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Charles Pépin
I tell myself that there is
something unbalanced. I
have the impression that
the magistrates are at
home here, the court, the
prosecutor, even my lawyer,
today he is accompanied
by two colleagues from
his office unbeknown to
me, they seem at home,
in their palace and their
habits while I am sleeping in
prison. I was transported in a
security vehicle and I waited,
handcuffed, in a small room,
surrounded by police and
with nothing to eat; I waited
for someone to take me in
and to take off my handcuffs,
standing at the entrance to
the courtroom, I don’t know
what we were waiting for
and finally I was thrown into
my holding cell like a sick
person that people examine;
obviously I was the one who
had killed, not them. But after
all, I am still not condemned,
so why don’t I attend my trial
freshly shaven, with an ironed
shirt, clothes that don’t smell
of sweat and of prison? There
could be a small changing
room where the accused
could try on clothes before
their trial, could look at
themselves in the mirror, and
could choose a nice outfit to
end up getting ten years, they
could serve a strong espresso
before they enter, or even
a glass of water… And then
I take hold of myself again,
I tell myself that I must be
thirsty and that all the same,
it is me that has killed.
3
My lawyer was supposed to
be good, he is expensive, yet
I believe that he was the one
being the most ridiculed. I
see him, his back, readjusting
the piece of cloth he is
wearing on his shoulder, it
seems to bother him. He gets