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COURTED

I think I'll go home.

I have chills, aches.
I really don't feel well.

- Not the flu, I hope.
- I'm afraid so.

- Where's the deposition?
- Right there.

I must go to bed.

I'd get under the comforter
and stay there.

All Well?

Good evening, Mr. Racine.

I won't be having dinner
down here tonight.

Can you bring me up some soup
and mineral water?

- Yes, what time?
- Seven.

"Helping Hand"
is a women's rehabilitation center.

For holiday season,
they've set up shop in Dunkerque.

800 items to organize
in less than 24 hours.

A job for "Helping Hand"

with its team of women...

"At 11:45 pm

"Martial Beclin entered the precinct

"rue Gambetta.

"That day in Boulogne-sur-Mer
it rained all day.

"He came to signal the death
of his 7-month-old child.

"Lieutenant Massimet
took his statement."

Relax...
Now tighten your butt cheek.

After this, go back to bed.

Turn up the heat,
sweat it out all night.

Starting tomorrow,
3 days of bed rest.

Impossible. I have a trial
starting tomorrow morning.

- Another rape case?
- A new trial.

Guy kicked
his 7-month-old child to death.

Combat boots.

I'm giving you
just one pack of Captagon.

Careful, no more than 2 a day.

Or you'll be jumping up and down
during the entire trial.

See that guy in the red scarf?

He's the presiding judge.

A ten-up judge.

What is "ten-up"?

With him,
you get at least 10 years.

- Love him or hate him.
- You like him?

Not much.

Good morning, Your Honor.

Sorry, I have the flu.

- Taking anything?
- Yes. So?

Ms. Gerbelle, my assistant.

Your Honor.

I'll have to leave the courtroom
periodically.

- I'm plaintiff for the...
- Fine. Have a good day.

Hello.

- Hello, counselor.
- Are you well?

- Fine and you?
- Getting by...

"At 11:45 pm...

"Martial Beclin
entered the precinct."

Racine had a fitful night.

- Keep a secret?
- Sure, as always.

Around midnight,

Lalanne saw him
leaving a hooker bar.

He couldn't walk straight.

Racine?

But he never drinks.

Of course. Says him!

- No one will miss him.
- Know who'll replace him?

Is the deputy prosecutor right?

Racine left his house
for a hotel?

Not his house.

It's his wife's.

I hear she kicked him out
and not the opposite.

You all got the jury lists?

I'd like another.
I misplaced mine.

I'd like one too, please.

Did you get your jury list?

More women than men.
It'll be tough for you.

Chantal, Florence, Gabrielle...

21 of 35.

First, the legal profession
is feminized...

Defendants aren't being feminized.

9 out of 10 are men.

Just in Criminal.

Here comes Racine,
like an icy wind.

Your Honor...

I caught a bad flu.

No contact, for your own sake.

- You have the flu?
- Since the night before last.

A lot going around.

I had to go out at night,
I was so sick.

To find a pharmacy.

Late-night pharmacies in Saint-Omar
aren't common.

Late-night.

Yes, just before midnight.

So in the end
I went near City Hall...

Pharmacies usually post the names
of late-night ones.

I didn't notice.

- Has the defendant arrived?
- No, I'll tell you.

No need to discuss my flu for hours.

This is the defense side.

Defendant's dock.
His lawyers' seats.

And from here

we can hear
almost everything they say.

There in the center, the presiding
judge surrounded by two associates.

The jurors will sit around them.

On the other side,
the prosecutor.

The one who just came in?

She must be the child's mother.

- Why the wait?
- Ms. Malesherbes is on her way.

Unbelievable.

- Sorry I'm late, sir.
- No, no...

I represent the plaintiff and...

Go in. We're about to begin.
Leave us.

Something to tell me, Fournier?

Nothing, Your Honor.

Why are you staring?

All rise!

Court is now in session.

Officers, show in the defendant.

Remain standing, sir.

Keep the noise
down to a minimum.

If I can't be heard by the defendant,
I'll empty out the courtroom.

Last name, first name,
age, employment and address.

Beclin, Martial...

Look in the direction of the court.

Beclin, Martial.

27 years old, unemployed...

I must ask you again to look
in the direction of the court.

Thank you.

Beclin, Martial. 27 years old.

Unemployed. Boulogne-sur-Mer,
the Bel-Air projects.

Fine, sir. Thank you.

Be seated.

Clerk...

the names of the potential jurors.

Mrs. Jeannette Marot...

The judge is in a lousy mood.

I'd hate to be the defendant.

Mrs Chantal Anon-Lesel.

Here.

- Miss Isabelle Barceau.
- Here.

We just began jury selection.

I know, I got the email.

An immediate reply.
Forward it to Frangois.

Coralie Marciano.

Rejected.

Your Honor?

Defense reached its limit.

They already rejected Ms. Colmart,
Ms. Versati, Ms. Verchuren...

Fine.

Ms. Marciano,
you are now Juror 6.

Clerk, please take note

to update Mr. Jourd'hui
on the trial by text message.

Having noted the remarks

by plaintiff, prosecutor and defense,

and according to Article 296
of the Penal Code,

the court orders, in addition
to the 6 jurors now chosen,

the random selection
of 3 supplementary jurors

who will attend all court dates
until a verdict shall be pronounced.

Ms. Ditte Lorensen-Coteret.

Mr. Serge Debruyne.

The rest of the jury pool
is free till Friday

for the next case.

They may remain in the courtroom
if they wish, or not.

We'll take a 15-minute recess.

Is it normal, such an early break?

- No.
- It's usually later in the morning.

After preliminary,
or character exam.

The preliminary report is
the judge's summary of the charges.

2 kinds of presiding judges:
those who close off debates,

who lay out the facts,
who refer to each deposition,

who use investigative reports
to leave you no wiggle room.

And those
who keep their report very short,

preferring to let the defendant,
witnesses and victim speak.

- They let it play out.
- What kind is ours?

Closing-off kind.

- Closing off?
- I disagree.

He lets discussions play out.

He counts jurors over 60.

That means more pee breaks.

- Pee breaks?
- Important!

In Saint-Omer. At the courthouse.

I was chosen.

For three days.

Is Dr. Leiris nearby?

- Your accent?
- Danish.

- Born there?
- Copenhagen.

French now...

The trial will now resume.

I'm sorry
for this abrupt interruption.

I'm fighting off an illness,
that is to say, the flu.

I needed my dose of aspirin.

Follow me so we can reconvene.

Go to your seats quickly.

Only once you've reached them

can we all be seated.

Before we begin,

allow me to read a letter
from the defendant.

"Your Honor, I write this letter

"to discuss something
I have thought over.

"During the trial,
I've decided not to speak.

"L will not answer questions.

"L will answer each time
that it wasn't me,

"that I didn't kick her,

"that I'm not to blame
for Melissa's death,

"that I am innocent.
I won't change my mind.

"L remain respectfully yours..."

Will the defendant rise?

Did you send me this letter?

Yes, Judge.

"Yes, Your Honor".

Not "Yes, Judge".

Are you of the same opinion
as in June?

Yes, Your Honor.

Still, we'll proceed with what
we call "a character examination".

We need to know about you,
your background, your life.

I'll start by asking
about your background.

About where you were born.

You won't tell us
where you were born?

L didn't kill Melissa.

You were born in Arleux
on December 21, 1986.

You can perhaps tell us something
about your origins.

What did your parents do?

L didn't kill Melissa.

Fine...

Your father worked
renovating building facades.

He did roofing as well.

On January 6, 1989

he fell off scaffolding

and broke his spinal cord.

You were 3 years old.

Doctors tried to save your father,
but sadly,

he didn't survive.

Your mother was 6 months pregnant.

Do you remember
your sister being born?

L didn't kill Melissa.

All right. You may be seated.

Bailiff,

please show to the stand
Mrs. Elodie Touret.

She has prepared
a character examination.

I don't know...

- You okay?
- Great.

- Lunch soon?
- I'd love it.

It was to get a vocational degree
in tiling and carpeting.

But Martial didn't adapt
to the educational system.

The principal describes,
and I quote:

"incapacity for studies
coupled with a refusal of authority".

After three months,
he left vocational school.

This is fortunate,
because it is just then

that Martial learns
he is allergic to mites,

not ideal for someone
spending his life laying carpets.

After inquiring
at the Bel-Air projects,

give us an impression

of what the neighbors
felt about Mr. Beclin?

His immediate neighbors
and people in other buildings

describe him as nondescript.

He chats, he says hello.

The couple... seems normal.

They seemed to get along.

Fine. Any questions?

Very well. Thank you.

Mr. Martial Beclin, please rise.

Any comments, any details to add?

Anything you'd like to rectify
concerning this report?

L didn't kill Melissa.

By refusing to explain yourself,

you make things harder for yourself.

The opinion the jurors get of you

will be based solely
on what you told the police.

- That's their problem.
- Excuse me?

That's their problem.

Their problem?

I think it's more yours.

You're risking 20 years.

We'll see.

What?

We'll see.

For the last time,

I ask you to tell the court and jury
what really happened

on April 24th, 2013.

I didn't kick Melissa.

If it wasn't you, who was it?

I didn't kick her.

Time for a recess.
We'll resume at 1 pm, after lunch.

I don't care.

Going out, Your Honor?

I have to stop at home.

I meant to ask, Pauline.
What are the jurors doing?

Having lunch.

You know where they eat?

Near City Hall. At "Spey River".

Are you sure?

- I think so.
- Good.

Enjoy lunch.

My doggy!

No, get outside!

- Hello, Thérése.
- Hello, sir.

I just washed the floor.

I'm sorry.

You're not the one who cleans.

We each do our job.

By the WHY...

Can you put some apples
aside for me?

Last time they were rotten.

I'm no apple expert!

Give me some apples.
Normal ones, not bruised.

What do you want?
I picked up the last ones.

You want apples I pick up
or apples I pick?

- What's the difference?
- Picked ones are less ripe.

Do as you please.
I have to see Madam.

I'm counting on you, Thérése.

Hello, Miss.

Who are you?

I'm Laura Blanckaert.

- Laura who?
- Blanckaert.

- What do you do?
- The new home helper.

- Since when?
- The beginning of the month.

I'll finish cleaning...

Michel? You're here.

Good.

Marie-Laure,
I won't kiss you. Flu.

Yeah, you look awful.

Taking anything?

Aspirin, vitamin C... What is it?

- What did you do, dear?
- I fell.

Hurt yourself?

- Fine, then.
- Why did you want to see me?

I saw the lawyer.
Things are speeding up.

How so?

I sign the sales agreement Thursday.

And leave Saint-Omer
by the end of the month.

A mover came this morning
to give an estimate.

I can't bring all the furniture
to Honfleur.

I emailed you
a list of what I'm leaving.

- So tell me what you want.
- This month?

I won't spend another winter here.

Goodbye, sir.

Goodbye, Thérése.

- Who starts?
- By juror number.

- Or last to first.
- I'll go.

So we'll go around the table?

Shall I start?

I'm Yacine Balaoui, 65.

- I'm retired.
- From what?

Is this still your number?
Michel Racine

and 9 grandchildren.

Where are you from?

Lens-en-Gohelle.
Next to old Mine 11.

Near the slag heaps.

Slag heaps are our Alps.

Yes.

I'm Rémi Kubiack.

I'm 43. Married.

2 children. I'm a landscaper.

Are you from nearby?

Near Le Touquet.
Marles-Les-Mines.

Less fancy but fewer pricks.

For sure.

Can we...

Who, me?

I know because I'm from Auchel.

From the projects.

So I'm Metzer, Marie-Jeanne.

- I'm 49, almost 50.
- It doesn't show.

No use hitting on me.
No way.

I don't live far.
Tatinghem, near Saint-Omer.

I'm out of work.
Unemployed.

2 kids, 3 grandkids.
I know it doesn't show.

Don't like soccer.
Like vinegar on fries.

- What else?
- It's enough.

More than enough.
Just kidding.

You're the class clown...

Just to relax the atmosphere.

Yeah. Very funny.

You go, sweetie.

My name is Nacera Boubziz.

- Your age.
- I'm 25. I'm a home helper.

Home helper.
Supplementary juror 1?

So you won't debilera...

Deliberate.

It's not easy to say.

- Where do you live?
- Fréthun.

My cousin too.

I'm driving her. She has no license.

I failed the test.

If you live in Fréthun,
I can pick you up.

I'm in Calais. It's on my way.

I can pick you up, drop you off.

There's no...

Her husband wouldn't allow it.

Even for jury duty,
he went to the cops

who told him she had to go.

But it's a nice offer.

I can even stop by
and explain to him...

Really, don't insist.

He's an odd character,
a bit sick in the head.

Why talk about him like that?

Sick in the head.

- Butt out!
- He's just protective.

Don't insult him.

Who do you think you are?

Let's continue...

He's right.

Let's continue...

Old timer!
We don't know each other.

My name is...

Ditte Lorensen-Coteret.

I'm 45.

You look younger.

Divorced, two kids.

A boy and a girl.

I'm an anesthesiologist in Lille...

- Nice job.
- Milady!

Born in Denmark.

Copenhagen.

- How do you know?
- Know-it-all.

I'm a French citizen.
I can read and write.

Thank God, for a doctor.

Yes, it's better.

No police record.

- Nope.
- Like us.

Otherwise she wouldn't be here.

Been in France for long?

20 years already.

Really? No accent.

- That explains it.
- None at all.

- You're... Coralie?
- Coralie Marciano.

Marciano. Italian.

I'd have thought Corsican.

Italian, but it doesn't show anymore.

What else? I'm 29 years old.

I live in Coquelles, near Calais.

I work in a bank.

Can I say which one?

It's up to you.

But I can... For CIC.

- All the same.
- After your money.

What else can I say?

I'm single and I have no children.

Single single or...

- Butt out!
- What?

You're crazy.

She's cute!
She can't be single.

No, I have a boyfriend.

But he's away.

He's a sergeant in the army.
He's in Mali.

They cutoff heads there.

Don't tell me.

Not too tough?

It's fine.

Beer?

- Who knows?
- Another one.

Not drinking?

- I have a bottle.
- And a Diet Coke.

Cheers.

If I wasn't chosen,
I'd have stayed.

To understand how

someone can kick
a 7-month-old baby to death.

Who says he killed it?

He says he's innocent.

He said he did.

At first!

- Maybe the cops made him talk crap.
- Too easy.

First you do it, then you don't.

We can't discuss this outside.

He admitted it.

We can't discuss it.
You took an oath.

I did.

- You raised your hand.
- Yes.

So we can't talk.

Our conversations
must remain a secret.

Can we discuss the judge?

- We can.
- We're allowed.

Okay then, I'm asking.
What do you think of him?

A cold fish.

Cold fish...

Not to badmouth
but I hear he's a bastard.

Why?

- My sister's brother-in-law said so.
- How does he know?

He works at the court,
security guard.

And you believe him...

Why would he lie?

He says according to everyone,
I mean everyone,

he's nasty and hates him.

Nonsense. We don't know him yet.

We don't know him.

No one at the courthouse
can stand him.

Come in.

- Your Honor?
- They're here. We can start.

Fine. I'm on my way.

So tell me as naturally as possible,

in your words,
what happened that day.

Melissa had been crying all morning.

She vomited up her bottle.

I went out for a walk,
for some fresh air.

Then you went home.

Yes.

And I saw Martial.

He was in the living room.

He told me Melissa had an accident.

When he said that,
what kind of state was he in?

Was he drunk?

Not particularly.

He told the officers
who questioned him

he was totally drunk that day

and didn't know
what he was doing.

Go on, please.

So I went in the bedroom.

And I saw Melissa.

She was lying on her back.

She had blood
running down her face.

And she was still warm.

Did he say how it happened?

He mentioned the storage place.

The closet?

It's bigger than a closet.

Bigger than a closet.

So he locked her in there...

to stop hearing her.

Because of the bellyaches she had.

She cried louder and louder...

He shouted louder and louder
from the other side.

Go on.

It was like...

when opening the door...

Go on, please. Go on.

Go ahead.

And so? You were saying?

He put her in the storage room
so he wouldn't hear her.

She had a bellyache
and was crying louder and louder.

And he shouted at her
louder and louder.

Then he opened the door.

The officers
who examined your apartment

found no traces of blood,

not in the store room, the bathroom,
or even on the door.

Except on the bed
where she was lying,

no blood.
How do you explain that?

I don't know.

You don't know.

You didn't do any cleaning up?

Did you see Martial Beclin clean up?

I can't remember.

Tell me.

From when you got back home

until the defendant
went to the precinct,

more than 10 hours went by.

What did you do all that time?

I cried a lot.

Yes, we can imagine.

All I'm asking

is that you tell the court
and the jury

what you told the police.

Martial, wanted to turn himself in.
I was against it.

It was an accident.

Why were you against it?

I just told you.

I said it was an accident.

That's not a reason.

You said you had the idea
to throw her body

into the Liane River

to make it look like an accident
or a missing person.

You said that.

Yes, but we didn't want to.

We didn't do it.

We all know you didn't do it

because her body was found
on your bed.

What I'm asking

is who had the idea
of getting rid of her.

I don't know.
Both of us, me and Martial.

We wanted her to have a tomb.

We didn't want to drown Melissa.

I understand...

I'd like to ask
about the medicine you took.

And a lot of it,

because the next day,
the police found you asleep.

Sleeping pills and tranquilizers.

Do you often take sleeping pills?

Every day?

Because I couldn't sleep.

- Excuse me?
- I couldn't sleep.

You couldn't sleep.

And that day, when did you take them?

I don't know.

I don't know. I forget.

You forget.

Did you take them

before the defendant left
or afterwards?

I don't know.

I can't remember.

You can't remember.

Fine... Plaintiff?

Prosecutor?

No questions from the jury?

I'll turn it over
to the defense.

I'd like to ask
about the child's crying.

Go ahead.

You told the police in paragraph
D-973 of your deposition,

your child cried day and night.
Do you maintain that?

She cried all the time.

You used the word "unbearable".

You couldn't bear to hear her cry?

It was really hard
for Martial and me.

Thank you, Counselor.

No questions from the jury?

I'd like to ask one.

Be my guest.

- Thank you.
- Go on.

My name is Ditte Lorensen-Coteret.

How many months pregnant were you
at the time?

5 months.

The delivery went well?

Yes, it was normal.

Normal...

What was it... a little boy?

In good health?
He doesn't cry?

- Everything's fine.
- Good.

That's good.

Born with his father in prison.

Has he seen his father?
Has the father seen him?

Thank you.
You can go back to your seat.

We'll start examining the witnesses.

Bailiff, show the first witness
to the stand.

Hello, Judge.

"Your Honor".

Please state your last name,

first name, profession and address.

Of course.
My name is Mrs. Roland, Christine.

I live at 227 rue Georges Cartiaux
in Blendecques.

I'm 57 years old

and I work in daycare, "SOS Mommy".

Fine.

Do you know the defendant?

Yes I do, Judge.

"Your Honor".

Are you a relative, friend,

or involved with him
or the plaintiff?

No, Judge, not really.
But in fact... sort of, yes.

Fine.

- Do you know Jessica Marton?
- Yes, Judge.

I babysat for her.

She was 2.

- Where you attached to her?
- A lot.

- More than to others?
- Much more. She's my girl.

She's like a daughter.

And you learned of her marriage

later, with the defendant?

I didn't agree
but I kept my mouth shut.

I was against it.

I said to myself
she'd be unhappy.

Why this intuition?

He seemed to be more...

more in charge.

He gave the orders.

Not Jessica.
Jessica had no say.

You don't like men giving orders.

I think he was domineering.

I'd have seen Martial leave.

He always waves to me.

- He even comes and talks.
- That's not my question.

Here's my question.

Did you see Martial Beclin
leave the projects that day?

Yes.

And no.

It's true, I see everyone leave.

But I'm not always behind the window.
Not 24/7.

I don't understand.
You just said...

you saw everyone in the projects
come and go.

I believe so.

So you believe.

No longer "I know" or "I don't know".
It's "I believe".

- That I can maintain.
- Fine.

So you saw him leave that day.

I'm not sure anymore, Your Honor.

Fine.

The court would like to know
whether your bedroom

shares a wall with that
of your neighbor, Mr. Beclin.

The living room, dining room.

- Your living room is...
- Against their bedroom.

- You're wrong.
- The living room shares a wall...

With the bedroom.

But not the living room.

Their bedroom, our living room.

Down the hall on the left

is the living room,
bedroom on the right.

Excuse me.

The bedroom or the dining room?

- Dining room.
- No, bedroom.

- No, I say.
- You said to the right.

Hold on... Excuse me...

The court would like to know

whether you hear the neighbors
from your house.

- Lots of shouting, crying.
- Crying, shouting.

Even at night... it's nonstop.

From morning to night,
we hear crying.

The shouting...

Parents shouting.

We're drained, stressed.

- Every night?
- Night too.

It's day and night.

You lost sleep over it?

No doubt about it.

So, you're Martial Beclin's
half-brother.

That's right.

How many years apart are you?

Nine years.

Did he treat you like a half-brother
or like a normal brother?

Like a brother.

You never felt half-brothers.

Never. He considers me
a brother and likewise.

He was always fair with me.

Always like a brother.

He was always there for you.

For you,
he hasn't many shortcomings.

Very few.

None.

How rare to find a person
with no shortcomings.

What gave you the impression

that you were protected
by your brother.

He's everything to me.

He always supported me.

He took on the role...

of my father.

For me, he's like my father.

How did you see
his relationship with Jessica Marton?

They were a tight couple.

- What united them?
- Their daughter.

That's right.

For me, he shouldn't be here.

Really?

He could never kill his daughter.

- Fine.
- He shouldn't be here.

Thank you, sir.

The last witness was heard.

We'll resume
after a 15-minute recess.

What I really don't understand
is his lawyers' attitude.

It's total nonsense.
Always on the phone, in and out.

His client means jackshit.

It's not just that.

We have a defendant who won't talk.

They say nothing
like it's normal.

Lawyers say
clients are their worst enemies.

Better a client who keeps quiet
than one who blabbers on

and who, with one word,
can destroy their case.

Do you want to meet
after the hearing

in the place you had lunch today?

They planned it. A tactic.

Not necessarily.

- He's waiting till tomorrow.
- Why tomorrow?

The investigating officers testify.

Defense will plead forced confession.

The defendant turned himself in

for having accidentally
killed his child.

After 7 hours of questioning,

he admits he possibly kicked her too.

As if by chance.

By chance, after a 7-hour grilling.
That's their case.

5 minutes.
I'll tell the presiding judge.

So they made him confess.

No idea. I wasn't there.
It's what they'll claim.

Your Honor?

We're starting in 5 minutes.

Thanks, Pauline. I'm coming.

Right away.

If you like.

Do you swear to cooperate
with the court as best you can?

- Say "I swear".
- I swear.

It's called pyloric stenosis.

Can you explain to the jury

where the pylorus is
and what it does?

The lower portion of the stomach
shrinks.

Food makes it difficultly
through the intestines.

It has no particular function.

The pylorus is just
a part of the stomach.

Let's understand.

The lower part. It's a muscle.

And so?

What happens in the system...

Food has a hard time
making it through the intestines.

Is it painful?

Not only is it painful,

but it causes projectile vomiting
after each feeding.

The anterior fontanel connects
the frontal bone to the parietal ones

hardens between 18 and 36 months.

Until then,
the child's skull is very fragile.

So for you the child died
from a kick to the head.

I can't answer so categorically.

Meaning that for you...

I don't exclude
that the child could have died

from opening a door violently,

which banged her head.

But the hypothesis of blows

suffered from a shoe
is also perfectly plausible.

She could also have hit
a table corner.

No questions from the jury?

Thank you, Dr. Mignaret.

Court is adjourned
until tomorrow at 9:30.

- Something else to sign.
- Tomorrow.

- Okay?
- See you.

Have a nice evening.

I didn't make you wait too long?

I sat to the side. I didn't want...

Didn't want what?

To be seen together.

A circuit court judge
meeting a juror...

Not circuit court.

Criminal court.

It's not very common.

Not very wise either,
but not against the law.

What's that?

Chablis.

- Mineral water, please.
- Right away.

Anyway, I...

I wanted to thank you
for seeing me again.

Your hip doesn't hurt anymore?

I try not to let it show.

When it rains, I feel some pain.

But overall, I get by normally.

If I got mugged,
I might have a hard time

catching the mugger.

But I was never...

a running champ.

But there's one thing
I can't stand since my accident.

Stairs.

I can't stand stairs anymore.

To such an extent that...

I only visit friends
who live on the ground floor

or who have elevators.

A new way of choosing friends.

No better or worse than another.

- Mineral water.
- For me.

When you came,
did you know I'd be presiding?

I had no idea.

What if you'd known?

It would have changed nothing.

You wouldn't have pulled a sickie?

"Pull a sickie"
means to call in sick.

Get an excuse or a note
from a doctor.

Everyone told me to.
The head doctors...

- Interns I work with.
- Nice mentality.

A friend who was a juror
told me about her experience.

She said it was incredible.

Very powerful.

She was curious to know how...

people like you, judges, lawyers,
don't feel overwhelmed.

We're armored.

At night I shut it off.

You keep thinking
about your patients?

Yes.

Always.

If I don't, others do it for me.
The hospital calls.

Or I call IC
to see if everything's okay.

Thank God...

defendants don't call me from cells.

Not that they don't all have phones.

I'm unlisted. Red list.

Red list?

Always red!

What do you mean?

Your scarf, your gown...

Yes, my scarf and gown.

Where does the red scarf come from?

- What do you mean?
- You always wear it?

Why? It bothers you?

I don't like it much.

L'['S exhibitionistic.

Exhibitionistic?

This is the first time
I've been called an exhibitionist.

Arrogant, okay, I understand.
But exhibitionistic, no.

My wife says I only wear it
to annoy people.

She's right.

It's just that
I don't know how to dress.

I never could.

So this scarf
gets me off the hook.

People look at it, not me.

It's less to stand out
than not to be seen.

On the other hand,
you're always elegant.

Even in your white smock,
you're still very elegant.

Why didn't you answer my letter?

What would it have changed?

But you did get it?

Yes, I got it.

Since I never got an answer,
I asked you to dinner.

Remember?

I was too shy to ask you out alone,

so I asked Dr. Malar along.

Remember? That awful Dr. Malar.

He blabbered on all night.

House in Corsica, jet-skis, pool.

Awful man, that Dr. Malar.

He did the surgery on you.

Not a reason
to inflict his wife on us.

She was a real idiot.

She never shut up.

An entire dinner...

about her delivery
without an epidural.

Remember?

I kept thinking
the next time she says "placenta"

or the word "episiotomy",

I'll take my crutch...

and whack her.

No one would have filed a complaint.

You're wrong. She would have.

I'm telling you this
but in fact...

I wasn't listening.

I kept thinking of you.

I spent the dinner watching you.
I hadn't seen you in a month.

And I watched you.

I even remember the dress you wore.

Lace, flesh-colored.

I still have it.

Openwork, very tight-fitting.
It highlighted your shapes.

Then we had to leave
and say goodbye.

We were on the sidewalk

and I sent you a text. I wrote...

"I miss you terribly."

And you answered...

"Delicious dinner

"and really nice."

"Delicious dinner and really nice."

That just killed me.

Can you imagine what that means?

It was hard for me to...

to answer your text.

What could I say?

That you missed me.

You missed me a lot.

I don't deserve this.
You don't know me.

You don't know who I am.

You only saw me at work.

What do you think I was doing?

I stared at you the whole time,
eyes shut.

I pretended to sleep
as you made rounds

waiting till you'd come
and take my hand.

- I do it to all my patients.
- Can I say something?

If you don't know in advance,

it leaves an impression.

The way you take a hand
can drive a man crazy.

You drove me crazy.

It wasn't my intention.

You can't just take a patient's hand,
just to be nice?

Maybe in Denmark, not in France.

Then it's my fault.

I beg your pardon.

When are you coming home?

- Someone expecting you?
- My daughter.

- How old is she?
- 17.

Still lives at home?

There's no one else?

No one else.

You're lucky I'm here.

- Where else would you be?
- Just kidding!

You made dinner?

At least say what he looks like.

He was medium height, fairly thin.

- Handsome?
- Very short hair.

He was so closed up, so tense...

Dark hair.

- Weird to go to court in sweatpants.
- Why?

It's for sports or watching TV,

not for a trial.

He spends all day in a cell
doing nothing.

You don't find it classy?

How was his wife dressed?

Is that all you care about?
Clothes?

They say a lot about people.

You put on a skirt and blouse
this morning.

You obviously want
to impress the court.

You went on stage...
acting all pretty.

Look at me, prettiest one here!

- Not at all.
- I know you.

You know me and I'm like this?
Not at all.

You were the prettiest.

- All those losers.
- Not at all.

I didn't act all...

I bet you drove them wild.

Can you stop now?

- Not my fault my mom is pretty.
- True!

Not your fault.

How was she dressed?

Please.

I didn't really notice.

She sat on the bench all day,
her head tilted forward.

Hidden behind her hair.
I never saw her eyes.

At one point
she got up to testify...

I can't talk about this.

Just tell me what she wore!

Who cares? Just one detail.

So she was... I don't know.

I didn't notice.
Like you, sort of pajamas.

I really tried to see her eyes,
her face...

And her ex
was staring at her nonstop.

The defendant?

He looked at her
with a harsh gaze.

A very angry gaze.

Maybe she did it.

Shook it too hard.
Happens every day.

So why would he accept
to go to jail instead?

So she doesn't go.

Who says she would?

Kill your baby, go to jail.
It's obvious.

Not always. You're not a cop!

What do you know?

Enough with that.
It's annoying!

Stop, that's not me!

Don't tickle me!

Stop! Stop! What a monster!

I'm sure you can kill your baby
and not go to jail.

Your Honor!

Feeling better?

How are you?

I'll tell you
when we get to the courthouse.

Don't want to know why?

I made a bet with Kubiack,
you know...

Juror 1.

When we get there,
I'll know whether I won.

- It's colder than yesterday.
- Think so?

Mind if I use your fridge?

Not at all.

What's that champagne?

This?

The jurors are drinking it tomorrow.

To celebrate what?

They made a bet.

You know Juror 2,
the young one who never talks?

Did you notice his combat boots?

Unseemly,
given the circumstances.

Mr. Kubiack says
he'll wear them again.

Mr. Orvieto says he won't.
See the level?

- Why the wait?
- No idea.

The trial hasn't started yet.

Tell him to call me after 11.

I tried to reach her
but got her voicemail.

Do we wait?

This is annoying.

I'll go check.

- All well?
- Feeling better?

Yes, thank you.

Coralie Marciano isn't here.

You're the first supplementary juror.

When the trial resumes,

I'll ask you to stand up
and replace her.

No questions?

Let's go.

I'll explain.

Take your seat.
He'll call your name,

then go to Coralie's spot.

All rise!

Court is now in session.

Before hearing witnesses,

we're going to replace
a juror who couldn't come

by supplementary juror 1.

Mrs. Nacera Boubziz,
will you stand and take the place

of Ms. Coralie Marciano.

Bailiff, show in the first witness.

- Hello, sir.
- Your Honor...

Name, profession, age, address?

Massimet, Jean-Michel, 32,
police officer, Saint-Omer.

Know the defendant
before the events?

No.

Relative, friend,
involved with him or the plaintiff?

Swear to speak without malice
or fear and to tell the truth.

- Say "I swear".
- I swear.

The problem is...

his story kept changing.

He ended up remembering
that the closet door,

oddly enough,
opened toward the inside.

But he couldn't remember
if it was the closet door

or the bathroom door
that banged into her head.

He ended up telling us

that he'd drunk a lot that day.

Then he cracked.
It was after 6 in the morning.

He ended up telling us
he'd kicked the child.

He couldn't remember
if it was with the heel or the tip.

Did you ask him the question?

Captain Le Gal asked
if the boots he had on

were the same ones
he kicked her with.

The defendant hesitated.

The captain asked again.

He finally said
he threw away the boots

into the Liane canal.

We'll see that with Captain Le Gal,

who's testifying next.

Anything else?

I think that's everything,
Your Honor.

Any questions?

Prosecutor?

Jurors?

Questions from defense?

Defense indeed has a few questions,
Your Honor.

- Counselor...
- Hello, Officer Massimet.

Hello, sir...

Newcomer in Saint-Omer?

I came in March 2013.

- A few days before the events.
- Right.

Everseen
an interrogation like that?

- Meaning?
- Face the court.

Sorry, Your Honor.

I mean such a long interrogation.

Seven hours.

A man accused killing
a child of 7 months.

A crime that can get him
20 years behind bars.

First time.

There always has to be a first.

So, your first child murder.

Yes, sir.

I read the statement you took.

Very well written for a statement.

It even has literary merit.

But they're not the defendant's words
and that bothers me.

When I read the statement,
I don't hear my client.

I hear you.

Here's an example among dozens.

In paragraph D-327, you wrote:

"I realize the shock wasn't caused
by the closet door

"because that door opens out, not in.

"L thus deduce the mortal blow
occurred in the bathroom.

"The state I was in
caused me to mix up the two."

"I thus deduce..."

Who deduced this?

You, Lieutenant Massimet,
or my client?

The defendant.

Yet they're not his words.

I try to translate
as best I can.

No one's asking you to translate.

To translate is to betray.

You can't make anyone
say anything.

Another example: paragraph D-432.

"In my state,
it is feasible that I...

Note, if you will,
the use of the word "feasible"

which my client employs avidly.

"It is feasible
that I kicked her once or twice."

It is feasible
that what you give me,

Mr. Massimet,
is a chill up my spine.

It is feasible.

This "it is feasible" is enormous!

It can make a man say anything.

Admit to anything.
Take the blame for any crime.

It is feasible

as well, Mr. Massimet,
you heard wrong.

It is also feasible

in a state of exhaustion,
in utter disarray,

having lost his beloved daughter,
7 months old,

this man, in the defendant's dock,

ended up saying
what you wanted to hear.

That's all for today.

Thank you, Counselor.

Anyone else with a question?

No one?

No one?

I think it's over for you.

Thank you, Your Honor.

Wait.

Maybe one last question.

The combat boots,

the ones the defendant
claims to have tossed

into the Liane canal.

- Did you look for them?
- Yes, Your Honor.

We dredged part of the canal,
but found nothing.

I can imagine.

You say the boots he wore
when he made his statement

at the precinct
weren't the ones he kicked her with.

That's right.

Did you ask
how many pairs of boots he had?

I didn't.

You didn't ask?

Excuse me, but...
on the night of April 24th-25th,

a man shows up,

says he kicked his child to death
with boots.

He is wearing combat boots.

You don't even check
if they were the ones used?

In fact he...

He said he threw them in the canal...

And you believed that?

Yet when he tells you
that when violently opening

the bathroom door,
he banged the child's head,

you didn't believe him.

Not really.

Because he kept
contradicting himself.

One time you believe him,
one time you don't.

How do you decide?

Head or tails?

Of course we...

I mean...

Captain Le Gal and I,
the two of us...

we felt he was... hiding something,

not telling the truth.

That's why...

we asked if by chance
he had kicked the child.

Is it you or the defendant
who first brought up kicking?

I can't really remember.

It was us but...

the defendant immediately
confirmed it...

Martial Beclin,

will you please rise?

How many pairs of combat boots
do you own?

One pair.

Is it the same pair
that was taken from you

when you were taken to jail

which you signed for
upon surrendering them?

That's right.

Then why did you say
you threw your boots

into the Liane canal?

Answer me.

Jessica Marton,

will you please rise?

My question is simple.

Your husband claims to own

only one pair of combat boots.

True or false?

Answer me.

True or false?

Just one pair.

Thank you, Mrs. Marton.

We'll take a 20-minute recess.

Finding the boots
changes everything!

- Why?
- Not at all.

He still could have kicked the child.

Why throw them in the canal?

What's that bullshit?
Boots in the canal.

Put yourself in his place.
Imagine he did kick her.

- What do you know?
- Nothing.

It's just an hypothesis.
After I'll do the opposite one.

Let's say he kicked her.

The officer sees the boots.

It's normal he asked
if he killed her with them.

There may be traces of blood

or hair, whatever.

He says it was with other shoes.

It makes no sense!

Why would he turn himself in,
then lie about his shoes?

Does it make sense or doesn't it?

- Maybe it doesn't.
- You bet.

Maybe...

there was only one pair,
so he invented a second.

- Why?
- So they don't take his only pair.

No laughing matter.

Sorry, a girl died.

You're all a bit right, but...

fundamentally,
these combat boots

found in the prison
change nothing.

Neither proof of his innocence
nor proof of his guilt.

That was what we call
a coup de théatre.

Racine loves doing that.

Calling for a sudden recess,

spurring debate,
turning the tables.

Usually defense takes the blow.
Today, prosecution.

Justice is theater?

All we know is that
we don't know much.

Besides having lied about his boots,

the rest is just
individual testimonies.

Maybe he's hiding the truth.

How so?

Maybe he and his girlfriend
hatched this scheme.

Maybe he wasn't even at home
when she died.

Maybes don't get us anywhere.

We can't know.

I know it's her.

Why?

- Why say that?
- She's weird.

Yes, she is.

Isn't she? She's weird.

She lost her kid.

Her daughter died!

She's strung out on pills.

Why turn himself in
instead of her?

He doesn't want her doing time.

- To spare her the trial.
- To protect her.

Give birth in jail?

He won't allow it.

- She was pregnant.
- So she wouldn't deliver in jail!

The doctor asked her.

He doesn't want her in jail

with a second kid
that she kills too.

In her cell
maybe she'll kill kid two.

He turns himself in
and things backfire.

Is something wrong?

Everything's fine.

We were asking questions.

Fortunately you ask questions.
Who wouldn't?

Two things, before...

we resume.

First, the trial isn't over.

That was an important moment,
not a conclusive one.

The conclusive moment is tomorrow
when we deliberate.

The second thing is that

we may never know the truth.

We may never know
what really happened

April 24th in the Bel-Air projects.

You must accept this.

You mustn't let it frustrate you.

As for the truth,

only Martial Beclin
and Jessica Marton know it.

Even that is not sure.

If Martial Beclin was really alone,

he could have told her anything.

But was he really alone?

We can't know.
All we have is each testimony.

The goal of justice
is not to bring out the truth.

Justice exists to reaffirm
the principles of law.

To remind everyone what's allowed
and what isn't.

And, of course,
to punish accordingly.

When tomorrow

we meet to discuss culpability,
I don't know what you'll decide.

If you say innocent, he'll be free.

But a 7-month-old child is dead.

Remember that prosecution
will appeal,

and that in a year or two
there will be another trial.

Perhaps this is
what we should wish for.

Maybe the truth will come out
by then.

Or maybe not.

Shall we?

Your Honor, may I have a word?

What is it?

Like many of us,
what I heard upset me.

- I think the investigation was...
- Yes, and?

I think I'll call for...

What you call for
is of no concern to me.

You represent the state
and accordingly,

apply the law as you see fit.

Accomplish your mission, old chap,

and I'll accomplish mine
until the trial is over.

Good evening.

Ann, my daughter.

Michel Racine,
presiding judge in Criminal Court.

Ann surprised me...

Am I bothering you?

She came to the trial.

You love surprises.

Not when you cut classes.

It was just gym-

Gym is still a class.

We're learning salsa.

Learning salsa?

You don't say!

An experimental program,
just a few schools.

- We do salsa, tango...
- It's a subject?

It's gym...

Salsa is gym?

You don't like it?

But dancing with guys in my grade...

They're 17.

Not very advanced.

You don't like them.
Too immature.

That's right.

Just a friend asking where I am.

Sign of the times.

So you're interested
in how trials work?

Not really.

I wanted to see what it was like.

See him and his girlfriend
and especially Mom on stage.

You call it a stage?

What do you call it?

We call it...
It's true, what do we call it?

One side, an audience.

The other: you in costume,
reciting lines.

When you arrive,
it's like a curtain goes up.

Except we can't clap.

When did you come?

During the recess.

I didn't even see her.
I bet you were hiding.

Whatever.
You just didn't see.

You didn't film the trial!

- No way.
- There's Mom.

- You filmed?
- The classiest.

It's strictly forbidden.

- No Facebook!
- I'm not crazy.

That could annul the trial.

It really is forbidden.

Good photographer!

Yes, sir?

You ordered
the same as yesterday?

So mineral water?

A hot toddy?

- Of course.
- No rum.

Perfect.

You were already here yesterday?

You said you stopped by the hospital.
No mention

of a judge you had drinks with.

I don't have to account to you.

I asked her out
for a drink because...

I was surprised
to have her as a juror.

I had a bad accident years ago

and your mother resuscitated me.

Yes, Mr. Racine spent...

You call him Mr. Racine?

A month in hospital?

7 weeks.

You're close enough for first names.

- Not really.
- No, not really.

You see each other all day
then go out for drinks.

Yes, but in the courthouse...

he's a judge and I'm a juror.

- We don't talk.
- Exactly.

This isn't a courthouse here.

No, but...
before it was the hospital.

In hospital
I was an ordinary patient.

I was called Mr. Racine. Your mother
looked in on me every day.

The cutaneous thigh nerve
was touched.

It was very painful.
We put you on morphine.

Hardcore drug!

I had to relieve the pain so...

She's something.

I'm sorry.
I didn't know she was coming.

- She's lively.
- Overly curious.

Don't give in.
She's like a blood-thirsty shark.

Thank you.

Your daughter is charming.
Bubbly.

You have to be strict.

With her big eyes, you want to give.
Don't!

She's charming.

It comes from her father.

It's the charm of...

Talking about me?

Just kidding.

I was telling your mother...

She has a first name.

It's Ditte.

I was telling Ditte
that beauty exists.

I started drawing up a list

of things that make life worth it.

Things that make life
more beautiful.

For example
there's a poem I like

by Antoine Pol
set to music by Georges Brassens.

About women.

Women Passing Through.
Know W?

It goes...

"I dedicate this poem
to all the women we love,

"during a few secret moments,
to those we barely know

"whom by force of destiny,
We never meet,

"to those we see appear
at their window..."

I'm with my mom and a guy.

Brassens didn't work.

She didn't like it.

She skipped a class only to...

There is something else which...

gives the impression
of perfection in life.

Your face.

Your face leaning over mine.

When I was in the recovery room
in that hospital,

I opened my eyes

and there was your face.

I thought it was like a revelation,

an illumination.

I thought: this is life.

Most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

You were on morphine.

That's why I was beautiful.

I still find you beautiful now.

Most beautiful woman alive.

Yet no morphine.
Just a high fever.

Sun high?

I'm showing off, as usual.

Just a mild one.

You know, tomorrow you deliberate.

Friday is a new trial.

You may not be chosen as a juror.

I want you there for the trial.

I need to feel you in the courtroom.
I need to feel

your eyes on me.
I'll need it.

Your Honor.

To the question:

"Is the defendant guilty
of intentional assault

resulting in involuntary
manslaughter?"

the jury has answered: "Not guilty".

Consequently the court declares
the acquittal of Martial Beclin

and orders his immediate release.

I didn't have time to tell you
yesterday after his release,

or I didn't dare,

but I really appreciated
how you led the debates.

It's true.
It was a complicated case.

Long deliberations.

I'm very happy it ended like this.

You're not happy?

Happy? I'm not so ambitious.

Defendants here?

Not yet,
but their lawyers are here.

All rise!

Court is in session.
You may be seated.

Officers, show in the defendants.

Gentlemen,

we will now being randomly
choosing your 6 jurors

as well as supplementary ones.

Mr. Pierre Verstraten.

Ms. Coralie Marciano.

Rejected.

Mrs. Ginette Laudran-Carcot.

Mrs. Nacera Boubziz.

Rejected.

Mr. Franck Lowen.

Mr. Gilbert Gontard.

Those not chosen are free
until Friday,

for the next case.

They may remain in the courtroom
or not.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
please rise.

Each of you upon hearing your name

will raise his hand
and say "I swear".

This is the oath you will be taking.

You solemnly swear

to examine scrupulously

the charges brought
against Mr. Laloui,

Mr. Kamara and Mr. Gelinski,

to pay no heed to hatred, malice,

fear or affection,

to remember

defendants are presumed innocent.

Any doubt must play in their favor.

You will pronounce your verdict

according to your conscience
and conviction,

with the impartiality, integrity
and steadfastness

befitting a free-thinking,
honest person

and keep your deliberations a secret

even after serving on this jury.

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