LA MAISON DU DÉLICE
PAUL HAWORTH
EIGHT
A judge in a white wig and fur-lined robes - something straight out of the 18th century - sits on a throne. There are benches, galleries, docks - all made of wood - and a stairwell from which the accused emerges to much banging of gavels and cries of ‘Orderrrrrr!’
That was how I pictured Court. This, admittedly very British vision, had misled me. The ‘international court’ at Délice was a room. A drab one at that. It possessed no grandeur, no pomp, nothing that gave the impression of an omniscient, divinely-guided hand of Law.
That it was so very devoid of drama could be why I didn’t respect it or feel in any way involved in proceedings. During hearings, I was only ever bored or tired, except when I was bored and tired. I’d zone out for hours. Or stare at the wall where there hung two prints. One was a René Magritte. The classic image of a pipe above the caption: Ceci n’est pas une pipe. The other was a Cézanne. A painting of that hill he studied over and over - its peak only ever always in the distance.
But, as this was my last time there, I had a sense of, if not urgency, then attention.
Blinds were down. Fluorescent strip lamps at full interrogation level. (Everyone’s suits positively radiated green.) There were two tables, one for each side, and a row of seats against the wall. This constituted the ‘public gallery’, not that anyone ever came. The secretary sat at a small desk by the door. There was a flatscreen TV on a stand. And that was about it. International court. In no way glamorous, nor edifying. It wasn’t even intimidating. It had an unloved aura, like that of a classroom - yes - it reminded me of the semi-basement classrooms you peer inside on walks through central London universities.
The opposition were set. Papers, laptops, water jug and glasses, everything neat and ordered.
Meanwhile, Joep fussed over his bag, struggling to unbuckle it. Finally, he pulled out a packet of mints. He offered one to me (I refused), and then to the opposition (they refused). He popped one in his mouth and proceeded to have a miniature choking episode.
Merde.
The secretary switched on the TV. The screen was blue. Using the remote control, he scrolled channels until it showed a room, not dissimilar to this one. At the centre was an empty chair, soon to be occupied by the judge.
This was a show trial, in every sense of the term, but no one was watching and the dramaturge had decided against providing any showmanship. It was Roland who theorised in our correspondence that I was being used as a test case to establish Freerish Law. Preposterous, I initially thought (when would I learn to trust implicitly everything Roland said?) but it wasn’t long before I began to recognise method in the madness...
My guilt: clear as day - but the prosecution did everything to make it as clear as mud. If there were any international legislation or bureaucracy to founder against, they found it. They even made preemptive claims against me suing for wrongful arrest and kidnapping. This turned proceedings into a play-within-play format with Sir Rufus and his team like an improv troupe performing all the parts in a legal hearing. I suppose this was necessary because they received virtually zero opposition from Joep and I. The only area I offered some pushback was in my appeal to move the court outside of Switzerland on health grounds. Well. They had a field day with ‘Anthrophobie Suisse’ - bringing in medical professionals (i.e. Big Pharma stooges) to debunk my condition.
And so this trifle was collided with embassies, governments, businesses. Anything to disperse the shrapnel of Freerish law across Swiss, British, American, Chinese and Australian jurisdictions. Roland’s hypothesis: to create precedence for future legal battles, including the biggest of them all, the battle for Freerish self-determination.
I slumped in my chair awaiting Judge Burov’s arrival in the St. Petersburg chamber from which he presided. The opposition were a picture of patience and professionalism, while my man fretted through his papers in search of who knew what. Judge Burov always took his time. We could expect to wait for five, ten, sometimes fifteen minutes.
Something most unexpected then happened.
Knock knock.
There was someone at the door.