Chapter 8 - The Courtroom of Mirrors
The Palais de Justice in Clermont-Ferrand was surrounded by a wall of cameras and security guards when the black sedan pulled up to the rear entrance. Julien stepped out first, his umbrella held high against the driving rain, his body positioned to block Chloé from the flashbulbs of the photographers who were shouting her name through the iron railings.
The deposition was held in the judge’s private chambers—a large, wood-paneled room with high ceilings, heavy velvet curtains, and a long table made of dark walnut. There was no witness stand, no crowded gallery. Just the magistrate, a court reporter, the state prosecutor, and the two defense attorneys.
Marc sat at the end of the table, flanked by two armed prison guards. He was wearing a standard grey prison tracksuit, his wrists secured by a belly chain that rattled every time he shifted his weight. His massive frame looked out of place in the elegant room, but his presence was still a dark, heavy shadow that seemed to drain the warmth from the air.
Sophie was not present; her trial had been severed from Marc’s due to her medical condition and her full confession.
Chloé walked into the room holding Julien’s hand. She didn't look at the judge or the lawyers. Her blue eyes locked instantly onto Marc’s face.
Marc leaned forward, his thick lips parting into that same, slow smile he had used on the day of his arrest. He let out a low, wet click of his tongue—the exact sound he used to make when he brought the dirty blanket to the cage.
Chloé’s hand went completely limp in Julien’s grip. She stumbled back half a step, her breath catching in her throat.
"Monsieur Vasseur," the magistrate, Judge Renard, said with a sharp, iron severity. "You will maintain absolute silence and look at the wall behind you, or you will be removed from this chamber immediately and your counsel will proceed without you."
Marc shrugged, his chain rattling as he turned his head away, though his smile remained fixed.
The defense attorney, a sharp, thin man named Maître Dupont, stood up, adjusting his silver-rimmed glasses. He looked at Chloé with a calculated, professional softness that Julien knew was entirely predatory.
"Chloé," Dupont said, leaning against the table. "You told the police that you saw Marc carrying black bags to the pool at night. But it was very dark in the garden, wasn't it? And you were very tired from playing outside. Isn't it possible that you saw him carrying regular bags of garden waste? The weeds were very long, after all."
Chloé looked at the attorney, then at her father. Julien gave her a slow, encouraging nod, his hand resting flat on the walnut table where she could see his bandaged palm—the scar she had helped him heal.
Chloé took a deep breath, her small shoulders squaring beneath her green sweater.
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"The weeds don't have hair, Monsieur," she said, her voice clear, resonant, and entirely steady as it echoed through the high-ceilinged room. "And garden waste doesn't make Mommy cry in the kitchen while she tries to wash the red shoes with bleach. I saw the ropes. I saw the way Marc tied the plastic knots. And when he put me in the cage, he told me that if I didn't keep my mouth shut, he would use the last bag on me. I didn't lie. Marc is the one who lies. He told the neighbors we were on vacation, but we were just in the dark."
The court reporter’s fingers flew across the machine, the rapid clack-clack-clack the only sound in the room as Chloé’s words were entered into the permanent, unalterable record of the state. Maître Dupont slowly sat down, his face pale, his legal brief remaining open but untouched on the table in front of him. He didn't ask another question.
