because of you. But since they assigned him to cover the parricide trial, they asked him to send a dispatch about your case at the same time.” And again I almost thanked him. But I thought that that would be ridiculous. He waved cordially, shyly, and left us. We waited a few more minutes.
My lawyer arrived, in his gown, surrounded by lots of colleagues. He walked over to the reporters and shooksome hands. They joked and laughed and looked completely at ease, until the moment when the bell in the court rang. Everyone went back to his place. My lawyer walked over to me, shook my hand, and advised me to respond briefly to the questions that would be put to me, not to volunteer anything, and to leave the rest to him.
To my left I heard the sound of a chair being pulled out and I saw a tall, thin man dressed in red and wearing a pince-nez who was carefully folding his robe as he sat down. That was the prosecutor. A bailiff said, “All rise.” At the same time two large fans started to whir. Three judges, two in black, the third in red, entered with files in hand and walked briskly to the rostrum which dominated the room. The man in the red gown sat on the chair in the middle, set his cap down in front of him, wiped his bald little head with a handkerchief, and announced that the court was now in session.
The reporters already had their pens in hand. They all had the same indifferent and somewhat snide look on their faces. One of them, however, much younger than the others, wearing gray flannels and a blue tie, had left his pen lying in front of him and was looking at me. All I could see in his slightly lopsided face were his two very bright eyes, which were examining me closely without betraying any definable emotion. And I had the odd impression of being watched by myself. Maybe it was for that reason, and also because I wasn’t familiar with all the procedures, that I didn’t quite understand everything that happened next: the drawing of lots forthe jury; the questions put by the presiding judge to my lawyer, the prosecutor, and the jury (each time, the jurors’ heads would all turn toward the bench at the same time); the quick reading of the indictment, in which I recognized names of people and places; and some more questions to my lawyer.
Anyway, the presiding judge said he was going to proceed with the calling of witnesses. The bailiff read off some names that caught my attention. In the middle of what until then had been a shapeless mass of spectators, I saw them stand up one by one, only to disappear again through a side door: the director and the caretaker from the home, old Thomas Pérez, Raymond, Masson, Salamano, and Marie. She waved to me, anxiously. I was still feeling surprised that I hadn’t seen them before when Céleste, the last to be called, stood up. I recognized next to him the little woman from the restaurant, with her jacket and her stiff and determined manner. She was staring right at me. But I didn’t have time to think about them, because the presiding judge started speaking. He said that the formal proceedings were about to begin and that he didn’t think he needed to remind the public to remain silent. According to him, he was there to conduct in an impartial manner the proceedings of a case which he would consider objectively. The verdict returned by the jury would be taken in a spirit of justice, and, in any event, he would have the courtroom cleared at the slightest disturbance.
It was getting hotter, and I could see the people inthe courtroom fanning themselves with newspapers, which made a continuous low rustling sound. The presiding judge gave a signal and the bailiff brought over three fans made of woven straw which the three judges started waving immediately.
My examination began right away. The presiding judge questioned me calmly and even, it seemed to me, with a hint of cordiality. Once again he had me state my name, age, date and place of birth, and although it irritated me, I