When Birna took the stand late on Wednesday morning, he felt suddenly quite ill. She sat there, looking immaculate in a blue and white dress, her face, hair, skin – all flawless beauty, and her momentary gaze towards him – not soft and vulnerable as it had been temporarily in his bed that night, but tough and empty.
‘Yes, I was Blake’s friend at the start of summer. But later, I began to worry about him. Since the time he was arrested, he has wanted to speak to me with a persistence that made me instinctively turn away. I am not saying that I believe he is a killer. I really don’t know about that. But I don’t feel comfortable with him anymore.’
‘He was obsessive, do you think?’ asked the procureur.
She nodded, dropping her head and looking suddenly injured, vulnerable.
‘He kept asking me to meet him; he sent me numerous texts and pleaded with me. The last time we met, I felt quite threatened. He was yelling at me in the street about a photograph he had seen in a shop, which he said was of me and my step-brother. But this is nonsense! I had to hurry to get away from him.’
Blake was out of his seat. ‘Why do you say that?’ he shouted, unable to stand her turnabout. ‘That’s just so bullshit! We met again after that, remember?’
‘The suspect is to remain silent!’ the président roared, banging his hand hard down on the bench. And then in a softer tone, no less damning for its message, he added: ‘You don’t help your cause by cursing in the courtroom.’ The translation of the message echoed slowly around the room. Was there a delay effect on the microphone? Was there an attempt, through electronics, to give the room the audio ambience of a larger courtroom from a bygone age? If so, it was yet another example of the bizarre nature of the French judicial system. Almost as strange as this creature before him, so angelic in appearance and so deceitful in nature! He could almost sense the smirk in the tiniest movement of her left eye, a look for him alone. Or, was it a glimpse of something kinder and more regretful, like a warning that he should not go there? That exposing the two of them would not help his case?
‘Yes, your honour,’ Blake’s defence spoke on his behalf. ‘My client is under some stress and apologises for his interventions. I request that we have a short break so that I may counsel him, and the court resume in an orderly manner afterwards.’
‘Granted,’ the judge replied, standing magnificently, centre-stage, and striding out stage left. ‘We will commence again on the hour.’
Blake was silent throughout the rest of Birna’s testimony, which began again with a calmer, detailed view of how they had met and the nature of their relationship. Under examination, she admitted to having had an intimate relationship with Blake and this assisted to build a context in which Blake might have sought her companionship after he had been charged with the offence. There was no mention made of her stepbrother Jonas again, though Blake felt sure that this was important. He understood that the mechanism of cross-examination didn’t exist in a French criminal trial and he was utterly perplexed by this. This would mean that his own statement would have to cover speculations that he would rather have come from his lawyer and the witness herself. The main focus of the witness as seen from the state’s perspective was that she had discovered the body of Michel Genet on the morning after his murder, and that while not directly accusing him of anything, her picture of Blake’s obsession over her was damaging. It was a statement that formed a strong part of his being represented as a jealous, manipulative, dangerous and deceptive would-be writer.
In fairness, the testimony of Louis Penne, Charles and Christiane Martin, Brigitte Millet and Andrew Ross was much more balanced, with the questions directed to them just as much about Michel Genet as they were about Blake. Blake was nevertheless surprised at the speed of the statements, which were read with only a few questions asked to clarify key points. In the recess, his lawyer had informed him that on Thursday the police would speak, as well as statements to be presented from the Sciences – Forensics, Toxicology – as well as Psychology. So, it was up to Blake himself to speak on behalf of the Arts – those slippery human forms of creativity that defy the logic of the state apparatuses. In his quiet moments, Blake began to compose his riposte, as the words of witnesses were spoken and translated – words that echoed around the beautiful walls of the courtroom, so quiet and reasonable in their tone.
When the courtroom was cleared, he sat with his head in his hands as the président and the two other judges weighed up his application for maintaining bail. There was much discussion; he gave up trying to follow and put his hand up to stop the incessant translated whisperings in his ear. At 6.05 p.m., he learned that bail had indeed been granted, or re-granted. He walked outside to a cold wind and the flash of photographers. His parents walked grimly by his side, his father almost lunging at one photographer whose lens had been thrust towards his face. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen – she had apparently left straight away for a hotel somewhere in Orange. They were followed down the steps, and across the road to where they had left the BX. Blake’s father took the wheel and applied a little too much acceleration. The machine backfired gloriously on the journalists, one of whom captured the image as emblematic of Blake Knox as a misguided, unfortunate intellectual. The same photograph was used for several days in The Guardian along with a full reported transcript of Knox’s self-defence.