An underlying principle of the modern European court, Paul argues, is the presumption that the defendant is innocent until proved guilty. Guilty beyond reasonable doubt.
‘We are here not to try the morality of Mlle Villiers, nor to judge whether she has led a blameless life, - that is not a matter for the courts - but to determine her involvement in a specific set of criminal acts. Let us suppose for a moment that Mlle Villiers is not the owner of the past we have heard so much of here, but is instead a hardworking young female student in her second year at University. She is the daughter of fine upstanding middle class citizens. Like so many young women, Mlle Villiers has her own studio and a boyfriend who more often than not shares her bed and who doesn’t bear a North African name. She loves this man and therefore trusts him. She doesn’t look through his trouser pockets or his shoe boxes. This is not a thing nice middle class girls are brought up to do. Nor does she harbour any particular suspicions when her boyfriend asks her if on her way home, since it is on her way, she can drop a parcel off for him. She is happy to do him a favour.
‘When the police arrive one evening and find drugs in her studio, she is amazed then appalled, though she speaks to them politely. All this really has nothing to do with her, nor can she imagine that it has anything to do with her boyfriend. Since she is a nice polite young woman, the police, I suggest to you, believe her, at least about herself, and either they warn her about keeping bad company or there is a simple charge against her, of possession.
‘As we have heard, Mlle Villiers does not share a history with this nice young bourgeoise. But it is not her history which is on trial. It is my contention that if we rid ourselves of the spectacles of morality and prejudice, look merely at the evidence in the case, we will find that at most it leads us only to the lesser charge of possession, if that. For the rest, I hope, Monsieur le President, that you will rule accordingly.’
‘Good defence,’ says the young man at my side as we crowd out of the courtroom into the busy hall. It is as if he is commenting on a particularly adept football play.
‘Is this Maître Arnault well known?’ I venture.
The look on his pointed, foxy face suggests I have come from a contemptible planet where football is non-existent.
‘One of the best.’ He offers me a cigarette. ‘But you rarely catch him in here. He’s more often over there,’ he gestures vaguely in a direction behind my back. ‘The cour d’assises. For the big jury trials. Nice that he took this little case on.’
He warms to his task of explanation. ‘You never know quite what kind of defence tack Arnault is going to take, the traditional complicitous one or…
‘Complicitous?’ I intervene.
‘You know,’ he mimics a serious old man’s expression, ‘Dear judges, we are all gentlefolk and belong to the same club. We really must try to understand this poor bastard in the dock who’s had such a rough life and do our best for him.’
‘Or?’ I laugh.
‘Or the more daring frontal attack on the courts and the system of justice as a whole.’ He arches his body like a pugilist and launches a fist into the air. ‘You, Mr. President, like the law you represent, are a reactionary turd of the first order, and understand nothing about justice or the world. The jury on the other hand…’
He grins.
‘I get the picture. And Maître Arnault.’
‘Arnault weaves his way sinuously between both. It’s quite an art.’
The subject of our conversation suddenly stands before us. My companion’s mouth drops and I imagine mine does to, but I manage to shake his hand.
‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Paul Arnault murmurs.
‘Me too,’ I feel as young and embarrassed as the youth at my side, whom I have been pumping under slightly false pretences. ‘This is…’
‘Jean-Michel Courtet, Maître,’ the youth supplies eagerly.
‘He’s been educating me.’ I smile my thanks.
‘Oh yes?’ Paul Arnault shakes his hand politely if a little absently and then whisks me away.
‘Have you time for a drink?’
I nod.
We weave our way through the hall and out into the crisp afternoon. The murky brown waters of the Seine flow briskly along the Quai des Orfèvres. The Boulevard is noisy with traffic and he doesn’t speak until we have crossed it and are sitting in green wicker chairs in a brasserie opposite the court.
‘Did you find that interesting?’
‘Very.’
He looks out at me from those intent blue eyes as if he is expecting more.
I stir the froth on my coffee. ‘I will take the job, if it’s still going.’
His face relaxes into smiles. ‘Good. I’m very pleased. I couldn’t have begun to work with the other candidates. You’ll start on…’
‘Monday. Is she innocent?’ I change the subject.
‘Innocent?’ He repeats the word as if it is new to him. ‘Which of us is ever wholly innocent?’ He is staring at me as if he knows that I, for one, am not, and I look down at my cup. ‘My task is to see that my client is defended, well defended, on the specific grounds of the charge.’
‘So you think she was dealing,’ I prod him.
He shrugs. ‘Not as seriously as the charge made out.’ He surveys me as if he is trying to determine who I am and where my values begin and end. ‘Mlle Villiers was rounded up as part of a wholesale series of arrests in one sector of the city. They might as well just have put bars around the entire area and thrown away the keys, for all that it has to do with hard evidence. Or justice. I’m defending a number of those rounded up on the night. Some of them are real villains. Others are there, shall we say, by co-habitation.’
The boyish grin plays round his lips. He glances at his watch. ‘I think we could manage a proper drink now, don’t you? To celebrate my new researcher.’
‘What your new researcher wants, no, needs to know, is whether Mlle Villiers is the bad girl the judge described or the good girl you characterized for us?’ Why am I pushing him like this, I wonder.
‘You know very well it’s not as simple as that,’ he is suddenly stern.
‘Do I?’ I mumble.
‘Look. It’s like this. There’s a tendency on the part of the courts to categorize women into neat little parcels. There are the good girls, the angels, who wear their blouses buttoned up beneath neat suits, who marry by the law of the land, who take care of their two and a half, or is it now one point eight children and their husbands, who address the judge demurely and respectfully, and who as a consequence are so pure that it is difficult for the court to attribute any crime to them; and if it does they always apologize for what they have done, so sentences are less severe. Then there are the bad girls, the demons, who show a little too much leg or bosom, who look as if they might actually enjoy the animal act or who do it in any event, and not with legal husbands, and who as a consequence, appear as monsters who cannot love their children and are inevitably guilty of any crime. And are worthy of punishment whether they are or not because they behave aggressively to the court. Lombroso’s born criminals. My sad little Mlle Villiers.’
‘And we blame the victims for the crime,’ I muse and then parry, ‘But there are these different kinds of women. Real differences between good and bad.
‘Differences, of course.’
I am startled as he reaches out and undoes the top button of my blouse which I must unconsciously have buttoned while he was speaking. It is such an intimate gesture, that for a fraction of a second our eyes lock in silence.
Then he rushes on, ‘Differences, yes, but not absolute moral differences and not necessarily visible by the signs the court so stereotypically decides to designate them by. In private, no self-respecting Frenchman, or woman, would dream of assessing the world like that. Put them together in public, give them the representative function of law, and suddenly the weight of convention bears down on them and they grow blind with prejudice rather than justice.’
&nb
sp; I want to argue with him, but I don’t know how. I want to tell him that if you had stood Beatrice and me at the age of ten in front of judges, they would have known in two minutes flat who was good and who was bad. My mother did and she was hardly ground down by the weight of prejudice.
He is looking at my throat and I realise I am again playing unconsciously with my buttons. Does he suspect that I am a bad girl trying to be good?
I laugh to ease my embarrassment and then to contradict my own thoughts, say, ‘You mean a murderess is just an ordinary woman in a temper?’
‘Enid Bagnold,’ he quotes the source, pauses, ‘Sometimes. sometimes not.’
‘Where do I begin on Monday?’ I ask, so that he will stop looking at me.
‘I think you had better read through what I’ve written, so that you can get a handle on the kinds of things I’m looking for. Note anything that isn’t clear and we can talk it through. Then there are some English dossiers, reports and books begging to be summarized, discussed. After that, in a few weeks time, depending on scheduling, there’s a trip to the Old Bailey to be made, a case involving a woman who murdered her husband. I’ll give you a precise list of things to look for in covering that.’
‘Sounds fine.’
I am suddenly excited, more excited than I have been for a long time. There is something to look forward to.
-14-
The terrace at the Deux Magots is crowded with elegant women and dapper men. They hardly pause in their animated conversation as the bells of the old church of St Germain peal out the hour.
Beatrice is punctual. I barely have time to read another page of one of the dozen books I purchased on Friday after leaving Paul. All night, until sleep overcame me, and all of today I have bathed in the horrors of true crime, appalled and perversely delighted at the excesses women could inflict on their fellows.
In her grey tweed suit, her crisp white blouse buttoned, as Paul would undoubtedly have noted, right up to her neck, Beatrice makes me feel a little ashamed. She looks so substantial, whereas I have deliberately dressed down, an old pair of jeans, a baggy sweater. As if I want her to outshine me.
She kisses me on both cheeks and sits down at my side. ‘So, today you must tell me all about yourself,’ she says, her face serious, once we have got preliminaries out of the way. ‘When did you go to New York?’
‘In 1979, just after my Bac.’
She reflects on this as if it is a major statement and then looks pleased, ‘Nearly fifteen years ago.’
I remember that Beatrice was always a little slow at sums and nod, smiling.
‘And what did you do?’
‘I worked, various jobs, and I ended up as a public relations consultant.’
‘And you were very successful,’ Beatrice says. It is not a question. She looks me full in the face and her voice turns soft, ‘You were always successful. So certain. So beautiful. I was amazed that you could be my friend. Do you remember the time that terror of a Simon hid my clothes after swimming and I was standing there shivering?
I had forgotten, but it comes back to me now.
‘You guessed right away what had happened and marched off and berated him so soundly that my clothes turned up within thirty seconds.’
‘We were a horrid bunch,’ I murmur. I am afraid she will choose to note my own particular misdemeanours, for she could not but have been aware of them. I take a hasty gulp of water and try to think of another subject, but Beatrice is right there, in the playground.
‘Like when you all stuffed me into the rubbish bin in the yard?’ Beatrice looks at me guilelessly from those mellow brown eyes.
‘Ghastly girls. Me too,’ I mutter.
‘I didn’t mind. Not about you,’ she gives me her steady smile.
I wonder at her composure. If the tables were turned, I would never be able to forgive the slight, the shame. Not even after all these years.
‘I wanted to be part of the group at any cost,’ Beatrice says candidly. ‘And I must have been a vile, smelly thing. Probably belonged in the bin,’ she laughs. ‘Then your mother put me in the bath.’
My mother suddenly floats between us, a tangible third presence. We can both feel her there.
‘That first Christmas you both gave me books. They were the first books I ever had of my own. Poems by Jacques Prévert and Jules Verne’s Voyage. I covered the books in thick brown paper, so nothing could happen to them.’
I am touched. How could I have behaved so sadistically towards poor Beatrice, ‘And now you have a great many books,’ I say, to make up to her.
She nods.
‘And a daughter.’
‘Two children. There’s Nicolas, as well. He’s fourteen.’
‘So you’ve been married for a long time.’
I want to know about her husband, but she turns the question back on me.
‘And you?’
‘I never married.’
For the first time I see a look of astonishment on her face. ‘Never?’ she repeats and then adds, ‘But you’ve been with a lot of men?’
I gulp. Beatrice, I can tell, is not one to take relations lightly. There is a solemnity about her, an appropriate weight. ‘A few,’ I say.
‘And now?’
‘Now I’ve come back to France.’
Beatrice smiles radiantly as if it is the best decision I could ever have made. Faced with that expression I begin to feel it is.
We chat over a second cup of coffee and a second bottle of Badoit. I tell her how I have taken on my mother’s name, in memory of her. She doesn’t give me her married one. Perhaps she doesn’t use it. Instead, she tells me about her work for SOS Racisme and also for the homeless and invites me to come along with her to a meeting. She is concerned, committed. The presence of my mother hovers ever closer, but when I imply this little resemblance to her, Beatrice appears oblivious to all my mother’s good works. She would, however, like to visit her grave, she says touching my hand lightly. We agree to do this together one day soon.
But now she has to pick up her daughter from her piano lesson and she asks me whether I would like to walk with her. It is near my apartment she tells me, and for a moment, I am confused, until I remember that I have given her Steve’s address. I wonder whether I should invite her up, wonder too, whether perhaps she will invite me. I would like to see her in her home, meet her husband. But I do not have a good record with husbands. Perhaps Beatrice guesses this, for she doesn’t mention it. Or perhaps she simply hasn’t really forgiven me. Whatever she says, she doesn’t altogether trust me. I will make it up to her. With her help, I will become the person she can forgive.
We walk along the Boulevard St Germain. At an intersection, a low-slung Jaguar pulls up short with a squeal of brakes. The young man behind the wheel gives me a rakish once over, grins provocatively, and signals with a lavish gesture that we are free to cross. Beatrice takes in this little exchange. She gives me an artless glance as if she suspects that I know the man, then begins serenely to cross the street. I shorten my stride to match her stately steps and suddenly a feeling I recognize as envy engulfs me.
Envy. I isolate the sensation, examine it. Why should I feel envy for Beatrice? I have never before wanted the solid married life. I have never regretted the adventure of singleness, the sense that any moment might bring the unexpected which could be acted upon. I have never wanted to be half of another. Not for me those nights punctuated by snores and days of chores, irking trivial responsibilities endlessly repeated. Nor would I ever wish to be talked about in those tones of boredom or complaint which men so often use about their wives. No.
Yet the feeling is there as I glance at Beatrice’s serene face, her sure, even tread on the pavement. The petty, niggling, unpleasantness of envy. I catch myself thinking that if only I had been plain, like Beatrice, my life would have been radically different. I, too, would now have a circle of dear ones around me. I, too, would know where I was going and be expected. And my conscience would be at peace.
At sixteen, my revulsion at Beatrice’s homely dumpiness was acute. Yet with that plainness, she was forced to make something fine of her life. She is now someone to be reckoned with. I, on the other hand, am no one. Pampered by my prettiness, I gorged myself on the array of dishes on offer until I was replete, but without substance. I envy Beatrice.
I wait outside a solid stone house on the Rue de Varenne while Beatrice fetches her daughter. Their footsteps match as they emerge from the cobbled courtyard. The girl has dark curly hair, held back with a velvet Alice band. She is slender, slightly fragile. There is nothing of Beatrice about her, except perhaps for the staring expression. I only realise I had hoped for an incarnation of the playground Beatrice, when disappointment tugs at me.
The hand the girl stretches out at Beatrice’s prompting, is tentative.
‘Marie Françoise is a little shy,’ Beatrice says. With an absent air, she straightens the white collar on the girl’s navy-blue dress.
‘How old are you Marie-Françoise?’ I ask.
‘Eight,’ the girl says. Her voice is high-pitched.
‘You’re tall for your age, aren’t you?’ I murmur, knowing nothing about it. I know nothing about children. I am not usually interested in them, but I am interested in Marie-Françoise. She is Beatrice’s daughter. I want to find Beatrice in her. I want to be good to her.
The girl gives me a suspicion of a smile.
‘Run along ahead of us,’ Beatrice orders.
‘Shall we stop and have ice cream? You like ice-cream, don’t you?’
The girl looks unsure.
‘Marie-Françoise has given up ice-cream for Lent. We should get back in any case.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ I say. I don’t want to let them go yet.
‘She’s become very religious these last years,’ Beatrice notes with a touch of pride.
I don’t remember Beatrice being a believer. ‘Is her father religious?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Beatrice gives away little. ‘It must just be the age.’ She changes the subject, tells me instead about the anti-racism demonstration tomorrow. I could come along if I liked, bring friends. She is taking a group of children from her school. I tell her that if I decide to come, I will meet her outside the school at two. I do not tell her I have no friends here.
A Good Woman Page 12