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Charles Pépin
even worse. If I speak away
from the mic, no one hears
and the judge, irritated, asks
me to speak clearly into the
mic. But, if I get closer, it can’t
handle it and it amplifies a
deafening sound, a gurgling
almost, which seems to
infuriate the judge. Because
of the light streaming through
the window, I can’t easily
distinguish the features of
her face.
Thankfully there is anicewaxy
smell, of polished wood. It is
really the only nice thing. It
is definitely stronger outside
of the accused’s box. After
months in a detention center,
I had forgotten that this kind
of smell existed. I see the top
part of my lawyer’s head, in
front of me, slightly below.
He must be forty-five years
old and is starting to bald, it’s
the first time I notice, it gives
him a touching appearance.
I look at the woodwork and
the lights, an atmosphere
from another time, like an
old reception room that no
longer has a purpose, which
could be conserved just for a
memory. The room is full but
frequently I feel more like a
spectator than the others.
I don’t understand why
they are focusing on the
number of shots. Only one
or several, what does that
change exactly? I killed and
I am going to pay, I agree
to paying, I already paid for
months in that vile cell in the
detention center and I will
be paying for years, why all
of this grandstanding? The
worst is their intonations,
I have the impression that
everyone is acting: the
judges play the psychologist,
my lawyer asks me questions
he already knows the answer
to, the prosecutor above the
others with that red shawl on
his shoulders.
I am a willing participant. I
tell things as they happened,