Our justice is a reflection of society. It is not always just: it is a perverted fairness, as the human soul can be. John Grisham
With Kevin torn away from them, his mother, outraged by this unjust decision, decided to launch a legal battle to get her child back. She immediately hired a lawyer within her meager means: an unknown, barely more reputable than a court-appointed lawyer. She obviously couldn't afford to aim any higher; Kevin's medical bills had already cost them more than enough—her, with her meager primary school teacher's salary, and her husband, who worked two jobs to cope.
Once the legal proceedings were launched, they naturally drew public attention: sympathetic looks toward a mother deprived of her son, but above all hateful people, who saw in this attempt nothing but a selfish and inappropriate act endangering the miracle child. The press, as usual, was already doing everything it could to discredit them.
Legal proceedings are rather long in France, because of a clogged system that is itself the result of blatant incompetence. As if it had to be long and grueling to judge cases like that of a little girl barely ten years old killed on her way home from school by some deranged person. As if a mass murderer or a terrorist still had the right to fair justice.
Just recently, a young girl named Léa had been raped and killed by a 50-year-old man, but this man had been committed rather than imprisoned. He had been diagnosed with so-called mental disorders, which had allowed him to calmly avoid prison and be housed in a brand-new psychiatric hospital funded by the victim's parents through their taxes. No doubt the parents were delighted to learn that the man who had raped and killed their daughter was being housed and fed for free at their expense.
After all, that is the rule of law: a system in which monsters and the corrupt can get off lightly. However the father who had lost his daughter turned the question over, he would have to keep working and paying taxes to feed a rapist and a murderer. That year, in that psychiatric hospital, the patients got to enjoy a nice Christmas turkey. For the parents, that Christmas, all that remained was a scar named Léa that would never go away, engraved in their already wounded flesh.
Justice must be rendered to men, not to the monsters who have taken on their appearance.
It took nine months between the filing of the complaint and the judgment, during which Kevin's family had been allowed no contact with him at all, as if they were monsters who had mistreated their child, which was not the case. On the day of the hearing, before entering the building, Kevin's mother was mobbed by countless journalists.
"Ma'am, a word, please?"
"No!"
"Ma'am, come on, what's stopping you from talking to us, and what about freedom of the press?"
She turned toward the journalist in question, her eyes full of bitterness, ready to rip out his viper's tongue.
"Why should I speak to rats like you? And to think I pay taxes for people like you who spit in my face! You made us look selfish and irresponsible! What's the next step? Are you going to make me out to be a racist, a piece of trash, a violent woman in your next article?"
The journalist, intimidated, stepped back, stammering:
"Ah… But no, come on, ma'am…"
"Ha, ha! Yes, you have to, otherwise your shitty article will never come out! Are you going to write that I'm a good woman?"
"N… No, not necessarily, but…"
"Ah, you see, your article is already written! I have nothing more to say to you!" she declared, walking away.
She entered the courthouse with a knot in her stomach. She was afraid of losing, even though in theory the law was on her side. But she was taking on the State, the French government, the very one that had taken her child on the grounds that it wanted to protect him. For he was a miracle, practically considered a national treasure, and treasures often bring in a great deal. That is why people do everything they can to keep their piece of the pie.
Finally, everyone entered the courtroom and the two parties took their seats. The State's lawyer wore an elegant suit and a confident smile. His name was Mr. Dupo, a renowned lawyer who had never lost a single case in his career.
Of course, his fees matched his reputation; he billed around ten thousand euros a day. But that wasn't a problem: the State was paying for this renowned lawyer to face a complete unknown, whom Kevin's mother had barely been able to afford with her meager finances.
Dupo was a man who had defended many politicians in cases of corruption and even sexual assault. And, as if that weren't enough, he was the one who had defended the 50-year-old man who had killed little Léa, and he had congratulated himself that his supposedly sick client could receive proper care. Some nicknamed him the man who plays table soccer with criminals. Or, more commonly, "the devil's advocate."
The hearing began when the judge took his seat, looking serious. Then the lawyers presented the facts and the evidence they had gathered, launching into numerous eloquent verbal jousts, arguments and counterarguments flying from both sides. Of course, there was also testimony from the family.
Their lawyer showed that it was partly because of the media and numerous political, religious and other public figures that their daily life had become hellish, and that through their influence, they had created an unhealthy climate of hatred against them, which could, in the eyes of the law, be considered harassment. However, despite all the arguments in their favor, the judge seemed stoic, as if their good faith did not interest him.
The lawyer pointed out, for example, the State's suspicious negligence: if it wanted to protect the child, why had it waited for something to happen before acting? From the very first incident, it could have set up security to protect him while keeping him close to his family, and silenced the media that were fueling the anger against this poor family who had asked for nothing. And yet that had not been the case, which raised certain questions.
The session dragged on for grueling hours, during which the opposing lawyer, and even the judge, allowed themselves to hurl invective at her. The judge clearly seemed to take sides throughout the session. At the end, the lawyers began their carefully prepared closing arguments.
And in the end she lost the case, the judge ruling in favor of the State, and Kevin's mother couldn't even appeal for lack of means. The justice that was supposed to be rendered to her was taken from her, just like her son.
In the press, one could read this headline: "The selfish, hot-tempered woman has lost once again."
There can be neither justice nor freedom as long as money is always king. Albert Camus
POV Marie
Since Kevin had been taken from us once again, my mother now stayed shut away in her room, lying in her bed. She had been cloistered there for more than a month, no longer going to work, eating very little, completely neglecting the household. All of this was more than understandable, since people had hounded her when all she wanted was to defend and take care of her son. And in the end, despite all her efforts, her son had been taken from her anyway—from her, who was such a good mother.
When I went into her room, my heart ached painfully. I saw her looking at the ceiling or the walls as if she were staring right through them, and yet her gaze was horribly empty. On top of that, she had large dark circles under her eyes, and her beautiful cheeks were furrowed. Those furrows had been carved by all the tears she had shed.
She had probably never stopped crying, and it had left marks on her usually so radiant face. What's more, she had already lost a few kilos, which made her look even more miserable. I understood all this only too well: it was a feeling of loss and, above all, a mother's suffering.
If nothing surpasses the joys of maternal love, nothing surpasses its sorrows either. Jean-Benjamin de Laborde (1791)
Unable to let my mother waste away, I decided to bring her meals, meals I prepared myself. To do that, I followed the instructions in the cookbooks, all lined up on a well-stocked white shelf. They were books my uncle had regularly sent my mother when she was a student.
That was how she had learned to cook like a chef, or so she had told us. But today, it was me those books were teaching, and I hoped they would make a chef out of me too. I followed every step to the letter without missing anything, leaving the kitchen in a terrible state. After all, I was still young. And when I brought her the dishes, she smiled at me, making me smile with pride.
She would take a few bites, which she seemed to enjoy, and always thanked me, never leaving anything on the plate. Then again, how could she refuse what her daughter had lovingly prepared for her?
With the food question settled, all that was needed was for time to close her wound. The only problem was the kitchen, which I always left like a battlefield, but when my father came home, he would smile at me and then always clean up for me. He had done it from the very first day, without ever scolding me, before taking a shower and then joining my mother in bed.
I don't really know what my father was thinking: was he angry, sad, happy? How was he dealing with this situation, with his son taken from him once again? And for that matter, what was I to think of him, of the very man I called father? From my point of view, he was a distant and very self-effacing man, rather mysterious all in all, even to me, his own daughter. But he could show great tenderness, more with Yan and me than with Kevin.
With Kevin, he seemed much more distant, much colder, and I never understood why. Did he love Kevin less? No, certainly not. Were the ordeals we were going through too hard? Maybe. Was that a reason to act that way? Of course not. Whatever the ordeals, a man, a father, must play his role and not give the impression that he might vanish at any moment.
He had walled himself off so much in his work that we almost never saw him, as if his work were his family, when we needed him at every important moment, needed him to be there to help us, needed our troubles to be his troubles too. And yet all of it seemed to slide off him like water off an umbrella in a downpour.
I don't know how Mom could have chosen him. What was so special about him, and had he always been like this? Those were questions burning on my lips; one day, I'll probably have the answer. But for now, despite a few rare moments of presence and happiness, he looked more like a scarecrow than a father.
A good father endures every hardship for the good of his family.
My mother bedridden, my ghost of a father sometimes there, sometimes not: three months had passed. That day, I was bringing my mother her meal. She was waiting for me as usual. While she ate, I stayed with her to keep her company. It did us both good and gave us a chance to talk about my days. The furrows on her cheeks were less pronounced than at the beginning: she was recovering at her own pace. She always apologized for staying shut away in bed.
"Marie, I'm sorry you have to see me like this."
"Mom, take your time, rest as much as you want."
That was what I told her every time. I couldn't hold it against her, and I never will. A child's role is also to be a comfort to their parents when they need it. So until she got better, as her daughter, I would take her place.
Children who are raised, cherished and loved will understand the importance of the word parent and will return, without counting, the love they were given.
I now took care of the household chores, from the laundry to tidying up. I also took care of my little brother, of course, dressing him and walking him to school. Fortunately, it was close to mine. This routine lasted six months. Over time, I started cleaning up myself after cooking, my father only taking me grocery shopping. I was like a little madwoman, telling him what to buy so I could make new recipes, the cart filling up quickly.
He always agreed, without a word of protest, with a little smile. He even seemed happy to spend time with me. His routine changed slightly: before joining my mother, he now came to taste the dishes I had prepared. He usually ate at work before coming home, but that had changed, I don't really know why.
He often complimented me then, his mouth and stomach always full, his cheeks as round as a squirrel's, and my little brother did the same, always asking for more food with his fork in the air and crumbs at the corners of his lips. At first, Yan was a little lost because Mom was around less, but he got used to it and our relationship grew.
We spent our free time watching TV and playing together. We often did it in our mother's room, and she also gladly helped us with our homework. And I could see that little by little she was getting better, because we showed her our presence and our love.
Three more months passed, during which I began helping my father clean up after my sessions in the kitchen. My mother slowly began getting out of bed to join us for meals. In the end, it had been more than a year since we had seen Kevin. It weighed on us, but there was nothing more we could do.
"I hope you're okay," I whispered.
***
At the very moment I was having that thought, in a terrifying darkness, a young boy was crying, screaming. His piercing scream seemed to tear through the air; his mind was on the verge of breaking.
"Ahhh, make it stop, please!"