Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

“This is an outrageous scandal,” the plaintiff's lawyer is saying. The same sickly-looking redheaded lawyer. “We already warned the court that this could happen. We already offered evidence that the defendant is involved with organized crime. And things have been allowed to go this far.” He points to Carlos Chicote, head of the International Division of LORENZO GIRAUT, LTD., who is sitting in the witness area. Chicote's terrified, overwrought face is an attempt to smile sycophantically. “The witness is shaking like a leaf. I wouldn't be surprised if he was being threatened by someone in this very room. And basically trying to sabotage this trial. When we have sworn declarations implicating the accused. Your Honor, this hearing must be suspended. Investigations must be made into this.” The plaintiff's redheaded lawyer makes a gesture as if loosening his tie without actually loosening it. “I'm talking about an in-depth investigation of the defense's methods.”

It appears that Giraut's lawyer is carrying out a series of ambiguous movements with his hand in his crotch area. Giraut doesn't see any female near the platform that could hypothetically be associated with those movements. The rings that the lawyer's wearing on his dark hairy hands somehow accentuate the overall lasciviousness of his appearance. Thick heavy gold rings. His little neat beard, like Peter Gabriel's in the eighties, also accentuates his lascivious air. Marcia Parini smiles nervously at Giraut and waves. From the witness bench. Most of the audience seems to be only partly paying attention to what is going on at the front of the courtroom.

“Let's see.” The judge of the District Court now addresses Carlos Chicote. With a frown. The judge seems to be all brow and forehead with no chin. Creating a marked imbalance in his features. “Mr. Chicote, I will remind you that there are written statements. I will remind you that you have signed documents. And that this is a court of law. You say that you don't remember anything. But it is all very clear in here.” He lifts up a couple of files from his judge's table. “Your written declarations are key evidence in this hearing and in the entire process. It is clear that we wouldn't have gotten to this point in the proceedings without them. I quote you a few examples. To refresh your memory,” he says, opening one of the files. His thick glasses don't exactly help to mitigate his top-heavy features. “You state in your declaration: 'Mr. Giraut systematically blocks all the company's international operations. His behavior is erratic and inexplicable. He suffers fits of rage and flaunts his personal reckless spending. He goes through company offices with fewer clothes on than basic professional decorum dictates and often behaves obscenely in front of the female employees. Sometimes he locks himself in his office the whole day and comes out dressed in period clothing.' I am quoting. On page seven of your statement there is a conversation quoted in extenso with the defendant. I'll remind you of just one small part: 'Mr. Giraut called me to his office one day and showed me a series of photographs of his friend V.P. and other underage girls between six and thirteen years old. He made sexual insinuations about the girls and told me that a child's beauty was the most exquisite kind. He said it was a shame that society only accepted one kind of love and that if some of the things he had done came to light he would be sent to jail.'”

The judge with the top-heavy face lifts his brow and forehead from the paper he is reading and looks at Chicote with his eyes slightly squinted behind his thick glasses.

“It sounds like a story that would be hard to forget, Mr. Chicote,” he says. “It's very strange that your memory has deteriorated so much. Do you still state for the record that you don't remember anything?”

Lucas Giraut now not only has both hands on the railing of the platform but also his head and the upper part of his torso over it. Looking toward the back of the room. Several members of the public have noticed and turned their heads to try to see what Giraut is looking at. Seeing a flash at the back of the room doesn't necessarily mean that the flash comes from a metal plate on anyone's head. Mistaken associations, after all, are normal in situations of emotional stress. The ethnically ambiguous lawyer could also be from some part of the South Pacific or even North Africa. In his repeated hand movements over his general groin area there are no indications that he is looking at Iris Gonzalvo out of the corner of his eye. Somehow, even though the temperature outside is as cold as a Barcelona winter gets, the atmosphere inside the courtroom is such that everyone has taken off all their outer garments. Many men raise one hand instinctively to the knot in their ties. Marcia Parini fans herself with a magazine she's taken out of her purse. There is no trace of Estefanía Giraut or her lawyer Fonseca in the room. Iris Gonzalvo is wearing a picture hat and dark glasses and a short dress with red tights. The man with the exceptionally large ass sitting next to her is leaning forward, taking notes or writing something in a notebook that rests on his thighs.

“I don't remember anything,” Chicote answers with the same terrified expression. For some reason, the way he answered seems to suggest that he isn't responding to the judge presiding over the District Court, but rather to the smiling face of Aníbal Manta, who is sitting in the first row of the audience. “I'm not saying all those things never happened.” He looks out of the corner of his eye at Aníbal Manta's face. “Of course, I'm not saying that they did either.”

The sweat that drips onto Carlos Chicote's eyelids, forcing him to wipe his eyes every once in a while with the back of his hand, could merely be a product of the heat in the courtroom. Although there is nothing in his appearance that indicates he is in any kind of pain, certain nuances of his expression are reminiscent of the face people make when they've just hurt themselves. The judge is now extending his neck to see something in the back of the room. Many of the audience members have turned to look in the same direction. If Lucas Giraut's butt had any less contact with the chair he would be standing.

“The session must be suspended,” says the plaintiff's lawyer. He makes the gesture again, of loosening his tie without really doing anything to it. He bites the end of his Montblanc fountain pen. “It's the only thing fitting in this situation. To avoid a scandal of unimaginable dimensions. One of those cases that cast shadows on the entire judicial system.” He gestures widely around him with the bitten end of his Montblanc. “This requires an in-depth investigation. It's obvious that witnesses have been pressured. There was also a certain incident a week ago having to do with an extortion note that needs to be looked into. We have to bring to light all of the defendant's schemes and connections to the crime world.”

Except for when he's addressing someone or somehow moving around the complex pile of files that he has on his table, the facially top-heavy judge remains stock-still. Looking at the person or persons who are speaking. Without blinking. Without any visible alterations to his facial musculature. The man with the unbelievably big ass keeps taking notes in his notebook and nodding his head and smiling enigmatically. Like those people that attend a conference or performance and nod and smile to show that they know exactly what is happening and even what is about to happen. The person in the audience with the small white earbuds coming out of his ears isn't the only person in the room wearing earphones. Giraut doesn't see any stenographer transcribing what is going on. Nor does he see magistrates with wigs, nor that stand, which looks vaguely like a cage, that they use for people accused of violent crimes. Maybe there's a special room in the building for violent criminals, with those cagelike stands. Lucas Giraut has never before been the accused party in any judicial proceedings. Before now. Beside him, the non-European lawyer has stood up and is clearing his throat with a brown, ring-filled fist in front of his mouth.