Chapter 13 - The Little Liar

They’d arranged to meet in a café near the law courts. When Lisa walked in, Alice felt obscurely put out. Her eyes were carefully made up, her nails painted, she was pretty, almost too pretty. How many times had Alice had to tell clients to forget about their Gucci jackets or their Balenciaga sneakers when they were planning to maintain that “Honestly, I swear it, Your Honor, I never had anything to do with drug dealing”?

Everything matters at times like these. You can’t be too much or not enough, you have to avoid bright colors, flashiness, basically anything that singles you out from the legal norm. As it happened, Alice owed this apprenticeship to Théry. He’d once sent her to a clothes shop with a client to help her choose her outfit for the hearing. The woman, who had been accused of inciting her lover to kill her husband, had shown up at his office in ever more alluring outfits.

“Find me charcoal or pearl gray, nothing else, understand! And just the right amount of heel.”

The client had arrived at the hearing virtually transformed into a pillar of moral rectitude. Sadly, this hadn’t been enough to erase the disastrous impression she made as soon as she opened her mouth, but Alice had remembered the advice.

She hadn’t thought to give Lisa any the day before, when they’d last met. What would she have said? That she should be there as a penitent, with her head held low and imploring eyes? Lisa was right, when all was said and done. She was twenty years old, and she would show herself to the judge as she was now, a normal young woman, not someone unhinged, not a shameful little thing. When Alice looked at Lisa she felt that, since the first time they’d met, she’d witnessed a hatching process. As if Lisa were breaking free of something. In her own way, she, too, had been a prisoner all these years.

Alice hadn’t told Lisa anything about her conversation with Laurentin. Naima had tried to block him several times, but he’d been so persistent that she’d given in. His voice was icily cordial: he knew about the letter. He was surprised that his “dear learned friend” hadn’t taken the trouble to contact him. She’d apologized inanely, “obviously” she’d intended to, but things had happened in such a rush and …

“Actually, it strikes me that everything is a bit … of a rush, as you put it,” he’d replied.

She’d immediately regretted being nice. Laurentin used the same words as Lisa’s father: Lisa was “fragile” and “vulnerable.” He’d added “suggestible.” Alice’s heart had missed a beat. She’d felt insulted.

“I agree with you on that last point. It probably wasn’t taken into account sufficiently during the investigation.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Lisa was more suggestible and easily influenced at fifteen than she is now.”

As a bare minimum, she’d described how Lisa had felt trapped by adults—her teachers, her parents, the police. And by the examining magistrate, she’d added.

“That judge is a very good, very humane woman.”

“She never brought Lisa face-to-face with Lange.”

“You have no idea the state she was in at the time. Believe me, I have a great deal of experience with victims. I haven’t seen many as desperate as Lisa was. As for her parents, you can imagine what they’ve been through. They bent over backward to support their daughter and she made them pay the price for her suffering. And now, this letter … it’s got me thinking. I won’t disguise the fact that I see it as another sign of distress. I imagine you’re considering that too. Well, I hope you are …”

Exactly what right did this guy have to talk to her like she was just starting out? Did he consider things at all before having a man sentenced to ten years in prison?

Alice waited for Lisa to finish her coffee before giving the signal that it was time to leave. The air was warm, the trees were in bud, and a man on the footbridge was belting out a tune from an operetta.

“Are you absolutely sure about your decision?”

Lisa nodded yes.

“I want to hear it.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Her voice was clear, almost offhand.

“We won’t be able to backtrack.”

“I know.”

There were more people than usual by the doors to the courthouse. Since the previous day, the criminal court had been handling a settling of accounts between gangs that featured about a dozen defendants. The security staff who had been drafted in as backups were tense. When Alice came through the door, Lavoine called over to her.

“Shame you’re not on this case. You’d like it. There was a fistfight at yesterday’s hearing!”

She’d read his article in the newspaper early that morning. The journalists were all intoxicated by the presence of a famous criminal lawyer.

“I’m going back in, it’s quite a show. How about you, what are you here for today?”

“Oh, nothing much. A little appeal case.”

The court clerk, working away behind her computer, was the only person in the courtroom. Alice went over to say hello, and the woman barely looked up to take in Lisa. The jury started to arrive in small groups. It was the third case in the session, and they behaved almost like old hands, exchanging niceties with those next to them and gossiping with the court clerk. Bénédicte Charvet was first to enter, clutching to her throat a beige shawl that accentuated how pale she was. She was accompanied by a friend who stepped aside when Alice stood to greet them. Lisa’s mother held Alice’s hand in hers for a long time. Laurent Charvet appeared a few minutes later and just waved from a distance. His ex-wife pretended to be busy looking in her purse when he came and sat near her.

Alice could feel the couple watching her as she chatted to Théry in the courtroom.

“How you doing, Keridreux?”

“And you?”

“I’m tired. And I have a knee that’s giving me grief. I need to have surgery. But let’s wrap up our little case first,” he said before dropping his voice to add, “I think my client will budge. I felt it when I was talking to him. I went at it gently but … he’s unrecognizable, you know. He must have gained a good twenty pounds since last time, they’re stuffing him with meds. He’ll make the job easy for me.”

Alice looked away, embarrassed.

The clerk indicated that the presiding judge would like to see them. They arrived in her office at the same time as the district attorney. Neither Théry nor Alice knew the judge, who had only recently joined this jurisdiction. Without the few strands of silver in her short-cropped hair, it would have been hard to believe she was over forty. Maud Vigier was slight, almost frail, and simply dressed. Her face, which bore no trace of makeup, was fairly ordinary, but became engaging as soon as she smiled. Alice had gleaned snatches of information about her. Before being appointed to the criminal court, she’d spent ten years as a magistrate in the Paris suburbs, where she’d had a reputation for being tenacious and hardworking. Attorneys who’d had dealings with her spoke of her with respect, even when they hadn’t achieved their desired outcome. This was rare—and likely a good sign.

She talked them through the sequence of hearings she was planning, explaining that she would read the statements of the small number of witnesses who would not be present.

“But all those that you named, Ms. Keridreux, will be attending,” she said, turning to Alice. “They will be heard before the defendant is questioned.”

“Who are they?” Théry asked when they were back in the courtroom.

“Three boys who were in high school with Lisa. They weren’t summoned for the first trial.”

“Fine. But do your best not to make this drag on. We both have better things to do.”

The clink of handcuffs. Marco Lange was thrust into the light. Was that really him, that haunted-looking, lumbering figure with expressionless eyes, automatically rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had left their mark? Alice squeezed Lisa’s hand under the desk.

The bell announced the judge’s arrival. Now in her red robes, Maud Vigier was a different person. She had become the role. From now on, everything—or almost—depended on her. The tone, pace, and atmosphere of the hearing. Ever since Alice had started her career, this rule had been confirmed: the relative quality of a trial depended mostly on the quality of the presiding judge. The others can have all the talent in the world, but they’re only ever playing supporting roles.

The judge had the list of jurors in front of her, with each one’s full name, date, place of birth, and, where relevant, profession. She would be no more than a spectator in the draw; only the defense and prosecution have the right to reject jurors. Théry would already have underlined the numbers of those he didn’t want to see in the jury box, particularly the women. You’re always wary of female jurors when you’re defending a rape case. The courts are full of stories about jurors who, with hindsight, attorneys regret keeping or discarding, but the process still starts again with every trial. Attorneys cast out some and choose others, reveling in this scintilla of power. There are those who tend to reject the young, while others discard older jurors. Alice had never forgotten the lesson she’d learned from an aging judge in the circuit court: “If you could only hear what goes on in their deliberations! The big beefcake who you think is going to be harsh breaks down and admits that, like the defendant, he was abandoned as a child. And the nice friendly woman the defense had so much faith in to save their client turns out to be the toughest of all, because her daughter or sister or best friend had the same experience as the plaintiff. None of that appears on the list!”

The first juror whose number was drawn was a bank employee in his fifties. The next two were also men, a storekeeper and a builder. Théry let them walk past without reacting. He did the same with a gray-haired woman who’d retired from the Department of Education. When the fifth juror was called, a twenty-eight-year-old personal care assistant, he seemed to hesitate, but immediately relented when he saw the sturdy young woman walking over. Six and seven were men again, a local government official and a sales exec. The judge delved into the ballot box again. A very young woman stepped forward from the second row and walked resolutely into the courtroom.

“Recused!” Théry roared.

The woman froze, incredulous, in the middle of the courtroom.

“You have been recused by the defense, ma’am,” the judge told her.

Alice suppressed a smile. Did Théry also know an Adele? In the same abrupt way, he dismissed the elegant, forty-something woman in senior management who rose to her feet next. She cast offended glances around as she returned to the benches. The next juror was also a woman. No profession, sixty-three years old, according to the list. Théry peered at her over his glasses as she walked toward the jury box, awkwardly hampered by her purse and coat. When she walked past the defense attorney, she instinctively looked down, fully expecting an axing that never came. The last juror to step into the jury box was a truck driver. Théry winked at Alice.

The time had come.

In rape cases, if the plaintiff asks for a closed hearing, no one can demur. Obviously, Laurentin had requested it this time around for Lisa, but Alice had told him that it was Lisa’s decision to make.

“Whatever you decide, I’ll go with you.”

She was in little doubt herself. What young woman would want to reveal intimate details of such circumstances in front of the press and the public? She leaned toward Lisa’s ear.

“What should I do?”

Lisa had known how she would reply for several days. She had kept it to herself, wanting to get the measure of it until the last moment. When she’d sat down in the courtroom she’d weakened. But then when she’d seen Lange step into the dock, she’d stopped wavering—she owed it to him.

“Don’t ask for anything,” she whispered.

Alice allowed a few seconds to pass. The judge, the district attorney, the court clerk, Théry, everyone was watching her, waiting for her to speak.

“We will not be requesting a closed hearing.”

Laurent and Bénédicte Charvet’s faces froze with the same dread.

“Very good,” said the judge. “The proceedings are now open. I shall present my report. I would like to point out to the members of the jury that this is a summary of the inquiry and of the charges brought against the defendant. I would encourage you to take notes.”

While the judge read, Alice studied the six men and three women who had just pledged “to listen to neither hate nor malice, neither fear nor affliction” and to reach a decision in keeping with their conscience and their inner conviction. They learned that, five years earlier, Lisa had stated that the man in the dock had forced her to perform oral sex and had attempted to have anal sex with her. That expert witness psychiatrists had deemed her statement credible, her account “authentic,” “devoid of any tendency to confabulation or lying.” That other expert witnesses had found that Lange was “unable to analyze situations,” displayed “narcissistic vulnerable personality traits, had suffered emotional deprivation since his childhood, and his libido was frustrated and unsatisfied.” He also showed “deviant behaviors in relationships and sexual contexts,” with “atypical depressive episodes.” The experts had gone on to express their reservations about his “somewhat perverse trajectory, and the likelihood that it could be dangerous should not be excluded.” The jurors heard that another court, comprising other jurors who were ordinary citizens like themselves, had found him guilty and he had been sentenced to ten years in prison. Maud Vigier called the first witness. Lange had not emerged from his torpor.

The police officer had removed his kepi, which had left a line across his forehead and around the back of his head. He conscientiously talked them through his inquiry, occasionally consulting his notes to check a date. The Charvet parents filing their complaint, Lange being taken into custody, Lisa’s statement, and hearings for a string of witnesses. He was old-school, the sort who gave family names before first names and who spoke in the strange mechanical language of official reports. An overlay of expressions that can turn any human drama into an inanimate object. “Advised the individual Lange Marco,” “interviewed him forthwith,” “proceeded to the said location,” “carried out a search of his vehicle, a 207 model Peugeot, license plate …,” “in the presence of a female member of staff, interviewed the minor Charvet Lisa, who stated that …” In the space of twenty minutes, it was all done. The judge asked him for details of Lisa’s interview, asked him to repeat what she had said about the events when she accused Lange of raping her, the circumstances, dates, and locations she had given.

“Any questions, Ms. Keridreux?” she asked.

“No questions, Your Honor.”

The district attorney asked a few, as procedural lip service. The police officer picked up his kepi and left the witness box with a loud slap of his hand against his thigh.

“Call in the next witness.”

Pauline Valette was exactly as Alice had imagined her. Tall, slim, sporty looking, with hastily tied hair. One of those women on whom time hasn’t managed to take ahold, or perhaps it was her job that had this effect—all those hours spent among adolescents bursting with sap. As she walked to the witness box, she scanned the room to find Lisa and gave her a smile.

She wasn’t one of those intimidated witnesses whose only hope is to deliver a few words that they don’t know what to do with. She had a lot to say about Lisa, the student she had grown fond of and whom she had watched go downhill and close in on herself. She described her concern, “the horrible intuition,” she said, that had crept over her as she watched the teenager’s angst.

“As a teacher, I’ve always felt it was my duty to be alert to signs of distress displayed by students. It was soon obvious to me that Lisa was a victim of sexual abuse. I couldn’t just do nothing.”

Duty, evidence, certainty. And confirmation of all this one Saturday morning in the staff room. Pauline Valette was repeating what she’d said in her statement, but added to the words that Alice recognized were the teacher’s tone of voice, her emotion, her sincerity, and the absolute candor in her eyes.

At the time, she’d discussed the matter at length with her fellow teacher François Boehm, she said.

“He was the only one who shared my acute concern.”

Her voice shook with indignation when she mentioned the indifference she’d met from other teachers.

“There was a sort of generational conflict in the school. Most of the teaching staff had been there a long time. One of them even told us that it had nothing to do with us, our job was to teach, not to deal with the students’ psychological problems, and there were specialists for that. I thought they were, how can I put this … out of step.”

She’d met with “the same distance,” as she called it, from the principal.

“When I mentioned Lisa’s case at a staff meeting, Mr. Fayolle told me he had every faith in the ‘very experienced’ school nurse, and he agreed with her. He said Lisa was mostly trying to attract attention by simulating fainting fits. Those were his exact words. Hearing him say that was unbearable!”

She added, “Luckily, I had my husband’s support. He’s a sports instructor who’s very committed to young people. We often talk about them together.”

Alice remembered the loving couple Lisa had described. That quiet happiness still hovered over the teacher, as dense and reassuring as her conviction that she had done what was right and good. Utterly engrossed in her witness statement in this solemn setting and with her eyes pinned on the judge’s inscrutable face, Pauline Valette appeared to be reliving in unadulterated form all the emotion of that early and very memorable experience of her career.

Alice turned to Lisa and gave a nod to mean that it was going fine. Pauline Valette was still giving her statement in the witness box.

“When Lisa’s friend Marion confided Lisa’s secret to me, I immediately told François Boehm. We urgently needed to act. We took the initiative of calling in the two students the very next day. And that was when Lisa admitted she had been raped. Sadly, she was confirming all our worst fears.”

In the absence of any questions, the judge thanked her for her statement. Pauline Valette was clearly disappointed not to be staying in the limelight any longer. Just before she left the witness box, Alice stood up.

“Your Honor, I’d like the witness to remain available for the court. We may have questions for her later.” Maud Vigier hesitated for a moment.

“I would like to insist, Your Honor.”

“Very well. You may not be present for the other deliberations, Mrs. Valette. The court usher will show you back to the witness room.”

Théry stared at Alice in bafflement.

It all started again with François Boehm. Alice remembered an expression Lisa had used. “He was highly strung.” She was struck by how pale he was.

When the judge asked him to give his profession, he replied, “I’m currently out of work.”

“Are you no longer teaching?”

“I’ve been given extended leave by the Department of Education.”

“Have you decided to change your career?”

François Boehm smiled.

“Well, let’s say … vocation.”

He was doing his novitiate.

He in turn swore to tell “the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” then gave the same account as Pauline Valette had. The jury listened closely. Weren’t they going to be even angrier with Lisa? Alice wondered. She’d not only sent a man to prison, but also abused the trust of this man who was describing her with such compassion. Which of these two deceits would be the more serious in their eyes? Alice made the same request, and François Boehm was led back to the witness room.

Luc Fayolle, the school’s former principal, wore a tired-looking suit over a V-neck sweater and a shirt in the same nondescript color as his jacket. Alice always looked forward greedily to the moment when a new witness appeared. Just a few seconds—which must have felt like an eternity to the person approaching the box—of silence filled with a combination of anticipation and curiosity. The wooden floor creaking beneath their feet, the bright light of the courtroom gathering them in as they emerged from the windowless room where they’d been waiting, sometimes for hours. The way they walked, looked around, put down their coat or bag, and their intonation already said a great deal about them.

Luc Fayolle, for example, said the word “retired” with a sort of wistful melancholy. He’d hardly started his statement before apologizing for expressing reservations about Lisa.

“I didn’t pay enough attention to what the two teachers—Mrs. Valette and Mr. Boehm—told me. I was responsible for the whole school. It had a nice, quiet reputation, so the Board of Education often sent us teachers who were just starting out. Settling them in wasn’t always easy. At the time, I thought these two young teachers were showing signs of …” Luc Fayolle hesitated over the choice of word, “… of oversensitivity.”

His eyes misted.

“With hindsight, I realized it was me who didn’t have enough. I was heavily criticized for that at the first trial …”

He went back over the timeline, trying to justify himself: “My relationship with them was strained. I probably dug in my heels, which was stupid.”

He still regretted criticizing Pauline Valette and François Boehm’s initiative.

“I felt they should have told me before calling in Lisa Charvet. But as soon as I heard what she’d told them, I did what needed to be done.”

The episode had still been fresh in everyone’s mind at Paul-Éluard School when Luc Fayolle took retirement.

“I left with that regret,” he said.

“Ms. Keridreux, would you like this witness to remain available to the court as well?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Alice was so tense that the nape of her neck hurt. She avoided making eye contact with the district attorney and Théry, who both looked perplexed.