The procureur laughed, genuinely amused. “Guadeloupe is a powder keg—and Paris is terrified of the smallest spark, at the slightest hint of terrorist activity. As soon as Raymond Calais was found dead—within an hour of my getting back from Sainte Anne—Paris was screaming down the phone.”
“There’s no reason to assume Calais was assassinated for political motives. That was his own theory. It suited him. Calais liked the idea of martyrdom—but that doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“Guadeloupe’s little more than a colony—or at least, that’s how it appears to other nations in the Caribbean.”
Maître Legrand said, “Nations such as Cuba.”
The procureur went on, “You see, madame le juge, Paris’s terrified by the prospect of unrest here. They still haven’t forgotten the riots of ’67, and the last thing Paris wants—that Giscard wants—is bad press. There is no surer way of catching the international headlines than with killings. Political stability—that’s all that France asks for. Next May, France votes for a president, and Guadeloupe votes, too. Terrorist activity—particularly a political killing—is extremely dangerous and unwelcome. Other countries start to ask questions, and a spot in the Atlantic suddenly becomes a suppurating abscess. People want to know how an old slave island with an African population can be part of the French Republic. In the United Nations, the decolonization committee starts braying—and the corrupt governments of South America can divert attention from their own problems by denouncing France’s intolerable colonialism.”
Trousseau yawned.
“And here, there is the danger of an immediate radicalization. Like in ’67. Everything becomes either black or white. Either you’re for France—or you’re against her. That, madame le juge, can bring about a very nasty backlash.”
“Situations can be manipulated,” Maître Legrand added.
“Paris wanted to send their own men, madame le juge.” The procureur lowered his head. “I informed Paris you’d been given the dossier, and that I had complete faith in your competence. I said there was no need to send any of their own men, but there are people in Paris who consider Calais a very important man. People who are far from happy about this turn of events.”
“Their own men?” Anne Marie asked. “Whose own men?”
“If Raymond Calais’s murder’s political—he was, let’s not forget, a member of the Conseil Général—it’s no longer under the jurisdiction of the parquet—under my jurisdiction. The integrity of the State’s threatened, and the affair becomes the responsibility of the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat. Paris wanted to know whether they should send men.” A slow smile. “Detectives who are specialized in crimes that affect the integrity of the State. Political crimes.” The smile was soon replaced by a frown that wrinkled the procureur’s features. “You know the Cour de Sûreté has its own investigating magistrates?”
“Three of them.”
“Some people believe the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat should be abolished. Including Monsieur Mitterand and his Socialist friends.” Maître Legrand adopted the tone of a lawyer addressing the bar. “The existence of a specialized court—and a court that can be convened in camera—goes against the Republican ideal of equal justice for everyone.” She tapped her hair. “Regrettably, these same people forget the Republic has a long tradition of unrest—at home and in the colonies. A long tradition of turmoil and political violence.” She folded her arms. “Such a court is a necessity.”
The procureur nodded. “It’d be best for everyone concerned to wrap up the Hégésippe Bray affair here and now—without outside interference.”
The perfume and the tobacco smoke were oppressive, despite the chill air. Anne Marie poured another glass of water from the Evian bottle. “Wrap it up in what way?”
“Either that or have it taken out of your hands.”
“You want me to say Hégésippe Bray murdered Calais?”
The procureur and Anne Marie looked at each other in silence.
“Why not, madame?”
“It’s not my job to attribute guilt where it’s politically suitable—where you, monsieur le procureur, believe it’s politically suitable.”
Maître Legrand moved her shoulders to face Anne Marie. “Madame le juge, how long have you been in Guadeloupe?”
“Since August last year.”
“In that time—just over a year—do you think you have learned all you need to know about Guadeloupe?”
Anne Marie could feel anger pricking at the corners of her eyes.
“Answer the question, madame le juge.” The procureur leaned forward and his hand touched hers. “Please.”
“How long I’ve lived here cannot affect my appreciation of justice. Justice does not differ from one country to another.”
The procureur held up his hand. “You’re European—a very attractive woman—and very intelligent and dynamic.”
“You’re most kind.”
“But you didn’t grow up here,” Maître Legrand said. “Although you have a husband who is from Guadeloupe—whom I had the pleasure of teaching at the university—there are certain things that happen here in this département—things you really don’t understand.”
“We’re a strange people, and in its funny way, Guadeloupe’s a world of its own, with its own peculiar mix of cultures—of Amerindian, African and European.” The procureur plucked at the inside of his wrist. “My skin is pale as you can see, but in my veins, I have the blood of a slave.” He laughed. “I never worked on a plantation or toiled in the fields of cane. I also have French blood—but my origins are in Africa, where my forebears were snatched away so they could toil in a white man’s land. Africa’s where I am from—but it is not where I am going.” He tapped the armrest of his chair. “My future is with France. Guadeloupe and France have more than three hundred years of shared history—so why should we want to go back on our past? We’re what our history has made us. Inextricably, France and her Caribbean islands are tied together. We’re married, for better or for worse.” A soft smile. “It is a marriage that works.”
Maître Legrand nodded.
“Madame le juge, here in Guadeloupe we speak French, and we admire the French people—because we are the same people, with the same culture and the same civilized heritage.” He held up his finger. “Don’t smile. These are things which I believe sincerely—not only with my reason but also in my heart. There are so many things that cannot be forgotten. The men from this island who died in the Great War. And in the second war, too, we rallied to the flag, we rallied to de Gaulle.” The procureur lowered his voice. “In thanks, when the last Nazi enemy had been defeated, the last outsider chased from the soil of France, the French people, in a genuine gratitude, transformed this old sugar colony into a département. An overseas département.”