Read Online You Changed My Life by Abdel Sellou - Free Book Online

put me away for years. I really lived like a wild animal, without any notion of time passing. As long as I was a minor, I couldn’t be judged for petty crimes, so they couldn’t sentence me. As an adult, everything changed, and the things I did before turning eighteen, written in red on my file, didn’t play in my favor. If I’d straightened up after April 25, 1989, my eighteenth birthday, they wouldn’t have had anything on me. Completely oblivious, careless—a happy idiot—I kept on doing what I’d always done, bad stuff, that is, and it didn’t last long.

    I was walking down the hall of the metro at Trocadéro, a wide and long hall where the wind blows in every season, making the caps on old guys’ heads and silk scarves around ladies’ necks flap around. I saw a couple coming toward me, both in jeans, him with a camera on a strap around his neck, her in a beige raincoat. I hesitated for a second: was that camera worth it? Nah, I’d already done well for the day, I could call it quits. Lucky for me. The couple was actually two undercover cops. When they got to where I was, I felt an arm slide under my elbow and a hand grab my wrist. In a flash, I was immobilized by four people (where did the other three come from?), forced down on my stomach, handcuffed, and lifted up just as fast, in this horizontal position, heading toward the exit. The whole thing only took a few seconds. A real kidnapping.
    Gray concrete, smashed chewing gum, thin legs perched on stilettos, cinched pants resting on leather heels, worn-out tennis shoes topped with hairy calves, a used metro ticket, an old paper tissue, a Twix wrapper, cigarette butts by the dozens . . . now I understand why Superman never flies low. They finally stand me back up.
    â€œI don’t know you! Are you new? Why are you arresting me?”
    I wait to hear the official reason for my presence in this pretty little police car, all nice and clean. I definitely don’t offer up a reason to put me inside if they don’t already have one.
    â€œAssault and theft. We saw you yesterday; we even got nice pictures of you. And again this morning, by the way!”
    â€œOh! And where are we going?”

    â€œYou’ll see when you get there.”
    In fact, no, I don’t see. I don’t recognize this place. They must have built a phony precinct, like the phony betting parlor in The Sting, with Robert Redford and Paul Newman. The same dirty walls, the same jaded civil servants typing up their reports on noisy typewriters, the same indifference toward the defendant . . . They set me down in a chair. The person who owns this office is out for the moment, but I’m told he’ll be right back.
    â€œNo problem, I’ve got plenty of time . . .”
    I don’t worry any more than all the other times. I’ll get out in a day or two at the latest. Whatever happens, I’ll have had a new experience.
    â€œI won’t explain the process—you know it!” says an inspector sitting down heavily across from me.
    â€œWell, yeah, you always . . .”
    â€œFrom now on, you’re in police custody. I’ll question you and take your deposition. Then I’ll send it to the prosecutor, who’ll decide whether or not you’ll face charges. You probably realize it’s more than likely.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Attentively, I watch the couple from the metro walking between the desks. He still has his camera around his neck; she’s taken off her raincoat. They don’t pay any attention to me. They’ve moved on to something else, another rascal, another miserable case.
    French citizens, tourists, brave people, sleep in peace. The police are working to ensure your security.

14
    From the police station, I was transferred to the Palais de Justice. The prosecutor was waiting for me. Our meeting went down really fast.
    â€œI see in your file that you were seen on Tuesday and