Because there was not just one trial for me. There were two. The first in July, the other in October.
It all went too well, Papi! The court was not blood-red, like a slaughterhouse; it was more like an enormous boudoir. In the flooding light of that marvelous July day, the hangings, the carpets and the judges’ robes were almost pale pink. And in this court, a smiling, kindly, rather skeptical presiding judge, so little convinced by what he had read in the file that he opened pro. ceedings like this: “Charrière, Henri, as the indictment does not entirely correspond with what we should have liked to see in it, will you explain your case to the court and the jury yourself?”
The president of an assize court asking the defendant to lay open his case! You remember that sun-filled July assize and those wonderful judges? It was too good to last, Papi. Those judges conducted the proceedings with such impartiality, the president calmly and honestly looking for the truth, asking the pigs embarrassing questions, worrying Goldstein, pointing out his contradictions, and allowing my lawyers and me to ask him awkward questions--it was too splendid; it was sunlit justice, a holiday sitting with the judges in your favor.
The first important witness, already primed by the pigs, was the mother. I don’t think it was out of bad faith that she had adopted the pigs’ insinuations. She really did so unconsciously.
The mother no longer said that she and the commissaire had heard “Papillon Roger.” Now she stated that what she had heard was, “It’s Papillon. Goldstein knows him.” She had forgotten the Roger and she had added the “Goldstein knows him,” words that Commissaire Gérardin and Inspector Grimaldi did not hear. Odd that a commissaire should not write down something as important as that, don’t you think?
Maître Gautrat, the lawyer appearing for the family, wanted me to ask the victim’s mother to forgive me. I said to her, “Madame, I do not have to ask your forgiveness because I did not kill your son. I express my sorrow for your grief; that is all I can do.”
But Commissaire Gérardin and Inspector Grimaldi changed nothing of their first statement: Legrand had said, “It was Papillon Roger,” that was all.
Now the key witness came forward: Goldstein. Using a recording machine at 36, quai des Orfèvres, this witness had made five or six statements, three of which were used. Each one accused me; it did not matter if they were contradictory--each time they brought a fresh piece of wood to the framework the police were building up. Sitting on the bench thirty-six years later, I could see Goldstein as if he were right in front of me. He spoke in a low voice: he scarcely raised his hand when he said, “I swear it.”
When he had finished his statement, Maître Beffey went for him. “Goldstein, how many times have you met Inspector Mayzaud ‘by chance’? He himself states that he has met you and talked to you about this case ‘by chance’ several times. It’s curious, Goldstein. In your first statement you said you knew nothing about the affair; then you knew Papillon; after that you said you had met him on the night of the crime, before it was committed; then he tells you go to Lariboisière and see how Lepetit is getting on. How do you explain these differing statements?”
Goldstein’s only reply was to repeat, “I was afraid, because in Montmartre Papillon is terribly dangerous.”
I made a gesture of protest and time president said to me, “Defendant, have you any questions to ask the witness?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Président.” I looked straight at Goldstein. “Goldstein, turn this way and look me in the face. What is it that makes you lie and accuse me falsely? What crime of yours does Mayzaud know about? What crime are you paying for with these lying statements?”
The shit trembled as he looked me in the face, but he did manage to bring out the words “I’m telling the truth” quite distinctly.
I could have killed the swine! I turned toward the court. “Gentlemen of the court, gentlemen of the jury, the public prosecutor says I am an intelligent, sharp-witted, knowing character; but the witness’s evidence shows me to be a perfect idiot, and I’ll prove it to you. Admitting something as important as this, telling a man you don’t know at all you’ve just killed his friend, is the act of a total imbecile. Yet I don’t know Goldstein.” And turning toward Goldstein I went on, “Goldstein, please name one single person in Paris or in the whole of France who can say he has seen us talking together even once.”
“I don’t know anyone who could testify to that.”
“Right. Please name a bar, restaurant, or eating place in Montmartre, Paris, or anywhere in France where we have eaten or drunk together even once.”
“I’ve never eaten or drunk with you.”
“Very well. You say the first time you met me that extraordinary night I had two men with me. Who were they?”
“I don’t know them.”
“Nor do I. Now say quickly, without hesitating, where I told you to meet me with the answer you were to bring back from the hospital, and say whether you mentioned that place to the men who went with you. And if you did not mention it to them, why not?”
No answer.
“Reply, Goldstein. Why don’t you reply?”
“I didn’t know where to find you.”
Maitre Raymond Hubert: “So my client sends you on an errand as important as this--he sends you to find out Roland Lepetit’s condition, and you did not know where to give him the answer? It is as absurd as it is unbelievable!”
Yes, it was unbelievable all right; but it was even more unbelievable that the whole indictment had been allowed to be built up on the successive accusations of this dreary jerk who, although carefully coached by the pigs, did not even have wits enough to give a quick answer.
The president: “Charrière, the police claim that you killed Lepetit because he called you an informer. What have you to say to that?”
“I’ve had dealings with the police six times, and each time I came away with the charge dismissed or an acquittal, except for my four months’ suspended sentence. I’ve never been arrested with another man; I’ve never had another man arrested. It makes no sense that when I am in the hands of the police I stay mum, and when I’m at liberty I inform on my friends.”
“An inspector says you are an informer. Call Inspector Mazillier.”
“I state that Charrière was an informer, one who enabled me to arrest several dangerous individuals, and that this was known in Montmartre. As to the Lepetit affair, I know nothing about it.”
“What have you to say to that, Charrière?”
“It had been on Maître Beffey’s advice that I had asked for this inspector to be called at the inquiry; Maitre Beffey had told me Mazillier knew the truth about the murder of Lepetit. And now I see that both my counsel and I fell into a horrible trap. Inspector Mazillier, when he advised Maître Beffey to call him, said he knew all about the killing; my counsel believed him, and so did I. We imagined that either he was an honest cop or there was some rivalry between him and Mayzaud that led him to give evidence about his crime. But now, as you see yourself, he says he knows nothing about it.
“On the other hand, it’s clear that the inspector’s statements at last provided the missing motive for my alleged crime. This statement, coming from a policeman, was a godsend: it preserved the framework of the accusation and gave some body to an indictment that just didn’t hold together. Because there’s no doubt that without the help given by Mazillier, the indictment would have fallen to pieces, in spite of all Inspector Mayzaud’s efforts. The dodge is so obvious that it’s astonishing the prosecution should ever have used it.”
I fought on and I said, “Gentlemen of the court, gentlemen of the jury, if I’d been a police informer, one of two things would have happened: either I wouldn’t have killed Roland Lepetit for calling me a squealer--because a character as low as that takes such an insult without batting an eyelid--either I wouldn’t have killed him at all, or, if I had shot him, the police would have played the game: they would never have gone after my blood with all this zeal and all this clumsiness,
if I’d been so useful to them. More than that, they would have closed their eyes or fixed some gimmick to make it look as though 1 was acting in legitimate self-defense. Plenty of precedents of that kind could be quoted; but fortunately for me they don’t apply. Monsieur he Président, may I ask the witness a question?”
“Yes.”
Knowing what I was up to, Maître Raymond Hubert asked the court to free Inspector Mazillier from his professional secrecy, otherwise he would not be able to reply.
The president: “By its discretionary powers, the court releases Inspector Mazillier from his professional secrecy, and requires him, in the interests of truth and justice, to answer the question the defendant is about to put to him.”
“Mazillier, name one single man in France, the colonies or abroad whom you have arrested because of my information.”
“I cannot reply.”
“You’re a liar, Inspector! You can’t reply because there’s never been one!”
“Charrière, moderate your language,” said the president.
“Monsieur le Président, I’m defending two things here, my life and my honor.”
But the incident went no further. Mazillier withdrew.
And the other witnesses, how they came rolling up! All cut from the same cloth, all the handiwork of the pigs at 36, quai des Orfèvres, Paris.
And your last explanation, Papi, don’t you remember that? The last and the most logical of them all. I can still hear it. “Gentlemen, play it straight with me and listen to what I have to say: It is a fact that Lepetit got only one bullet; he was shot once only; he remained on his feet, he walked off alive, he was allowed to take a taxi. That means the man who shot him did not want to kill him; otherwise he’d have fired four, five, six shots the way we do in the underworld. Anyone who knows Montmartre knows that. So suppose it was me, and suppose I confess and say, ‘Gentlemen, this man, for such-and-such a reason, right or wrong, had a row with me or accused me of something; he put his hand in his pocket, and as he was an underworld sort like me, I was afraid, so I fired just one shot to defend myself.’ If I said that, at the same time I’d be proving I didn’t mean to kill him because he went off on his own feet and alive. Then I would end up by saying to you, ‘Since an inspector says I’m very useful to the police, I ask you to accept my confession and to treat the business as unintentional homicide.’“
The court listened in silence: thoughtful, it seemed to me. I went on, “Ten times, a hundred times, both Maître Raymond Hubert and Maître Beffey have asked, ‘Was it you who fired? If it was you, say so. You’ll get five years at the outside, maybe even less. You’ll still be very young when you come out.’ But, gentlemen of the court and gentlemen of the jury, I can’t take that path, not even to save myself from the guillotine or penal servitude, because I’m innocent and I’ve been framed by the police.”
All this in that sunny courtroom where they let me explain things properly. Poor credulous kid, couldn’t you see it was too good to last?
For this was the point where Mayzaud quickly thought up a gimmick. Afraid his fifteen months of effort might be reduced to nothing, he did what was forbidden. During a pause in the hearing he came to see me in the room where I was watched by the Gardes républicains, and which he had no right to enter. He came up to me and he had the nerve to say, “Why don’t you say it was Corsican Roger?”
Completely taken aback, I said, “But I don’t know any Corsican Roger.”
He talked for a moment, walked quickly out, went to the prosecuting counsel and said to him, “Papillon’s just confessed to me that it was Corsican Roger.”
And now what this accursed Mayzaud wanted to happen did happen. The trial was stopped, in spite of my protests. Yet I still fought on and I said, “For the last eighteen months Inspector Mayzaud has been saying there’s only one Papillon in this case and that it’s me; Inspector Mayzaud says there’s no doubt that I am Lepetit’s killer; Inspector Mayzaud says he’s brought honest, unanswerable witnesses who prove my guilt without the shadow of a doubt. Since the police have found all the necessary witnesses and proofs against me, why is their whole framework collapsing? So isn’t this whole mass of evidence a pack of lies? And is just one new name tossed into the arena enough for it to seem uncertain anymore that Papillon is guilty? Since you say you’ve got all the proofs of my guilt, is it merely on the existence of some imaginary Corsican Roger that the trial is to be stopped and started all over again? Just because of some imaginary Corsican Roger, thought up by Mayzaud if you believe me, or thought up by me, if you trust him once again? It’s impossible: I demand that the proceedings should go on: I demand to be judged. I beg it of you, gentlemen of the jury and Monsieur le Président!”
You’d won, Papi, you’d very nearly won; it was the honesty of the prosecuting counsel that made you lose. Because this man, Cassagnau, stood up and said, “Gentlemen of the jury, gentlemen of the court, I cannot proceed -... I no longer know - . - the incident must be expunged... - I ask the court to postpone the trial and order a further inquiry.”
Just that, Papi, just those three phrases of Maître Cassagnau prove that you were condemned on a rotten charge. Because if this upright lawyer had had something clear, straight and unanswerable in his hands, he would not have said, “Stop the trial; I can no longer proceed.”
He would have said, “Just one more of Charrière’s inventions: the defendant wants to lead us astray with his Corsican Roger. We do not believe a word of it, gentlemen; here I have everything that is required to prove Charrière guilty, and I shall not fail to do so.”
But he did not say that, and why not? Because in his conscience he did not fully believe in his brief, and because he must have begun asking himself questions about the honesty of the pigs who had put it together.
The trial was stopped, and they ordered a supplementary inquiry, the second in this case.
One of the newspapers said, “Such a lack of conviction is most unusual.”
Of course the supplementary inquiry provided no new facts whatsoever. Corsican Roger? Of course he was never found. During this further inquiry the Gardes republicains played it straight; when they were asked about the incident in July they gave evidence against Mayzaud. In any case, how could a man who proclaimed his innocence, and proved it logically, and felt the court favorably inclined toward him, how could this man throw the whole thing up and suddenly say, “I was there but I wasn’t the one who fired; it was Corsican Roger?”
And what about the other trial, Papi? The last, the decisive hearing: there where the dry guillotine began to work, there where at twenty-five your youth and your faith in life received the great hammer blow of a life sentence; where Mayzaud, sure of himself once more, apologized to the prosecuting counsel and admitted having made a mistake in July; where you shouted at him, “I’ll rip off your mask, Mayzaud!”.... do you really want to hive through all that again?
Do you really want to see that courtroom again, and that gray, unhappy day? How many times do I have to tell you that thirtysix years have gone by since then? Do you want to feel that savage blow on the jaw again, the swipe that forced you to struggle for thirty-six years to be able to sit on this bench in the Boulevard de Clichy, in your Montmartre? Yes, indeed; I want to go down those first steps of the ladder that took me to the very bottom of the pit of human degradation, I want to go down them one by one again, so as to have a better notion of the road I traveled.
How different it was when I entered the second courtroom, a good-looking boy in a perfectly cut double-breasted suit. In the first place the sky was so low and rainy they had to light the chandeliers. This time everything was draped in red, blood-red. Carpets, hangings, judges’ robes--as if they had all been dipped in the basket that holds the heads of guillotined men. This time the judges were not about to go off for their holidays; they had just returned from them; it was not the same as July.
The old hands of the law courts, the attorneys and magistrates and so on, know better than anyo
ne how the weather, the time of the year, the character of the presiding judge, his mood that day, the mood of the prosecuting counsel and the jury, the defendant’s and his lawyers’ fitness--their form--can sometimes influence the scales of justice.
This time the president did not pay me the compliment of asking me to explain my case myself; he was quite satisfied with the monotonous voice of the clerk of the court reading out the indictment.
The twelve bastards who made up the jury had brains as damp and dreary as the weather; you could see that in their moist, dull, haif-witted eyes. They lapped up the baloney of the indictment.
There was absolutely nothing human about the prosecuting counsel.
I felt all this the moment I glanced quickly round the court. And I had sized it up exactly; during the two days the trial lasted they hardly let me speak at all.
And now came the same statements, the same evidence, as in July. No point in going over it in detail; it was the same party beginning all over again with the one difference that, if I felt outraged, and if I sometimes burst out, they shut me up at once.
There was only one really new fact, the appearance of the taxi driver Lellu Fernand, the witness for my alibi, who had not had time to give his evidence before the postponement in July--the only witness the pigs had never been able to find: a myth, according to them.
Yet he was an essential witness for me, because he stated that when he went into the Iris Bar saying “There’s just been a shot,” I was there.
They accused him of being a put-up witness.
Here, on the green bench, thirty-six years later, fury seized hold of me again; I felt neither the cold nor the drizzle that had begun to fall.
Once again I saw the boss of the Iris Bar come into the witness box and state that I could not have been in his place when Lellu came in to say there had been a shot outside, because two weeks before he had forbidden me to enter his bar. That meant I was such a bloody fool that in a job as serious as this, with my freedom and perhaps my life at stake, the alibi I gave involved a place where I was not allowed to go! And his waiter confirmed his evidence. Naturally they forgot to add that permission to stay open until five in the morning was a favor granted by the police, and that if they told the truth their closing time would be brought back to two o’clock. The boss was defending his till and the waiter his tips.
Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon Page 29