The conclusion of medical testimony and the various incidental and character witnesses had taken up most of the morning. Only one witness was left to call, Machanaud's old colleague from the resistance, Vincent Arnaud. Molet realized that the closing arguments would probably now have to follow after lunch, there wouldn't be time before.
Arnaud's testimony transported them back to another age: 1943. He and Machanaud were both in their late twenties, colleagues in the resistance fighting the Germans near Tours. A rag-tag bunch with limited resources doing the best they could. Arnaud described the dynamite set one day so that they could stop and ambush an ammunition truck. But the dynamite was damp, it went off late and the truck veered off the road, striking Machanaud.
'And was it this that caused your colleague Gaston Machanaud to be hospitalized and have a metal plate inserted?'
'Yes it was. It was days before we even knew whether he'd live or not.'
Whatever was decided later, thought Molet, with Arnaud on the stand it was once again Machanaud's finest hour. Machanaud's eyes welled with emotion. Old colleagues, old memories. And confirmation at last for all his doubters and detractors that his day of glory, the story he had spun over so many bar counters, had not just been drunken ramblings. Perhaps now everyone would believe him.
The first fifteen minutes of Perrimond's closing arguments were predictable. How Machanaud was the only person present, his extensive lying when first questioned, the re-construction which had proved conclusively that he was within sight of not only where the boy crossed the river but also where the first attack had taken place, and the forensic evidence which had demonstrated that blood had been swilled away with water. 'Who else but Machanaud would have been equipped with not only waders and a plastic apron, but also a bucket of water for such an exercise?'
Perrimond swung around dramatically, surveying each juror in turn. 'Make no mistake, this was a very measured and deliberate act. Machanaud knew that if the boy was found on the lane and it looked like the assault took place there, then if by chance it was discovered he was down by the river that day — he could claim that it was somebody else that committed this atrocity.' Perrimond looked down thoughtfully, giving the jury due time for consideration. 'And lo and behold, when he is confronted with being by the river that day, this is exactly what he claims.'
Perrimond then started to pre-empt the arguments Molet might propose. 'You will probably hear from the defence that his client was just some poor misfortunate who happened to be in the same place on that dark day. That the first attack might have even taken place elsewhere and the child was transported to the lane for the second attack. But how?' Perrimond scanned the jury. 'Each car that passed up and down the lane while Machanaud was there was accounted for. One was in a restaurant for over an hour just beforehand with his car in full sight in the car park. A friend visiting spent all his time speaking with Marius Caurin, and Caurin himself when leaving was seen at various places in town.'
Perrimond looked imperiously at the bench. 'This was Taragnon, a small rural village, and it was lunch time. The streets were busy. The police spent painstaking weeks and months questioning, and with only one conclusion: Christian Rosselot did not pass through the town. Nor did he pass through from the farm behind, it was too far out of his way — and besides Marius Caurin would have seen him. So desparate are the defence, that they would have you believe anything. Anything but the facts.'
Perrimond shrugged and smiled caustically, then quickly became grave again. 'No, the boy crossed at only one point — the small bridge down river fully in sight of where the accused was fishing. It was there that their fatal meeting took place — and it was also there that the accused relentlessly assaulted the boy and left him for dead. A cold, merciless act perpetrated by only one person, who sits before you now — the accused, Gaston Machanaud.'
Perrimond finished by asking for the harshest possible sentence, that it was ridiculous to consider anything but a guilty verdict on premeditated murder, anything less would not be doing service to themselves, justice, or to the memory of the young boy '…Who can now only beg for justice silently from the grave. And trust that in your hearts and souls you will make the right judgement.'
Perrimond closed his eyes briefly and nodded as he sat down, as if concluding a prayer, and left the floor to Molet.
'No blood. No fibres. No semen. Not a single thing that links my client to the crime scene itself. I just want you to remember that when you sentence him to be hanged!' Molet surveyed the jury, audibly drawing breath. 'Except the fact that he was there. There at the time fishing, poaching — as he had been so many times in the past. And yes, the prosecution is right — I am going to suggest that someone else came along and committed this crime. Because that is exactly what happened.'
Molet paced to one side. 'A thorough police investigation that discounted all other possibilities? This is the same investigative team that could not even enter a change in car description accurately from one day to the next. That when confronted started clinging to the excuse that my client was drunk to hide their error. A vital change not even entered at instruction — that the examining magistrate openly admonished them over. Yet we are supposed to believe that they conducted a thorough investigation. One that eliminated all other possibilities. When they could not even pass a bit of vital evidence from one stage to the next when it was laid on a plate before them!'
'I think the police merely latched onto the first obvious target, my client, and have been constructing a case out of thin air ever since. One built on a single circumstance — that he was there. And not a single fact or piece of concrete evidence to support this circumstance. What are we all doing here? How could we all have been dragged this far on such a pitiful illusion? A harmless poacher and local drunkard who one day, suddenly, decides to molest and kill a young boy. No history of molesting young boys, no sexual predilections in that area whatsoever — yet we are supposed to believe that this day, this one day, all reason and normal instincts were suddenly thrown to the wind. Unbelievable! How did the prosecution even raise the audacity to try and get us to swallow such a ridiculous story.'
'So let us think afresh — what are we left with? Let us strip away all the ridiculous coincidences slotted into place by the police and the prosecution — and see what we are left with. A simple man with a long history of poaching and no history whatsoever of harming young boys. We ask him what he was doing that day? What do you think is the most likely explanation? That, as he claims, he was poaching, or the more ludicrous suggestion that then starts to stretch all precepts of credible thinking — that he suddenly broke with past form and harmed this young boy. Because that, exactly that, is what is being suggested today.'
Molet waved one arm dramatically. 'Even what the prosecution are asking for here today and the evidence they are providing in support are at odds. On one hand, they want you to believe that this was a cold blooded, premeditated murder. On the other, they would have you believe — from the various witnesses they have produced — that the accused is mad half the time and drunk the rest. A complete oddball and misfit. A village idiot who can hardly premeditate his life from one day to the next. Let alone plan a murder like this — so meticulously in fact that the police and a whole team of forensics could not find a single trace of evidence.' Molet slowly shook his head. 'The two just don't go together. The only honesty you have seen here today was just before lunch: Gaston Machanaud's old resistance colleague and the army doctor. That is the real Gaston Machanaud. The resistance fighter who fought bravely for his country, suffered an horrific injury that still plagues him as a consequence, and is now just left with a few fond tales to tell in the local bars. This is the man that the prosecution wants you to hang. Pathetic!'