Chapter 25 Fahrenheit 451
They’d left the house early in the morning.
Anna had dropped Mitch off at the bookshop before heading to the market and then on to her restaurant.
The contractor had promised to swing by at around ten o’clock to assess the state of the place and propose any “finishing touches”, a term Anna thought was more than a little optimistic.
Since opening this morning, Mitch had only sold two books, so by eleven he’d decided to go back to the courthouse. Thinking of Madame Bergol, he taped a note to the door letting customers know he’d be back around two.
The clerk almost looked pleased to see him walk in, glad to get a break from his dusty solitude. The old man’s face showed traces of the boy he’d once been as he handed over the case file and invited Mitch to sit down.
“I’ve got a hearing to get to,” he said, “so I’ll leave you to read in peace. Just don’t touch anything. I know it looks like a mess, but I know exactly where everything is.”
Already absorbed in the file, Mitch distractedly lifted a hand in thanks. The clerk closed the door behind him.
From the first page, Mitch was immediately transported back to that afternoon sitting on the defendant’s bench.
The memory twisted in his chest. Na?vely, he had truly believed the whole charade would end in a dismissal.
He thought he’d be home by the end of the day, with a fine to pay.
It had never even crossed his mind that five years would go by before he turned the key in the lock of his bookshop door again.
He had almost no memory of what was said during his trial.
It was as if he’d been somewhere else the entire time.
He could vaguely remember his court-appointed attorney’s detached air when he walked into the courtroom.
Mitch hadn’t understood, at the time, why the man refused to meet his eyes.
He’d assumed he was simply irritated, or even bored, by the case.
But the deeper he got into the file the clearer it became that the game had been rigged from the start.
His attorney hadn’t truly challenged the prosecutor even once.
He hadn’t even objected when Salinas had accused Mitch of the worst vices and told the jury that they were dealing with a vile pervert, a repeat offender running a calculated operation to corrupt the youth.
His eyes landed on Exhibit Three, which was Salinas’s so-called “irrefutable proof”. Mitch slumped back in his chair as he read the prosecutor’s words:
“This is Fahrenheit 451. A book the defendant insists on selling to our children, even though it had been explicitly banned, and for good reason. A suicide. A motherless young girl of seventeen who lives surrounded by men; a pretentious, antisocial teen who thinks she’s different because she can ‘think’.
That’s the fine message this bookseller takes such sick pleasure in spreading.
The very premise of this novel reveals the defendant’s true intentions.
The hero, or should I say, the pitiful main character of this sordid tale, is a man who doesn’t love his wife, a man who has a guilty conscience because he has broken the law.
How, exactly? By stealing a book the authorities had banned.
If you think that’s just a coincidence, you haven’t been paying attention! ”
By this point, the clerk had noted, the prosecutor had been shouting so loudly that the judge, seeing the jurors’ discomfort, had asked him to restrain himself a bit.
“A man who murders the head of the firefighters sent to put out the fire that has ravaged his home, who abandons his family and runs off to join a group of misfits who claim to be able to memorize entire books. That, in a nutshell, is the poison the accused is promoting and peddling. Don’t let my colleague cast any doubt in your minds on the provenance of this incendiary attack on the moral values of our society.
An anonymous source had the integrity to send it directly to the court.
The bookshop’s stamp is right here on the inside cover. ”
The clerk had reported that Salinas had passed the book around for the jury to examine – and that three jurors had refused to even touch it.
How had Salinas got his hands on that copy of Bradbury’s novel?
Who was this anonymous source he’d mentioned?
Mitch remembered exactly how distrustful he’d been after the public safety inspector’s visit.
He would never have sold it to a stranger.
Had Salinas sent someone Mitch trusted to trap him?
Madame Bergol? Madame Ateltow? Verner? Had Anna been right in thinking that one of them was a mole?
Mitch was certain of only one thing – Mathilde was far too much of a rebel to give in to blackmail like that.
He got up, cracked the door open, and stuck his head out into the hallway to make sure the clerk wasn’t on his way back from his hearing yet.
Then, gently closing the door again, he slipped behind the desk and helped himself to a folder from the top of one pile, scanning it quickly before sliding it under his shirt.
He scribbled a quick thank-you note, placed it prominently on his own case file, and made his way out of the courthouse.
Ten minutes later, passing a dumpster several blocks away, he pulled Mathilde’s file from underneath his shirt and tossed it inside. Then broke into a jog, heading straight for Anna’s restaurant.
* * *
“He actually wrote ‘anonymous source’?” Anna asked for the third time.
And for the third time, Mitch nodded.
“And you’re sure this book belonged to you?”
“Fahrenheit 451 is more than just a book,” Mitch grumbled.
“You have a real knack for letting tiny details distract you from what’s actually important, Mitch.” Anna sighed. “Fine, okay. Since this is a major literary work”— her tone was sarcastic enough to make Mitch roll his eyes – “you should remember exactly who you sold it to, right?”
“But that’s just it,” he said. “I’m positive I never sold it.”
“Could you have lent it to someone during one of your secret meetings, then?”
“If it had my shop’s stamp on the inside cover, that means it came from my personal collection.”
Anna hurriedly turned back to a pot on the stove, where a milk foam had started bubbling over and the burner was sizzling wildly.
“People underestimate the power of heat,” she said with a sigh, reaching for a wooden spoon.
Dejected, she poured the contents of the pot into the sink and started from scratch, scraping out the insides of a vanilla bean pod with the tip of a sharp knife.
“What were you saying about my tendency to get distracted?” Mitch teased.
“Quit being a jerk and hand me those eggs.”
“Jerk or not, you smiled.”
“It was an involuntary reflex! Anyway,” she went on, “you’re going to have to bite the bullet, and we’re going down into that damn forbidden bookshop of yours tonight. Both of us. That’s an order.”
“You’re upset about something, I can tell. And don’t tell me it’s that crème br?lée.”
“It’s a sabayon,” she shot back. “Nothing like crème br?lée. No, it’s… well, last night, while I was reading Salinas’s notebook, I had this weird feeling that I was being watched.”
“You mean, like your house is haunted?”
“I’m serious, Mitch! I went to the window and I thought I could see someone sitting in a car parked on the street.”
“You thought you saw? Or you’re certain?”
“If I were certain, I’d have said so.”
“What kind of car?”
“Unmarked.”
“If the police are staking out your house, then we’re both suspects,” Mitch said. “Did you find anything interesting in the notebook?”
“Just confirmation of what your clerk told us. Salinas was negotiating the outcomes of his trials in advance, making shady deals with his colleagues: I lose one, you lose the next. They traded wins like favours, and Salinas’s were worth double.
Usually, the opponent would throw the match.
The day after he died, he was set to prosecute a big case – which he’d already rigged, of course. ”
“How?”
“He’d convinced the defence attorney to ‘forget’ to present a piece of evidence that would have cast serious doubt on his client’s guilt,” Anna revealed.
Mitch remembered the phone call he’d overheard while hidden in the prosecutor’s closet.
“Well, at least his murder spared one innocent life,” he said, deciding not to tell Anna about what he’d heard.
“That’s one way of looking at it, I guess.
But there’s more: just a few hours before Salinas took his final bow, he had a visitor.
Someone who didn’t have an appointment, just showed up at his house.
He wrote in his notebook that he felt indebted to this person, for a past favour, and he regretted that he couldn’t return it now, because, and I quote, ‘times have changed’. ”
“Do you think…” Mitch began slowly.
“That there’s a link between that visitor and your case? If Salinas hadn’t died just after, I’d say it was a stretch. But given the circumstances, I’m really starting to wonder.”
“And he didn’t name the visitor?”
“No. Not even the faintest clue.”
But Anna was lying. She had read every word: Visit from my neighbour: very frustrating conversation. Though I owe him, I couldn’t grant his request. There’s no case against the man he wants back behind bars. It’s no fault of mine, but times have changed.
“Doesn’t help much.” Mitch sighed.
“On the contrary,” countered Anna firmly. “We have proof that someone came to see Salinas only a few hours before he died, which the police don’t seem to know, or are pretending not to know. This visitor has to be the number one suspect.”
“Well, sure, but if his mailman dropped off a letter that morning, that doesn’t make him a killer.”
“Unless the letter was laced with poison, one that could be absorbed through the skin.”
“What are you, an expert on poisons?” Mitch asked, startled.
“Kind of,” Anna replied, turning back to her sabayon.