His room at the Hotel Quimet waits for him,” Redier said. “He will be safe there and check in with me twice a day.”
“He’s got my passport, my driver’s license, my credit cards and my phone,” James said. “Are you giving me back my phone? I need to call my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” Pascal corrected. James squinted at him then turned to his lawyer.
“Under supervision,” Redier said. James rolled his eyes. “We must go. Come, Monsieur Silvers.”
Merle and Pascal walked outside with them, down the wide steps to the street. The afternoon heat lay thick on the stone, radiating through the soles of their shoes. It was only as Redier, with James tagging along, disappeared around the corner that Merle remembered she needed a ride home. She turned to Pascal. “Are you driving me back?”
“The car’s this way.” He led her into the square. A bench under a tree was dirty with bird droppings but he brushed it off and they sat on one end. They were quiet for a moment then Pascal said, “You need to go home then? There are chores waiting for you there? Things on your endless, poorly written list of choses à faire?”
Merle smiled. “What do you have in mind?”
“Same as always.” He slid a hand around her waist and pulled her close. “I hear of a hotel near here, with a river and a lovely restaurant. Very secluded, very romantic. We could pretend we were at the beach again.”
“And this hotel, they have a room?”
“By chance, oui. A delightful room, chèrie, with a big soft bed and no view at all.”
* * *
The drive north to Brantôme from Périgueux wound along riverbanks and cliffs, by Renaissance turrets and wooded hills. Merle sat back in the car, watching the countryside and Pascal. He owned an old green BMW sedan with tan leather seats, and he drove fast like Michel Redier. He had to slow as they reached the village, as it was built on an island surrounded by a canal.
“Les moulins,” he explained. Old mills with water wheels and many canals made Brantôme the Venice of Perigord. It was beautiful, all this water, cascading here and there, the bridges, the orange tile roofs, the square towers. They wound through the town, around the pedestrian center, and out of town toward the north.
“Just a bit more.” He turned into an unassuming drive with a large house with a green mansard roof. Pink roses climbed the front walls. It didn’t look large enough to be a hotel. Pascal parked by the front door and told her to wait.
Merle sat back on the warm leather seat and smiled to herself. For a second she thought of James and his predicament then banished him from her mind. She’d gone into a small store in Périgueux and bought a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and some moisturizer. Otherwise she had no luggage. She looked into the back seat and saw Pascal had a small overnight bag. He’d planned ahead, the scamp.
