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 allsides: “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 employeeever.
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: Eloïse, 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.
