my hearing or in front of the examining magistrate. I explained to him, however, that my nature was such that my physical needs often got in the way of my feelings. The day I buried Maman, I was very tired and sleepy, so much so that I wasn’t really aware of what was going on. What I can say for certain is that I would rather Maman hadn’t died. But my lawyer didn’t seem satisfied. He said, “That’s not enough.”
He thought for a minute. He asked me if he could say that that day I had held back my natural feelings. I said, “No, because it’s not true.” He gave me a strange look, as if he found me slightly disgusting. He told me in an almost snide way that in any case the director and the staff of the home would be called as witnesses and that “things could get very nasty” for me. I pointed out to him that none of this had anything to do with my case, but all he said was that it was obvious I had never had any dealings with the law.
He left, looking angry. I wished I could have madehim stay, to explain that I wanted things between us to be good, not so that he’d defend me better but, if I can put it this way, good in a natural way. Mostly, I could tell, I made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t understand me, and he was sort of holding it against me. I felt the urge to reassure him that I was like everybody else, just like everybody else. But really there wasn’t much point, and I gave up the idea out of laziness.
Shortly after that, I was taken before the examining magistrate again. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and this time his office was filled with sunlight barely softened by a flimsy curtain. It was very hot. He had me sit down and very politely informed me that, “due to unforeseen circumstances,” my lawyer had been unable to come. But I had the right to remain silent and to wait for my lawyer’s counsel. I said that I could answer for myself. He pressed a button on the table. A young clerk came in and sat down right behind me.
The two of us leaned back in our chairs. The examination began. He started out by saying that people were describing me as a taciturn and withdrawn person and he wanted to know what I thought. I answered, “It’s just that I don’t have much to say. So I keep quiet.” He smiled the way he had the first time, agreed that that was the best reason of all, and added, “Besides, it’s not important.” Then he looked at me without saying anything, leaned forward rather abruptly, and said very quickly, “What interests me is you.” I didn’t really understand what he meant by that, so Ididn’t respond. “There are one or two things,” he added, “that I don’t quite understand. I’m sure you’ll help me clear them up.” I said it was all pretty simple. He pressed me to go back over that day. I went back over what I had already told him: Raymond, the beach, the swim, the quarrel, then back to the beach, the little spring, the sun, and the five shots from the revolver. After each sentence he would say, “Fine, fine.” When I got to the body lying there, he nodded and said, “Good.” But I was tired of repeating the same story over and over. It seemed as if I had never talked so much in my life.
After a short silence, he stood up and told me that he wanted to help me, that I interested him, and that, with God’s help, he would do something for me. But first he wanted to ask me a few more questions. Without working up to it, he asked if I loved Maman. I said, “Yes, the same as anyone,” and the clerk, who up to then had been typing steadily, must have hit the wrong key, because he lost his place and had to go back. Again without any apparent logic, the magistrate then asked if I had fired all five shots at once. I thought for a minute and explained that at first I had fired a single shot and then, a few seconds later, the other four. Then he said, “Why did you pause between the first and second shot?” Once again I could see the red sand
He thought for a minute. He asked me if he could say that that day I had held back my natural feelings. I said, “No, because it’s not true.” He gave me a strange look, as if he found me slightly disgusting. He told me in an almost snide way that in any case the director and the staff of the home would be called as witnesses and that “things could get very nasty” for me. I pointed out to him that none of this had anything to do with my case, but all he said was that it was obvious I had never had any dealings with the law.
He left, looking angry. I wished I could have madehim stay, to explain that I wanted things between us to be good, not so that he’d defend me better but, if I can put it this way, good in a natural way. Mostly, I could tell, I made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t understand me, and he was sort of holding it against me. I felt the urge to reassure him that I was like everybody else, just like everybody else. But really there wasn’t much point, and I gave up the idea out of laziness.
Shortly after that, I was taken before the examining magistrate again. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and this time his office was filled with sunlight barely softened by a flimsy curtain. It was very hot. He had me sit down and very politely informed me that, “due to unforeseen circumstances,” my lawyer had been unable to come. But I had the right to remain silent and to wait for my lawyer’s counsel. I said that I could answer for myself. He pressed a button on the table. A young clerk came in and sat down right behind me.
The two of us leaned back in our chairs. The examination began. He started out by saying that people were describing me as a taciturn and withdrawn person and he wanted to know what I thought. I answered, “It’s just that I don’t have much to say. So I keep quiet.” He smiled the way he had the first time, agreed that that was the best reason of all, and added, “Besides, it’s not important.” Then he looked at me without saying anything, leaned forward rather abruptly, and said very quickly, “What interests me is you.” I didn’t really understand what he meant by that, so Ididn’t respond. “There are one or two things,” he added, “that I don’t quite understand. I’m sure you’ll help me clear them up.” I said it was all pretty simple. He pressed me to go back over that day. I went back over what I had already told him: Raymond, the beach, the swim, the quarrel, then back to the beach, the little spring, the sun, and the five shots from the revolver. After each sentence he would say, “Fine, fine.” When I got to the body lying there, he nodded and said, “Good.” But I was tired of repeating the same story over and over. It seemed as if I had never talked so much in my life.
After a short silence, he stood up and told me that he wanted to help me, that I interested him, and that, with God’s help, he would do something for me. But first he wanted to ask me a few more questions. Without working up to it, he asked if I loved Maman. I said, “Yes, the same as anyone,” and the clerk, who up to then had been typing steadily, must have hit the wrong key, because he lost his place and had to go back. Again without any apparent logic, the magistrate then asked if I had fired all five shots at once. I thought for a minute and explained that at first I had fired a single shot and then, a few seconds later, the other four. Then he said, “Why did you pause between the first and second shot?” Once again I could see the red sand
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