Chapter 40
BASTIAN
My stomach twists into tight knots as we approach the courtrooms, the low hum of reporters and the buzz of the crowd gathered outside the courthouse mingling and sneaking through the creak of the window.
The black car with tinted crystals feels like a cocoon of false security.
I step out of the car, and a policeman guides me through a wall of unknown faces.
Questions bombard me from all sides: “Do you think Garros is innocent?” from the left. “Shouldn’t the accuser be held accountable?” from the right. “What were you doing with Timotheo Larousse’s family, Mr. Saidi?” from the front.
Behind me, the crowd’s murmur feels like a sharp buzz, threatening to sting. I shut my eyes, trying to block out the cacophony, then open them, clenching my jaw. I force myself to stay silent.
I’m Saidi’s heir. I’m their youngest employee ever.
Show them you can handle this.
I feel like a fucking clown dressed up as a penguin at a party for gossipy tweens.
Maybe this week has been too much for me. Maybe Sarah or another one of our lawyers should have taken this case, and not André and me. Maybe Saidi should have retired and left the cases of the Counterfeiter and Timotheo Larousse to another, second-rate office.
The judge calls the plaintiff’s lawyer—a vivacious, curly-haired black woman in her late forties. She moves with confidence, pushing aside the judge’s billowing robe with a deft flick of her motorcycle boots.
Then it’s my turn.
“Saidi?” the judge calls out.
André nods and steps into the courtroom, and I follow suit. I manoeuvre my own robe; I’m far less graceful than she was, but I manage to avoid tripping. This is no new experience for me. I may not be perfect, but I’m not a novice.
We are forty-five minutes late. The trial was supposed to start at 10:30.
I look at André. He looks back at me. Don’t be nervous, his raised eyebrow says.
A bead of sweat trickles down my shirt collar, and I shiver. I reply with a smile, as if I have everything under control. You should have been careful what you wish for, I tell myself.
I’ve wanted this case for myself for months.
I’ve got it. Vera has handed it to me on a platter.
Once inside the courtroom, the judge takes a seat at the bench table. André sits to his left, and I slowly make my way to the final chair in the front row of the audience. The other lawyer sits to his right. She ignores André and looks me straight in the eye, as if she is laughing at me.
“Do we have an agreement?” the judge asks, letting out a slight groan.
“No, Your Honor,” the plaintiff’s lawyer replies.
André clears his throat. “No.”
The question is routine, part of the formality of court proceedings. It doesn’t matter who the defendant is; the answer remains the same.
Julian Garros is not going to get off scot-free.
Neither are we.
There’s supposed to be another lawyer, since there are two defendants, but I don’t see any sign of him.
I’m not too worried. We leave the courtroom again.
The judge announces that he is going to take a five-minute coffee break, and I see him pull a pack of cigarettes out of the folds of his robe as he walks away.
We are left alone; Julian Garros’ defence, Julian Garros himself, the prosecutor, André, and me.
André pats me on the back as soon as he sees me.
“Everything will be fine; you’ve done a good job,” he says, his voice steady but laced with something I can’t quite make out.
I offer a confident smile, even though nerves twist in my gut.
We’re ready, but that doesn’t make the waiting any easier.
As we sit in the courthouse, the minutes stretch out.
I tap my shoe against the floor. It’s almost noon.
Time drags on, stretching each second into what feels like hours.
At last, the judge strides back into the courtroom, and we follow.
I sink into my chair, clutching the papers I’ve prepared for André.
The courtroom gradually fills. In front of the dais, a table hosts five blue plastic chairs, now crammed with their occupants: Garros, flanked by three twenty-something men I don’t recognize but can only assume are accomplices, and Enzo, who sits with a taut expression.
The witnesses wait outside. Behind the defendants, the row is packed: Elo?se, André, and a smattering of familiar faces from the Dubois estate.
Enzo’s parents are nowhere to be found, but their absence isn’t too concerning.
They must be preoccupied with their own PR crisis.
The official at the back, tasked with monitoring the trial’s recording, appears more engrossed than anyone else, but I pay little attention to any of them.
In the back row, opposite me, sits Vera. I catch a glimpse of her, and my heart sinks. She avoids my gaze, her focus fixed on some distant point. I know better than trying to catch her attention. She hasn’t spoken to me since last Wednesday.
The judge’s voice cuts through the room. He asks the plaintiffs if they are ready. From their plastic chairs in front of the dais, Julian Garros nods his head. Enzo just stares straight ahead, as if it’s not about him.
God, I can’t stand him.
The judge turns to the defence, my uncle. His “Yes, we’re ready” is clear, though my attention remains fixed on Enzo Woods. The past few weeks have been a blur.
André’s voice fades as a door slams open. A tall, bald man rushes in, plopping down next to me and mumbling, “I’m sorry.” The judge’s snort doesn’t hide his irritation.
Enzo’s lawyer finally settles and says, “Let’s get started.”
The prosecutor begins laying out his case. The room falls silent.
“The defendant, Julian Garros, together with the help of Laurent Adrien Dubois Junior and Hugo Smith-Jorison, who cannot be here with us today, formed the criminal gang known as the Counterfeiter, which has operated in the United Kingdom and France for the past five years. More than a hundred counterfeits are attributed to them. Today, we judge, first of all, Garros, considered the ringleader of the gang. Mr. Saidi?” says the judge.
It is our turn.
The defence of the accused consists of something very simple and very complicated at the same time: we have to find the balance between what the prosecutor has said (that is, the truth, but that no one else will hear me admit it) and a lie that will get our client out of the grave he’s dug for himself.
In this case, it is impossible for Garros to get away with it.
He has confessed to being the Counterfeiter, and his accomplices have testified against him.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t find a way to get the best deal for himself.
He’s being accused of things that no one can prove, like being the ringleader of the trio.
André moves the microphone closer to his mouth, and my pulse quickens. I look to the back of the room just once, to where Vera is sitting. Her hair is in a high bun, and she’s wearing a navy-blue suit. Our gazes meet for a second, and I can’t tell who looks away first, her or me.
We had prepared this part of the trial together. She doesn’t know that I’ve changed most of it, and she’s not going to be amused to find out.
“Your honour,” he begins, and makes sure to put on his best smile, “my client was part of the gang known as the Counterfeiter in the years mentioned, but, contrary to what the complainant claims, Garros was not aware of many of the crimes in which the Counterfeiter has been involved,” he says in a solemn tone, although I know that right now someone in the audience will be fuming.
There are those who believe it is not possible that three best friends who commit crimes together would not tell each other what each of them was working on.
Saidi is here to prove otherwise. The crimes committed by Dubois, Smith-Jorison, and Garros must remain separate.
Furthermore, your honour, there was no ringleader, but the three acted in equal ways. Thank you.
Behind André, Enzo’s lawyer speaks. His speech is very similar to the one I have prepared for André; we both have the same evidence.
Well, not the same. We have not been able, for legal reasons, to have the same witnesses. But we do have the same facts. Garros gets off, Enzo takes the blame. And it was his idea, don’t judge me. My initial intention was to keep the two trials apart.
“All right,” says the judge,” Let’s proceed with the presentation of the evidence. Mr. Prosecutor, you may do so in any order you wish.”
One by one, the witnesses for the prosecution enter.
Garros’ colleagues, various friends, and also some of The Counterfeiters’ clients who have offered to testify in exchange for a reduced sentence.
In fourth place is the son of the president of KawtAirlines, and I stare at the table.
I don’t want to make the situation uncomfortable.
During the testimony, I jot down notes and listen from one key point to the next.
I know I should focus on what’s being said since it’s crucial to the case, but my mind keeps drifting off.
As the minutes pass, I get a little nervous.
I don’t let it show. I’m still, quiet, and focused.
Or so I appear. André doesn’t look in my direction at any time.
I can’t wait to see the public’s faces when it’s our turn to present the evidence.