Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Charles Pépin

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,

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

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