To Be Loved
Chapter 8
By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy

There was practically no point to going any further with this mockery of a trial, and Guillaume Agnelet was tempted to request a closed session with Bruguière to discuss a plea. He knew his old friend well, though, and nothing short of exoneration would satisfy him. It was beginning to look as though that was exactly what this man, Erik Delacorte, deserved. The fact that the public had been screaming for blood only compounded the situation. It would not do to leave the question of guilt or innocence unproven. Guy sent his clerk to the apothecary for a stronger powder, hoping the man would be back soon.

Something about the next witness apparently unnerved the staid prosecutor. Perhaps it was her innocence, an unaffected air of naïveté that simply radiated from her. He approached the witness stand with care, seemingly drawn to her by some mysterious spell.

It was Christine Daaé's turn to speak.

-0-0-0-

"Mlle Daaé, as you know, the defendant stands accused of abducting you. Is this true? Remember, you are under oath."

"Yes, sir," she replied quietly. The jurors sat on the edges of their seats, while the spectators strained to hear her. "On my eternal soul, I swear that no one abducted me, certainly not my maestro."

"You refer to the defendant as your maestro. Why is this?" Agnelet wanted to know, to satisfy his own curiosity.

Christine tucked a stray strand of her reddish blond hair behind her ear. "Because that is what he is—my maestro, my teacher, my voice coach." She was nervous, but concealed it well. She reached for the water glass on the edge of the banister, and forced herself to take a tiny sip.

"And how long has he been your teacher?" Agnelet's manner was soothing, trustworthy. He stood directly in front of Christine, watching her closely, in case Erik was controlling her through mesmerism or silent signals that she'd been conditioned to obey.

Christine set down the glass. "Not quite a year. He…approached me, offered to teach me, shortly after I had graduated from the conservatory and came to the opera house. He heard me sing in the chorus and assured me that I had promise…if I would allow him to be my teacher."

The prosecutor turned his attention towards Erik, but asked Christine the next question. "Your relationship has been described by some as unusual, that no one ever actually saw the two of you together. Why is this?"

A wan smile followed. "Eri—the maestro is shy, retiring. He is not comfortable among people. We met in quiet places, often after hours."

"Can you offer any explanation why?" Agnelet asked.

Christine spoke with all the sadness in the world. "Because of his appearance. His face is…."

"Yes," Agnelet said with genuine compassion, but it wouldn't do to let the jurors develop sympathy for the man. "A terrible misfortune. But let us concentrate on the night in question. You said that you disappeared to warn your teacher. Warn him of what?"

She looked at him curiously. "That his life was in jeopardy."

"Can you elaborate?"

Christine glanced at Raoul before answering. "The Vicomte de Chagny had come to me, imploring me to take part in a scheme to lure my maestro, who he believed was this Phantom, out into the open. The plan was for my teacher's opera to be performed, and for me to sing the lead female role."

"Don Juan Triumphant. Isn't that the name of it?" Agnelet asked, probing.

"Yes," Christine answered softly. She closed her eyes as though the memory of that night, that opera, threatened to overwhelm her.

"So, the Vicomte de Chagny is one of those who believed the defendant to be the Phantom? But you say his is not. Why did you go along with this plan, if it endangered your teacher, this maestro you claim to be innocent of any wrongdoing?"

Christine hung her head, unable to look anyone in the eye. "I'm sorry to say that, at the time, I did. I was troubled, confused. I trusted my teacher, but others were saying terrible things about him, and I felt twisted every way. The managers wanted one thing of me, the vicomte wanted another, and …" She paused, momentarily unable to continue, as tears began to flow. "Forgive me, my dear teacher; I allowed others to sway my thinking, to cloud my mind with unfair accusations."

"And so you sang," Agnelet snapped. It would not do to let the jury see Christine imploring her maestro for forgiveness. "Did your maestro join you on stage?"

"Yes," she replied, struggling for composure.

"Was this part of your plan to catch the Phantom?"

"It wasn't my plan," she said, shaking her head angrily. "I…I'm not sure how it happened. I suddenly realized that what we were doing to him was wrong. I only knew that he was in danger, that gendarmes were all around.

"Is that why you exposed his charade?"

"I thought…if they could see that he was just a man, an ordinary man…then the lights went out and he disappeared. I followed him…"

Agnelet nodded as if he understood. "And that is how you ended up in the cellars with him?"

"Yes," Christine whispered.

"Did he threaten you?"

She gave up trying to hold back the tears. "No," she sobbed.

"You were held against your will."

"No!" she cried.

"So, you and your teacher were having a cup of tea and chatting like old friends?"

"I was frantic. I knew that soon, others would find us. I…I wanted him to leave."

"Is this when the Vicomte de Chagny found the two of you?"

"Yes," she gasped, choked with emotion.

Erik sat bolt upright in his chair, rigid with tension. He was ready to end this charade once and for all, to spare her the indignity of testifying. Bruguière placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him to stay calm. "Steady," he added quietly. "It can only be good for her, to get it all out in the open."

Christine's testimony spilled forth, and with each passing moment, she grew stronger, more confident. "At first, the Vicomte thought I was in danger, but I was able to convince him that this was not the case. Erik…I mean, my teacher insisted that the two of us leave. He has known nothing but intolerance and hatred…because of his face, and because of his many gifts. There are many superstitious people who will see a man like him and…not understand. I myself did not understand at first." She dug her nails into her palm, hoping the pain would drive away her tears. "He knew that the mob would not understand….that if we remained down there with him…that…that we might be harmed, too."

"And you returned upstairs," Agnelet surmised. "Did you try to tell anyone what really happened?"

Christine scoffed. "Do you think they would have believed me?"

"Better than allowing an innocent man to be arrested on false charges, Mademoiselle. The fact that you told no one this story suggests that at, at the very least, you believed differently at the time than you do now." He returned to his seat. "Those are all the questions I have at this time, your honors."

Bruguière squeezed Erik's shoulder, silently begging him to remain silent. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I have only one question for you. The distinguished prosecutor has suggested that you have had a change of opinion regarding the night in question, that at the time, you believed you had been abducted, but that you have since changed your mind. Is that true?"

"No, sir, it is not." She held her head high and her chin jutted out with determination. "I did not then, nor have I ever, claimed that I had been abducted by any man." She added, with a smirk, "Or any phantom."

-0-0-0-

The Vicomte de Chagny took the stand the way he tackled every challenge: He charged up to it as if he owned it.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," Agnelet said, with all due respect, "can you tell us in your own words what happened the night of the alleged abduction?"

Raoul turned red-faced, unaccustomed to public humiliation. "I am ashamed to admit that I was wrong. Mlle Daaé had been behaving in a secretive manner. It wasn't until it was too late that I learned the truth, that her teacher shunned society because of a severe disfigurement. I thought…I thought he was controlling her, having an undue influence over her. I'd been hearing tales about a ghost skulking about the opera house, and thought her teacher and this fantôme were the same person."

Agnelet raised his eyebrows, skepticism etched in his expression. "Are you saying now that this is not the case?"

"I discovered, much to my chagrin, that I had overreacted. You see, I had been fearful for Mlle Daaé and had silly notions of being a knight in shining armor, riding off to her rescue."

"So, the night of the performance in question, you were watching Mlle Daaé on the stage, and when she and the defendant disappeared, you followed them?"

"That is correct. I suspected that they would go down to the cellars. That's where they'd met in the past, so that no one would disturb them. When I first came upon them both, I was sure that Chris…I mean, Mlle Daaé was in danger. Like a fool, I rushed in, threatening the defendant. Luckily for the both of us, he disarmed me and was able to talk sense into me. The rest happened pretty much as Mlle Daaé described it."

"Are you saying that Mlle Daaé and the defendant were...lovers?"

"No!" Raoul replied angrily. "I'm saying they were more like...friends. He was her teacher, for God's sake!"

"So he was only trying to teach her when he kidnapped her from the stage?"

"You're making it sound so...dirty. What I'm saying is, he didn't hurt her. He didn't force her to do anything. And he let me take her to a place of safety when the mob found us. He stayed behind...."

Raoul's face went slack, as if he grasped a difficult concept for the first time. A flash of inspiration had given him clarity of thought that had eluded him for weeks since the ordeal began. "If he hadn't sent us away when he did, the mob...they might have turned on us, too! God knows what they might have done. They were like animals that night." He shuddered at the memory of it. "I tell you, it was horrible. Horrible! They were out of their minds, frenzied! It was mob justice, vigilantism, a free for all. They attacked anyone who stood in their way, looted his home, and destroyed what they could not carry out of there. Ask Meg Giry; she was there! She saw it all!"

He turned to Erik and stared at him with unabashed empathy. "This is what he has had to live with all his life. No wonder he hides himself and wears masks."

Agnelet locked eyes with Bruguière. "I am finished, your honors."

"Very well," said the president of the court, oblivious to the double entendre. "Monsieur Bruguière, you may proceed."

Bruguière hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath during the Vicomte's testimony, but now, he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. "I have no questions for this witness. None at all." What he left unsaid was, "The prosecution has represented my client very well."

-0-0-0-

Summation was ordinarily an eloquent affair—and a long, drawn out one. Agnelet was a master of elocution, famous for his use of vivid imagery that appealed to the common man sitting on the jury, but equally skilled at delivering a legal argument that would please the most persnickety of judges. He was, in short, a lawyer's lawyer; but, even Guy Agnelet knew when he was beaten, and this time, he didn't mind. Whatever Erik Delacorte had done, there was simply insufficient evidence to prove him guilty.

Agnelet's summation went straight to the point. "Messieurs, I beg of you to think on the evidence presented to you this day. Erik Delacorte has been accused of heinous crimes. He has been accused of mayhem, extortion, assault, murder, attempted murder, kidnapping. Ask yourselves, if you will, what has the evidence shown? I think you know, in your heart, the answer to this question."

Bruguière blinked with surprise at old friend's approach, but he attacked his own summation with gusto. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client is guilty of only one crime: A crime of the heart! His only mistake was in falling in love with a woman who belonged to another man."

"I object!" Everyone in the courtroom turned to look at the source of this outcry. It was Christine Daaé, standing beside a slack-jawed Raoul de Chagny. The spectators roared.

The president availed himself of his gavel once again, banging it loudly to restore order in the court. "Sit down, Mademoiselle. This is no time for shenanigans."

Christine continued, doing her best to appear contrite but not backing down. "Forgive me, your honor, but for the record, I must state that I do not belong to any man." She seemed surprised at her own boldness, even as she spoke the fateful words.

The judge smiled ever so slightly. "You are still under oath, Mademoiselle."

Christine nodded. "I know." Then, she looked at Raoul with deep sadness. "The Vicomte de Chagny has been my friend, nothing more. We are no longer children on holiday. We are from different worlds, he and I." He reached for her hand, and she took it and held it tight.

The courtroom was utterly silent except for the scratching of pencils against notepads. The journalists would have a field day with this, and with any luck, they'd have it in the evening papers. The society columnists would be busy for weeks with this kind of news.

Erik whispered, "Christine...no...." This is not what he wanted, not at all! She was supposed to live happily ever after with the man of her dreams. Brave, strong, wealthy, noble, handsome Raoul. He was everything she needed. He could give her the stability she longed for, and here she was, throwing it all away—for what?

The president rapped the gavel perfunctorily. "The jury will disregard this interruption. And let me warn the spectators, there will be no further outbursts."

-0-0-0-

The judges leaned their heads together, speaking in low whispers to avoid being heard by the rest of the court. Whatever it was they were saying to each other, it was to remain unknown – for now. When they finished, the tribunal filed out to their private chamber to deliberate.

There was the usual milling about of the spectators, nearly all of whom planned on remaining nearby, waiting to hear the verdict. The bailiff checked to ensure Erik was still handcuffed and escorted him to an anteroom where he would await the verdict, his attorney with him. On the way out, Christine reached out and touched his arm. He paused and their eyes met for a moment.

"I'll be praying for you," she said softly.

Erik tried to smile. "Thank you…for everything you've done."

Raoul was standing beside Christine, and offered a small, "Good luck, Monsieur," as well.

Erik was saved from making a reply by the bailiff, who gently but firmly urged them to continue to the waiting area.

-0-0-0-

Bruguière and Erik sat in the anteroom, awaiting notification that the tribunal had reached a verdict. It was a small, functional room with a large wooden table worn smooth by years of use, and several chairs were scattered around it. The room had seen many meetings and conferences – between prosecutor and defense, between defense attorney and client, and defendants and their families awaiting a verdict. It was a room that had seen much tension over the years, and today was no different.

In spite of earlier statements that he didn't give a fig about outcome of the trial, Erik found he was nervous. He tried to disguise it by staring at the floor, but his stomach was tied in knots and he could not keep himself from fidgeting with his hands. Effortlessly, he slipped the handcuffs off, setting them aside as he glanced askance at Bruguière. "Don't worry. I make it a practice never to kill my attorney, especially when he's done such a good job of defending me. I'll put them back on before the bailiff returns. No one will be the wiser." He massaged his broken hand gingerly before cradling it in the sling.

Bruguière slipped off his robe of office and loosed his jabot. "Very amusing. I'm quaking in my boots." He flashed a cockeyed grin at Erik. "For a man who doesn't care if he lives or dies, you give the appearance of being more than mildly concerned with the verdict the judges will hand down."

Erik gave the attorney an almost humorous look. "Would it help if I told you that I've had a change of heart?"

"Don't worry," said Bruguière as he took a seat next to Erik and grinned, as if the two were sharing a secret. "I won't give you away. Besides, you're not the first person I've defended who's changed his mind about wanting to live."

Erik looked over at the door. "How long does it usually take? For the tribunal to come to a verdict, I mean."

"Hard to say. Sometimes, only a few minutes; others, hours. These judges are schooled in not revealing their thoughts, but it looked to me as if they might have their minds pretty much made up. All they need is the jury's recommendation, which they may or may not accept."

"That's not good…is it," said Erik, suddenly feeling depressed. Already, he could feel the hangman's noose around his neck. Or would it be the quick cut of a blade? He tried to swallow, but found his mouth had gone dry.

"Thirsty?" asked Bruguière.

Erik nodded. Why deny it. Bruguière only wanted to help. "As a matter of fact, yes."

"Me, too. Trials are thirsty business."

The attorney got up and walked over to the door and summoned the bailiff, requesting a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses. The man agreed and a few minutes later, returned with a pitcher of cool, fresh water. Erik slid his uncuffed wrists under the table, out of sight, while Bruguière thanked the other man and poured two glasses, handing one to Erik once the bailiff was out of the room.

"Why should you be nervous," Erik asked, accepting the glass.

Bruguière sat back down across the table from him. "I take my clients and their cases very personally. When they win, I win."

"Of course."

"I didn't mean it that way," Bruguière said gruffly.

Erik actually smiled this time. "I know."

The attorney chuckled. "Could it be that the fearsome Opera Ghost has a sense of humor after all?" Bruguière went on to explain that for him, there was a special thrill of winning a case, especially a difficult one in which it looked as if the odds were stacked against his client, becoming quite animated as he talked.

"Hopeless cases like mine," said Erik.

"Yes, rather like yours. I'm not going to pretend to know everything you've been through, how much you may have suffered because of how you look, but I know how it feels to strike a blow in the name of Justice."

"You're an idealist."

"Is that so wrong? Which is worse – to be an idealist or a pessimist?"

"What about a realist?"

Bruguière read skepticism on what he could see of Erik's face. "Depends upon what you mean by 'realist.' Are you truly referring to reality, or simply using that as another excuse for the way you've lived?"

"Maybe, if you'd lived as I have, you wouldn't know the difference." Erik stopped talking, worried that he had revealed too much of himself. "It is understandable that winning a case would be cause for celebration," he said at last, "but what happens when you lose one?"

Bruguière became more somber. "I seldom lose."

"But you have lost cases in the past. What then? What will you do if you lose this case?"

"Then we shall appeal!"

"And if the appeal is denied?"

The attorney looked towards the door, as if he could figure the answer to this puzzle by staring at it. "I can't say." He sat quietly, considering a variety of legal strategies in case Erik was convicted.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. It was the bailiff. "The judges wish to speak to you, Monsieur Bruguière," the man announced.

"Why would they want to speak with you?" Erik asked. "Do you suppose…"

Bruguière shook his head, confused. "It must have to do with their verdict," the attorney explained. "They may want to discuss some kind of deal."

"Monsieur Bruguière," Erik said, stumbling over words he was not familiar with saying, "no matter what happens, I…I want to thank you." He held out a hand in friendship.

Bruguière did not hesitate to accept. "You're quite welcome, sir. It has been a privilege to defend you. No, I mean it. Truly a privilege." Then he leaned over and spoke quietly, so that the bailiff could not hear. "You'd better put those back on," he said, indicating the handcuffs. "And try not to fret. I'll see to it you get the best deal possible." And then he left with the bailiff.

Erik stared at the door long after it closed. There was nothing to do but wait, and think. And if there was one thing he was uncomfortable with these days, it was his own thoughts. With nothing else to occupy the time, however, he was forced to contemplate all that had happened over the past weeks, but his thoughts were a swirl of conflicting emotions. He remembered shouting at Christine, screaming that the world had never shown him any compassion, but that was wrong. People had been willing to show him compassion, understanding – if he had only opened his eyes and looked around instead of dwelling upon his own self-pity and misery.

There was Mme Giry, his long-time confidant and the person who had taken him in and given him shelter many years ago. Thanks to her intimate knowledge of the opera house, she had managed to get hold of the ledgers that exposed the managers' embezzlement of funds and made sure that all references to his extortion had disappeared. There was Christine, who had given him his first and only kiss, and who had lied for him, and Raoul who, for whatever reason, backed up her testimony. And now Bruguière. The realization of what all these people had done for him humbled Erik. It was a sensation he had never experienced before, and it left him confused, troubled.

-0-0-0-

Bruguière strode down the hallway, his lawyer's robe billowing behind him in the turbulence. Being summoned to the judges' chambers was unusual, but not unprecedented. He knew that any number of situations might have arisen that required his presence; he only hoped it did not bode ill for his client. He rounded the corner and nearly collided with Agnelet, also en route to chambers. The two men nodded to acknowledge one another, but did not speak.

The door opened, and a clerk beckoned to them to enter. He handed both men a sheaf of papers, documents of new evidence that had come to light. They scanned it quickly, deep ridges of concern etching both their brows.

The president of the court, Chief Justice Hèrcǔle Montaigne, indicated two empty chairs in front of the ornately carved table reserved for the judiciary. The other members of the tribunal, Justice Rabine and Justice Gaillard, were formally seated on either side of him. From the looks of them, this was not going to be pleasant.

"Gentlemen, be seated," Montaigne said hoarsely, his throat gravelly and rough from deliberating. "New evidence has come to light. Milfroid's men have discovered a broken bottle in the house underneath the opera where the defendant was apprehended. It contains the remnants of a sweet, cloying liquid...such as Signor Piangi described. However, since you have both rested your case, there is a legal question of whether it can be introduced."

Agnelet sat up straight and leaned forward eagerly, like a dog catching scent of its prey. "Why not have Signor Piangi tell us whether this is the same odor he recalls smelling before he lost consciousness?

"I object!" Bruguière shifted in his chair and shook his head angrily. "Piangi isn't a complete fool. He'll know that if he answers in the affirmative, my client will be linked with this liquid. Anyone could have brought that bottle to my client's home—perhaps a member of the mob that attacked him—and planted it there to incriminate him." He fumed before adding, "I will only agree to a blind test. Bring in several samples of aromatic liquid, blindfold Piangi, and then let him identify which one is the same as he recalls."

Rabine, famous for his well-considered legal opinions, ventured forth. "This is a matter for another trial. Signor Piangi may use the new evidence in a civil suit, if he so desires, but the jury has finished deliberating. This case is closed. Monsieur Delacorte cannot be tried a second time for attempted murder."

"Why not?" Gaillard inquired. "The jury's decision is not binding upon us. Since when has it been impossible to charge a man with a crime? We've made no decision, reached no verdict in this case." Gaillard scratched his head and gazed out the window, apparently bored by the arcane details that were complicating what he had expected to be an open and shut case.

Rabine exploded, his patience worn thin by Gaillard's indifference towards the chance to test a new legal theory. "Nevertheless, the jury has returned its decision! Even though it has not yet been read, it cannot be ignored." He stifled a groan and looked to Montaigne to explain the crux of the matter to his not-so-learned colleague.

The president took a sip of water to soothe his raw throat before launching into an explanation. "The code of penal procedure is breaking new ground on a theory of adjudication. The theory being considered is, once the prosecutorial arguments have closed, prosecuting an already judged crime is impossible even if new incriminating evidence has been found."

Rabine, who enjoyed showing off his knowledge, seized the chance to elucidate. "However, a person who has been convicted may request another trial on grounds of new exculpating evidence."

"And what about those ledgers I turned over to the police?" Bruguière asked. "Why were they not introduced into evidence?"

All eyes were on Agnelet. "There is nothing in them that incriminates your client," he explained patiently. "Instead, they point to the managers. You'll be pleased to note that the court has already issued a warrant for their arrest."

Bruguière understood, softened his defensive posturing once he realized that Agnelet was doing the right thing. "I assume they've been charged with embezzlement."

A cold smile crept across Agnelet's face. "And fraud, and a number of lesser charges that may hold water. Oh, I'm sure your client is not entirely innocent, but the fact is, there is no proof of his guilt."

Gaillard, drawn back into the debate, threw out an intelligent statement. "Signor Piangi is free to bring a civil suit against M. Delacorte, if he wishes. Let the lower courts deal with it," he added slyly.

A moment of quietude descended upon the men, before Agnelet broke the silence. "Your honor, there is the matter of Delacorte's usurping Piangi's part in the opera."

The defense attorney bristled. "You'd find him guilty of impersonating an opera star?"

Gaillard snickered. "That is not a bad idea. We can't let him off Scot free"

"I'm suggesting that we not let him off," Agnelet said testily. "Signor Piangi deserves to be compensated for the defendant's usurping his role. The public demands it. Therefore, the State would be satisfied if the defendant is convicted of trespassing and disturbing the peace. The People ask that Monsieur Delacorte be barred from attending any performance at the opera house, and from coming within 500 feet of the premises."

Being banned from the premises was a minor punishment, especially in light of the serious charges that had been brought against Erik Delacorte. Bruguière squinted at his old friend, wary of any hidden complications. "For how long?"

"For a period not to exceed five years, with the possibility of expunging his record if there are no further incidents. That should cool him off." He extended his hand, offering a handshake on the bargain.

"No," Bruguière snapped, looking at Agnelet's hand with disdain. "I do not accept this deal. My client has been convicted of nothing!"

"Then let Piangi come in here at once, identify this bottle, and I shall vigorously press the charges of attempted murder. When I'm through with him, your client will be lucky if he only gets life in solitary confinement on Devil's Island." Agnelet turned his back on the defense attorney and crossed his arms over his chest. Damn it, two could play this game.

"You wouldn't!" Bruguière snarled. "My client wouldn't last a month on Devil's Island. No one could. It's infested with fever, disease. Vermin!"

Agnelet smiled wickedly. "Try me."

Montaigne stood and smoothed out his long judicial robe. "Well, Monsieur Bruguière? What do you say? Is your client willing to throw himself on the mercy of the jury?" He watched as Bruguière shook his head slowly. "No? Then the tribunal will deliberate. The two of you will wait outside."

-0-0-0-

Erik had no idea how long he sat in the anteroom; there was no clock on the wall, and he had no watch; the gold chain he wore (which had caught Carlotta's attention when she was testifying) was borrowed from Bruguière, and was merely for show. He looked at the high, clerestory windows, trying to determine from the light how much time had elapsed, but that did little good. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours. But then he was brought back to the present by another knock on the door. Bruguière strode in, his face solemn.

"Come along, Erik. Court is being reconvened. The tribunal has reached a verdict."

-0-0-0-