Read Online You Changed My Life by Abdel Sellou - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Abdel Sellou
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finally, thereâs me, hands in pockets, stretched out on my bench, pretending to be asleep for the first several acts. With my eyes half-closed, I watch, scrutinize, savor.
Iâm filling in the blanks for my inventory of humanity, but I still come to the same conclusion: there are a lot of dominated, a few dominants, and the judges obviously belong to the second group. Theyâre sweating in their black robes, they sigh with each new case, they barely look up to see the defendant coming forward, they yawn during the defense attorneyâs little speech (to call this pleading a case is an insult to the attorneys I sincerely admire and respect). The head of the court declares the sentence and slams his gavel down on the table.
âNext case!â
He must want to wrap things up fast. I look at him and wonder if it was worth it studying all those years just to end up here, in a dusty courtroom, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, teaching lessons to pre-retirement-age Mohammeds who steal wallets. By the way, what kind of studies do you have to do to get here? The young elite from the XVIth are always talking about âdoing law at Assas,â a public university. But what is law, exactly? The law, my law, is whatever I decide for myself. Iâm eighteen years and a few weeks old, I go around wearing a Lacoste jacket, I pick up girls easily at the parties I crash, I steal one of their daddiesâ Volvos, go eat seafood in Normandy, leave the car on the side of the road when the gas runs out and hitch back to Paris. I havenât learned anything yet.
A man leaves the courtroom between two policemen, crying like a baby. Heâs almost out the door and still begging.
âYour honor, I swear Iâll never do it again!â
The judge isnât listening. Heâs already moved on to the next case. Itâs Mr. Happyâs turn, accused of destroying the ticket
counter of a metro station by throwing a trash can through the plate glass window.
The attorney jumps right in.
âMr. President, I ask you to take into account the fact that my client committed this unfortunate act at a time when no RATP employee was sitting behind the window. He therefore knew he would not injure anyone.â
âSurely, Counselor . . .â
What, already? Obviously, the judge has forgotten the attorneyâs name. He addresses the defendant.
âOver the last six years, youâve spent more than five years in prison, and always for the same kind of vandalism. Can you explain to me why it is you start up again at every opportunity?
âYour honor, I donât have any family. Lifeâs hard on the street . . .â
âSo thatâs it . . . well, Iâm sending you back to get pampered in jail . . . six months at the prison farm.â
He practically asks the defendant if thatâll be enough. The guyâs not just happy now, heâs ecstatic.
The old guy who stole the wallet is relaxed. For me, itâll be eighteen months inside, with eight months suspension and immediate incarceration following the hearing. The sentencing only takes a few minutes. I had owned up to all the accusations. But the court doesnât try to find out anything else, and actually, there was probably nothing else to know.
Ten months inside, so not even a year. The sentence doesnât scare me. Iâm almost relieved, like the homeless guy looking for a place to stay. As far as Iâm concerned, Iâm just dreaming of a
bed. And to disappear a little. To erase myself, at the least. Thereâs always a mattress for me at Beaugrenelle, and clean sheets scented with lavender or rose, but Iâve barely set foot in my parentsâ home in months. Even if I donât show them respect, even if my attitude, on the contrary, shows that I donât care what they think, I still donât walk through their door at dawn, face battered, woozy from the blows given or received the night before. The
Iâm filling in the blanks for my inventory of humanity, but I still come to the same conclusion: there are a lot of dominated, a few dominants, and the judges obviously belong to the second group. Theyâre sweating in their black robes, they sigh with each new case, they barely look up to see the defendant coming forward, they yawn during the defense attorneyâs little speech (to call this pleading a case is an insult to the attorneys I sincerely admire and respect). The head of the court declares the sentence and slams his gavel down on the table.
âNext case!â
He must want to wrap things up fast. I look at him and wonder if it was worth it studying all those years just to end up here, in a dusty courtroom, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, teaching lessons to pre-retirement-age Mohammeds who steal wallets. By the way, what kind of studies do you have to do to get here? The young elite from the XVIth are always talking about âdoing law at Assas,â a public university. But what is law, exactly? The law, my law, is whatever I decide for myself. Iâm eighteen years and a few weeks old, I go around wearing a Lacoste jacket, I pick up girls easily at the parties I crash, I steal one of their daddiesâ Volvos, go eat seafood in Normandy, leave the car on the side of the road when the gas runs out and hitch back to Paris. I havenât learned anything yet.
A man leaves the courtroom between two policemen, crying like a baby. Heâs almost out the door and still begging.
âYour honor, I swear Iâll never do it again!â
The judge isnât listening. Heâs already moved on to the next case. Itâs Mr. Happyâs turn, accused of destroying the ticket
counter of a metro station by throwing a trash can through the plate glass window.
The attorney jumps right in.
âMr. President, I ask you to take into account the fact that my client committed this unfortunate act at a time when no RATP employee was sitting behind the window. He therefore knew he would not injure anyone.â
âSurely, Counselor . . .â
What, already? Obviously, the judge has forgotten the attorneyâs name. He addresses the defendant.
âOver the last six years, youâve spent more than five years in prison, and always for the same kind of vandalism. Can you explain to me why it is you start up again at every opportunity?
âYour honor, I donât have any family. Lifeâs hard on the street . . .â
âSo thatâs it . . . well, Iâm sending you back to get pampered in jail . . . six months at the prison farm.â
He practically asks the defendant if thatâll be enough. The guyâs not just happy now, heâs ecstatic.
The old guy who stole the wallet is relaxed. For me, itâll be eighteen months inside, with eight months suspension and immediate incarceration following the hearing. The sentencing only takes a few minutes. I had owned up to all the accusations. But the court doesnât try to find out anything else, and actually, there was probably nothing else to know.
Ten months inside, so not even a year. The sentence doesnât scare me. Iâm almost relieved, like the homeless guy looking for a place to stay. As far as Iâm concerned, Iâm just dreaming of a
bed. And to disappear a little. To erase myself, at the least. Thereâs always a mattress for me at Beaugrenelle, and clean sheets scented with lavender or rose, but Iâve barely set foot in my parentsâ home in months. Even if I donât show them respect, even if my attitude, on the contrary, shows that I donât care what they think, I still donât walk through their door at dawn, face battered, woozy from the blows given or received the night before. The
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