Past Imperfect (67 page)

'I have multiple sclerosis.'

'And has this been diagnosed very long?'

'About three years now.' Corbeix glared at Thibault, outraged that his illness should come under attack. 'But this is no particular secret. I informed the Garde de Sceaux at the Palais as long ago as last October. My semi-retirement aiming towards full retirement has already been planned. I just don't see the relevance of all this.'

'I know. I know.' Barielle held one hand up, calming. 'I know that your semi-retirement has already been planned.' Barielle read from the sheet. 'And as part of that semi-retirement, you had planned to hand your case load over to Prosecutor Galimbert, I understand.'

'Yes, that's correct.'

'Except this case, I believe.' Barielle stared at Corbeix directly. 'This is the only case you're not handing over to him.'

Corbeix blinked heavily. Suddenly he could see where it was all heading.
God
, was there anything that Thibault hadn't discovered? 'Yes.'

'What is the reason for that?'

'I discussed it with Galimbert, but he just wasn't keen. I decided to continue myself.'

'Even though you had previously decided that you might be too ill to continue with full case loads in court after the summer recess?'

'Yes. The final decision was perhaps against my better judgement. But if Galimbert wasn't keen, what choice was there? Also, there were the extreme complexities of the case.'

Curt nod and tight smile from Barielle. 'What political persuasion is Prosecutor Galimbert?'

'RPR. Rassemblement Pour la Republique - why?'

Barielle rode the question. 'And what political persuasion are you?'

'Socialist.'

Suddenly it hit Corbeix in a rush: himself Socialist, Fornier Socialist, Thibault complaining about political bias against his client; and now them both clearly spotlighted as having bent the rules. Give Thibault his due, bastard as he was, he'd sewn the package together well.

Thibault raised one hand. Barielle acknowledged. Corbeix expected Thibault's summation, his coup de grace.

But Thibault was holding out a booklet. 'Some interesting facts I think are also worthy of note about this particular illness, your justice.' Thibault started reading from the booklet: 'In severe cases, during episodic attacks, this will lead in turn to eye strain, vertigo, and may effect vital functions of the brain, causing memory loss and temporary fugue states.'

Corbeix felt his blood boil. He'd accepted that in a year or so he might be in a wheelchair, accepted that increasingly he'd lack the strength to lift his youngest daughter, that he'd have to soon sell his boat because even a short day trip would be too tiring - but what he wouldn't accept was this smarmy Paris advocate preaching what his illness entailed, what he might or might not be facing.

'... And given the effects of this disease on the brain, I think severe questions must be asked about Monsieur Corbeix' mental competence.' Thibault paused for effect. 'Or indeed, in this case, if he has allowed a combination of bias and mental impairment to colour his judgement in continuing.'

But Corbeix knew that to hammer home the point effectively, he'd have to stand, and he could feel the spasms biting deeper as he raised. He stole himself against the pain, feeling it pop beads of sweat on his forehead. He was determined not to let it show - provide a physical demonstration to support Thibault's claims. Fully upright, the spasms in his legs screamed to drag him back down. 'Monsieur Thibault is not a doctor. And I resent him taking up
instruction
time with amateur diagnosis. Particularly when it's my health that is at issue.'

'I was just trying to bring some clarity to-'

'I know what you were trying to do,' Corbeix cut in. 'You were challenging my mental competence to continue with this case. As it so happens, my mental competence is not affected. The effects described are only in extreme cases. I am far from that stage yet - and perhaps, God willing, I might never be at that stage. Your pathetic, amateur diagnosis is about as ridiculous and assumptive as me suggesting that three generations of inbreeding has made you the idiot you are today.'

'Gentlemen, please... please!' Barielle fought to regain order.

Corbeix threw in one last point. 'And as for Counseller Thibault's suggestion about political bias, if your justice please: this is as ridiculous as me challenging Thibault's right to represent Monsieur Duclos, purely because he too is RPR.'

Corbeix sat down. A last second, scrambled flourish, but would it be enough? Certainly earlier Thibault had done enough to convince Barielle of sufficient bias to call a mistrial.

Thibault quickly summarized the 'confronts' he'd raised: personal bias through family ties, political bias. Bias at every turn. And finally a question of physical competence: had Corbeix' judgement been sound, and would it still be so in three months? Alain Duclos' rights to a fair and even-handed trial had been severely compromised. Under the circumstances, Thibault would fully expect a mistrial to be ruled. Thibault sat down.

Barielle nodded curtly and continued for a moment with some notes. Corbeix' throat was dry; he found it difficult to swallow. Finally Barielle looked up to give his deliberation.

FORTY

'...When is it that you are due to testify in France?'

'Tuesday week.'

'I understand that the trial procedure is very different there, and in effect this will be one of a series of preliminary hearings.'

'Yes, apparently so. I'll be asked to provide the background of PLR to support the link between the two boys. And later, if the case goes to full trial, I'll be called to provide pretty much the same information in front of a jury...'

Lunch time at Boehmier & Kemp, Washington, DC. The only quiet time of the day. Jennifer McGill decided to have a quick sandwich and use the time to catch up on the morning's paperwork. CNN flickered on a 16" screen in the background, the sound on low.

A name on the TV suddenly struck a chord, but she couldn't remember from where. She looked up abruptly from the file she was reading and turned up the sound. Larry King was on with a Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio look-alike who she hadn't seen before.

'... Even the pre-trial run up is apparently turning into something of a media circus in France. Claims of political bias have been made, and of course then we have Alain Duclos' central involvement with a landmark bio-technology case. Given this intense spotlight, no doubt you will face quite hostile challenges regarding the tenuous nature of PLR in evidence: how will you answer these?'

'By keeping firmly to the evidence and the facts in hand. The sessions I was involved with alone produced almost ninety pages of transcript, and over sixty pages of notes and transcripts were prepared by an associate psychiatrist even before my arrival...'

And then the name hit: Calvan. It wasn't one of her cases, it was being handled by Gerry Sterner. But she remembered a researcher from Paris being on to Gerry just a few days back.

She picked up the phone and buzzed switchboard. 'Susan? Is Gerry still there?'

'I think he's in the library. I'll ring through.'

Seconds later Sterner's voice came on the line. 'Yeah.'

'Gerry. Jennifer here. Get to the nearest TV - fast! Your Calvan woman's on with Larry King.'

Garbled thanks as Sterner darted two doors along to the coffee room. Two secretaries were watching Pacific Drive.

He grabbed the remote. 'Sorry.
Sorry
. Emergency!'

Larry King's image flicked on in profile. Trademark red braces. '...
to your knowledge have there been any previous incidences where PLR evidence has been presented in a murder case?'

'Two in India - though only one made it to full trial. But this is the first case of its type in a society which inherently rejects the concept of reincarnation and PLR. And so in that respect...'

Sterner rushed from the room, grabbed the first telephone in the adjoining office. His secretary was out to lunch, so he raised reception. 'Susan, can you get me Jean-Paul Thibault at Guirannet & Fachaud in France. They'll be winding down for the day there, so you'll have to be quick.'

Could it be...
could it really be?

Monique had decided even after the second tape,
yes
, purely because she couldn't think of any other rational explanation. Nobody else but Christian could possibly have known such depth of detail. Though still that initial wall of resistance; berating Dominic that she might accept some vague psychic link, but
not that it was Christian re-born.

But with the continuing sessions and tapes and then the trial, though never mentioning anything to Dominic, her view had slowly changed. At first just through attaching Christian's voice to the descriptions on tape... the many poignant memories flooding back. But then she'd become curious about Eyran Capel.

Initially only casual questions when Dominic talked about the progress of the sessions and the case: What does the boy look like? Is there a resemblance to Christian? Does he remember anything while awake? No on every count, no image or magic picture in her mind to cling to, nothing except the voice on tape. Playing them repeatedly, asking for each additional tape equally as casually, trying not to give away the mounting intensity of her curiosity.

She'd have asked to sit in on some sessions, but that too might hint of growing obsession - and Dominic had complained about the difficulties of personally attending, the secret game between him and Marinella Calvan. He'd only been able to swing one final session with himself and a notary.

Then only a few days ago, Dominic had mentioned Stuart and Eyran Capel travelling down for the next hearing - they'd agreed to meet up beforehand. She was sure in that moment she'd have said, 'I'd like to come,' if it wasn't for where they were meeting:
the wheat field!
The wheat field at Taragnon. Suddenly her curiosity and everything she'd pushed away for so long were in conflict. She couldn't go back there, she could
never
go back there.

And so she told herself it wasn't important, clung to Dominic's earlier words that he was just a fresh faced English boy, light brown hair, a few freckles across his nose, no resemblance to Christian, remembers nothing while awake...

What would she do? Stand next to this boy she didn't know and ask questions he couldn't answer... her heart and soul ripped apart again by the memories. Perhaps she was never meant to meet this boy. It was meant to stay a private thing. Just her alone with the tapes...
alone with Christian's voice
...

She focused sharply back over the top of her wine glass at Dominic. Dinner had been cleared away. He looked equally as thoughtful for a moment.

'Problems?' she asked.

'I don't know. Possibly. It didn't go well today. But we won't know the outcome for a few days yet.' When the doors to the hearing room finally swung open, Corbeix' expression had been thunderous. He explained to Dominic the grilling he'd been subjected to and what Thibault was demanding, breaking off briefly as they both watched Thibault pass. Barielle wanted to consult the
greffier
notes before ruling: counsels to be advised in four days.

'What might happen?'

Dominic sighed. 'It's bad. A mis-trial could be called - the whole case thrown out.'

Monique's eyes softened. She grimaced tautly and reached out and touched the back of his hand. 'I'm sorry, Dominic. You've put so much into this case. Fought so hard for it.' But beneath his hesitant smile in return, she could read the pain and anguish. It was little comfort. She gripped his hand tighter. 'Look - Dominic. If the case fails, you shouldn't feel bad about it because of me. We've had a great life together. You've given me two beautiful sons. You've made me very happy. Nobody could ask for more. I don't expect it of you to set the record straight on Christian as well.'

'Thanks.' Dominic squeezed her hand back. Though he knew it was probably just to make him feel better about possibly failing. Like him, she would no doubt like to see Duclos nailed to the side of the Arc de Triomphe for what he'd done to Christian.

'You don't need to do this for me. I got over the ghosts of Christian long ago.'

But he was doing it as much for himself, he thought. To set the record straight. Though she would probably now never know his guilt over Machanaud. She was right: they'd had a great life together. Shared everything.
Except a few secrets
. 'Does it bother you, everything coming back now. In any way awaken the ghosts?'

'Obviously a little.' Momentary flinch. She didn't want to admit how much it had obsessed her. He had enough worries and pressure. 'But we shouldn't let it rule our lives. If Duclos is meant to be convicted, then so be it. If not, the same applies. Whatever is meant to be is meant to be. Don't torture yourself trying to change it Dominic. Don't punish yourself. You've done everything you can on this case. If it's still not enough - then let it go. Nobody would blame you, think less of you. And certainly not me.'

As ever: soft, understanding. Her eyes too implored him, added depth to her words. Soulful brown eyes that had melted him the first day he saw her, had glimmered and sparkled at him across countless candle-lit tables through the years; at the birth of Yves and Gerome and the numerous birthdays and celebrations since. A good life.
God
, how he loved her.

But beyond the softness and compassion in her eyes, he could still see the pain. See the shadows that had haunted her with Christian through the decades. Shadows that belied her compassion, that screamed: get him,
get him!
Bring Christian justice. Don't let him get away.

Betina's voice drifted from the kitchen. 'I'm bringing in the cake now.'