220 292
222
Charles Pépin
2
The prosecutor officiates
on the stand in front of me
with his well-groomed hair.
He had to have already had
it that way when he was
doing his studies. Now, he
is 30 years older and 30
kilos heavier, but the hair
remains. It’s the start of the
afternoon, maybe he left an
ample lunch and he is dozing
a bit. Or else it’s a strategy,
a way of really showing the
overwhelming
character
that he is hearing so much
about. But each time the
judge asks him if he has any
questions, he replies simply:
“No questions.” I look at his
red and black robe, his white
scarf speckled with black and
his self-righteous appearance
and I tell myself that things
are clear. My lawyer speaks
from below; he is standing
and raises his head towards
the court. The prosecutor
observes everything from
above like an old lion that we
wait to see if he will move a
paw.
Not one paw moves but
there is a question from
the court. One of the two
magistrates surrounding the
judge addresses me. First,
he clarifies that he wishes to
leave the scene of the crime
and to go back, if I would
like, to the days leading up to
the crime – the death of my
mom, her funeral, the couple
of days between the funeral
and the crime. It annoys me
a little that he asked, “If I
would like” but either way,
the answer is yes, I would like
to. The judge approves and
he carries on with the same
courteous tone:
- Mr. Solaro, on the days
preceding the crime, you
found
yourself
in
the
particular situation of being
the master of ceremonies for