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

Wednesday on the Trocadéro esplanade committing several misdemeanors with various tourists: you stole a video camera, a camera, two Walkmen, you committed assault and battery on two men trying to resist you . . . Do you admit to these charges?
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you agree to go before the court immediately, with the assistance of a court-appointed attorney?”
    â€œYes.”
    He says to the two officers waiting by the door: “Thank you, gentlemen, you can take him down to holding.”
    The holding cell is in the basement of the Palais de Justice. The light stays on around the clock. They took my watch and shoved me into a cell, and from there, I lost all notion of time.
It didn’t seem long or short to me; I wasn’t impatient or anxious. The French government kindly offered me a piece of bread, a serving of Camembert, an orange, some cookies, and a bottle of water. My stomach could stand a diet like this. I thought, Whatever happens, I’ll always have food and water . Anyway, I’m not controlling things anymore . I dozed on my bunk, the third one, just under the ceiling. Strangely, I had everything I needed.

    The sounds I’m hearing aren’t familiar. Some cry, scream, slam their fists on their cell door: addicts going through withdrawal. You’d think we were in an asylum. The show going on here could make you laugh.
    There are two Arabs there, one small and wiry, the other big and fat. The first paces back and forth in the tiny cell, talking to the second, sitting patiently on the bottom bed. The Laurel and Hardy of petty crime.
    â€œThis is bad! This is bad! My wife, my sons, they never worked. What’re they gonna do without me? If I go down for months, in jail, they won’t eat!”
    The fat one laughs, but he’s a nice guy and tries to reassure the other.
    â€œCome on, don’t worry . . . if your wife has to work, then she’ll do it! Your kids, same thing! And when you get back home, you’ll find your bank account fuller than it is today, you know!”
    â€œOh, I don’t know, I don’t know!”
    â€œWhy are you here anyway?”
    â€œFor a wallet . . .”

    Now I can’t help bursting out in laughter. I’m eighteen and already into big crime compared to this guy who could easily be my father. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to make enemies, even weak ones, but I think it’s pathetic to get thrown inside, at fifty-five plus, for stealing a wallet. And he’s freaking out, too! It’s already unbelievable that he’s here for so little, but it’s insane that he’s making himself sick over it. And I can’t imagine the French justice system would spend one franc of its tiny budget to sentence a loser like him. Clearly, he’s not putting the country in danger, and if prison has the power of dissuasion, it’ll definitely work on this type of guy.
    We’ll find out pretty fast: the door opens and they come to get us for an immediate court appearance. All three of us are going before a judge, but so are a dozen other defendants who join us in the hallway. We climb the stairs together to the courtroom.
    I’ve never been to the theater in my entire life, but I saw plays on television when I was little. “Set design by Roger Harth and costumes by Donald Cardwell . . .” Well, here we are, and I’m ready to do some improv. The staging seems pretty well done, the roles given out judiciously. There’s the one who’s sobbing to soften up the judges. The one trying to look sorry, as you might at confession, or at least that’s what I imagine. The one cringing in pain, or pretending anyway, even if nobody’s interested. There’s the nonchalant guy, lips pursed, whistling softly between his teeth. Then there’s the happiest kid in the class, to the point where you wonder if he isn’t a complete idiot—he’s thrilled to be here! Then