Molet drew a long and tired breath. 'Yet I had to fight with my client to bring them here today and to the earlier instruction — even though it was the only way to bring some honesty to this whole charade. Introduce the charge that, if anything at all, my client should be facing — manslaughter. Manslaughter due to diminished responsibility. It is outrageous that any other charge should have even been discussed today.’
Molet looked down; reluctant dismay. ‘But in doing so, I have partly turned my back on what I believe: that my client is innocent. That only one thing is true about the prosecution's claim — he was there. Nothing more. No blood. No semen. No fibres. No scheming individual who could successfully hide those elements. And no reasonable explanation from the prosecution of what he was doing there that afternoon — except the one he gave himself. That he was there fishing. As he had been so many afternoons before.'
Molet nodded in turn to the jury and the three judges and sat down.
The jury returned after almost two hours. Between the nine jurors and three judges the votes — counted painstakingly by the greffier and then passed to Griervaut to announce — were 7 to 5 not guilty of premeditated murder, 9 to 3 guilty of manslaughter.
Molet felt a twinge of disappointment at no aquittal, followed quickly by relief: it could have been worse. Much worse. But Machanaud looked destroyed. Molet knew from the earlier instruction when he fought with Machanaud over getting the lesser charge introduced, that Machanaud would probably never understand, or accept. Understandable for someone who was probably innocent. Despite his strong closing arguments, Molet knew how strongly the jury had been swayed by much of the prosecution's presentation and witnesses, and that without the mid-ground of the lesser charge they would probably have found Machanaud guilty of premeditated murder.
Because the charge for manslaughter partly hinged on diminished responsibility, Judge Griervaut raised the subject of medical and psychiatric assessment. Molet argued for private assessment, while Perrimond predictably argued for state assessment. After consultation with his two assessing judges, Griervaut cleared his throat summarily and looked up to pass final sentence: That Machanaud be detained in prison for no less than six years, and that he be treated and assessed twice each year by a state psychiatrist. 'At the end of that period, if not deemed to be mentally fit, he should be released to the care of a state psychiatric hospital where he would undergo suitable treatment until fit for release.'
At the outside Machanaud would do the full six with maybe another year in an institution, Molet considered. If things went well, he could get parole in four years and be cleared to leave immediately. What Molet hadn't noticed was the look that passed between Perrimond and one of the assessing judges when they were deliberating on the issue of state or private psychiatric assessment. All that struck him as odd was Perrimond's slight smile when the final judgement was passed down. A strange reaction to what surely must have been considered mostly a defeat by Perrimond.
TWENTY-ONE
Marinella Calvan was still adjusting after the long flight, and the wine had made her feel sleepy. She held one hand up to indicate half a glass more was enough as David Lambourne poured. 'Where did you find Philippe?' she asked.
'London School of Economics, just down the road. He's not an official translator — just a French student on a social sciences course. But his English is almost word perfect and he's all I could find at such short notice with a south of France background.'
'How old is he?'
'Twenty-four. He's from a small village in the Alpes-Maritimes: Peyroules.'
They'd spent just over an hour in Lambourne's office going over the case before retiring to a small bistro close by. They'd already agreed the only French spoken would be between the patient and the translator. One voice with questions. Marinella would tap them out to appear on a computer screen; Philippe would then pose the questions and tap out the answers in English on the same screen. The session for them would be a series of on-screen questions and answers in English. It was the only way to avoid distraction and confusion.
'Will his knowledge of patois from the fifties and sixties for that region be good enough?'
'It hasn't changed that much according to him. Especially in the inland villages.'
Marinella nodded and sipped her wine. Earlier they'd discussed what Lambourne had discovered through the Capels: Eyran's grades for French were average, there had been one or two holidays to France, but no school exchanges or long stays. Eyran's french was at 'La plume de ma tante' stage. She'd already gained the main background of the Capels, and now filled the gaps. Some details, such as how long they'd been married, Lambourne didn't know. The only thing to cause a chink of concern was Lambourne's flippant remark that the area where they lived, East Grinstead, was 'home to more fringe religious groups than any other part of the country.' When pressed, Lambourne assured her that 'they were normal. Lapsed Church of England.'
Still, she asked the obvious. 'Do you think they could have staged all this?' She knew that it was one of the first questions she'd be asked by sceptics. Advertising executive. Vivid imagination. From an area noted for fringe religions. In no time the media would have them taped as weirdoes from some obscure cult which not only believed in reincarnation, but that we all live concurrent lives in different dimensions.
'No, I don't think so. If anything, they were reluctant to enter Eyran into the sessions. Certainly Stuart Capel at least. He admitted that he should have taken Torrens' advice earlier and entered Eyran into counselling almost straightaway. He delayed hoping that Eyran might improve in his own time.'
'Torrens?' The name struck a faint chord, but Marinella couldn't recall from where.
'The doctor from California who operated on Eyran and treated him during his coma. He made an initial report recommending Eyran should have psychiatric counselling. Not only due to the loss of his parents, but assessment of impairment after the coma. The boy was under almost three weeks.'
'Have you got a copy of Torrens' report?'
'Yes.'
'Good, good. That will help enormously.' Couldn't be better. Counselling initially recommended by a Stateside doctor.
'Us or the boy?'
Marinella calmed her enthusiasm and bit her lip lightly at Lambourne's frown. 'I'm sorry. That probably sounded a bit callous.' Their aims were at odds, she realized. His was to cure the boy, hers was to prove an authentic regression. Only where the regression might help the main subject did they coincide. But grandstanding her own aims above his had been insensitive. She smiled. 'You know, Donaldson always warned me about playing to the gallery. That each time it would land me in trouble. But it's unbelievable what we have to put up with when we get things wrong.' She went on to explain how their critics, many of them from within the profession, sat on the sideline like vultures waiting for them to footfault. 'One bad case, one falsehood we fail to uncover before them, and our credibility can be set back years. Suddenly everything we're doing is false. Questions at each corner, the threat of departmental budget cuts… "Why didn't you find that out before… Is your next case going to be like the so and so fiasco?" It's no wonder we become paranoid, lose sight of other objectives. I'm sorry.'