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| Roberval. |
Louis Shalako
Langeron sat across a very large desk, almost black with age and a few coats of bug-juice.
The most senior justice, of the most senior court in the land, regarded him with dusty disapproval. He’d been wheeled in by a male servant, with a rug across his knees.
If someone, anyone really, had rubbed that head, dust and cobwebs would fly up and make a cloud around them…he stifled the thought.
“This. My dear Langeron—but this, this is a very long list.”
“Sir. This is what Maintenon figures he needs. If he is to have any hope of solving this case, which is almost surely political in nature.”
“Political, you say.”
“In the worst possible way.”
“Ahem.”
“It’s a long list. The socialists may retaliate, if they figure out who’s doing it. The possibility of further violence is definitely there. However, in terms of background…ah, the two major far-right parties are the French Social Party. Originally the Fiery Cross, ah, Croix de feu, and the French Popular Party, a.k.a. the PPF. The PSF is much larger, reaching as many as a million members, and has grown, since their inception, increasingly conservative. The PPF was and is, much smaller, with perhaps fifty thousand members, and over time it has become more fascist. The chief impact for both movements is to bring together their enemies on the left and center into the Popular Front. The Croix de Feu was originally an elite veterans’ organization that an individual, known to this government, and quite frankly, this department, François de La Rocque, took over in 1929 and made it a political movement. The Croix-de-Feu was dissolved in June 1936 by the Popular Front government, and de La Rocque quickly formed the new Parti Social Français. Both organizations were and are, still authoritarian and conservative, hostile to democracy and devoted to the defence of property, the family, and the nation against the threat of decay or leftist revolution. The motto of PSF is travail, famille, patrie, that is to say, sir, work, family, and fatherland. Er, Gilles knows all of this. Its base lies in urban areas, especially Paris, the industrial North, and Algeria. Most members are young. Most of them were born after 1890. They’re resolutely middle-class. It has very few blue collar or farm workers. The PSF grew rapidly in the late 1930s, with more members than the communists and socialists combined. It reached out to include more workers and rural elements. De La Rocque is a charismatic leader but a poor politician with vague ideas. Whether or not it’s fascist is a matter of some debate. Mostly by academics and disinterested scholars. Many resemblances exist, ah, but not the key fascist promise of the creation of a revolutionary new fascist man. Instead, its goal is to return to the past and to rely upon the old traditional values of Church and Army.”
Roger cleared his throat.
“The ruling Democratic Republican Alliance, under Albert LeBrun seems fairly secure, especially since the resolution of the general strike in May. And you know the international news. Monsieur Chamberlain is saying that Hitler can be trusted, and is presently working his backside off in the worst kind of appeasement. I’m sure they have their reasons—as does Hitler and his ilk. Mostly just playing for time, or perhaps it is a genuine delusion.”
There was another silence.
“As for our current government, they show every sign of being confident, of being able to stave off a vote of no-confidence, for perhaps a few more months…sir.” He glanced at a memo in his hand. “For us, there are some issues which need clarification. Wiretapping first became a tool of U.S. law enforcement in the 1890s, but the Supreme Court didn’t establish its constitutionality until 1928, at the height of Prohibition. One Roy Olmstead, a Seattle bootlegger, had been convicted on evidence gathered through a wiretap in his home. He argued that authorities had violated his rights—but the court upheld his conviction, saying eavesdropping was not a physical invasion of privacy. It’s not a question of what we can get. It’s a question of being able to use it in a court of law. So much better with judicial authorization, in other words, and when in doubt—”
When in doubt, kiss a bit of ass—
“I see.”
The old fellow sighed, very deeply indeed. The clock ticked on the wall. Someone out there was typing, very fast indeed. Low voices, a dull hum came from the outer office, and the long hallways and convoluted channels of this particular institution. Truth was, he had a lot of power.
And this was from Maintenon.
“So. How is old Gilles, these days.”
“I have every confidence in Gilles. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it will be him—or someone very much like him.” Langeron sat there, breathing calmly. “Other than that. Hmn. I sense a great sadness in Gilles.”
“And what about you, Roger?”
“Ah, well. I reckon I’ll get there, in time.” It was an inevitability. “When it comes to this kind of police work, it’s all second hand.”
There was a long stare, and he stared right back. The fellow nodded, and turned his gaze down…
It's all second hand, sir...
“Very well.” He grunted. “I sure hope you know what the hell you are doing. Are we talking domestic politics or foreign actors?”
“We are talking one seriously mixed-up bag of shit, sir.” No, that wasn’t good enough. “Both. We have evidence of all kinds of foreign money, all sorts of foreign involvement. The usual suspects. Nazis, Fascists, Soviet-style socialists…”
None of them cared about the law or for the greater good of the French people. Maintenon didn’t know some of this, but Roger did.
The old gentleman looked up at Langeron. It was a withering sort of stare.
“That is one shit-load of wiretaps, young man. You must realize, there are no legal sanctions at this time in the Republic of France. You could have just gone ahead and done it, and quite frankly no one would ever be able to hold you accountable.”
He was about to quote the book—
Young man. Roger would be fifty-six in January, for crying out loud—
Admittedly, Roberval was a good thirty years older, and ossified everywhere, except, apparently, in the head...
He was beginning to sweat now.
Best not to let him see it—
He grinned, faintly.
“While privacy laws were originally meant strictly to cover only dwellings, they have afforded similar protection to hotel rooms and even to a suspect's person. As a result, official intrusions on these liberty interests are legal only if authorized by law. In a recent case, the court suppressed gambling paraphernalia seized by the judicial police in an unauthorized search of the defendant's person. Unauthorized because the judicial police did not observe any external sign to justify opening an investigation of a flagrant offense. Since the police had no authority, absent a flagrant offense, to intrude forcibly on such a basic liberty interest, the court suppressed the evidence seized from the defendant's person and his subsequent confession of guilt prompted by that illegal seizure. Wiretapping for law enforcement purposes requires a similar analysis. Surely the overhearing and recording of telephone conversations may intrude on a basic liberty interest just as much as a search of the person. Also, the Penal Code protects that interest by criminalizing the overhearing, recording or transmitting of private conversations. That article does not address the admissibility of wiretap evidence, nor does it contain any explicit exclusion for wire-tapping otherwise authorized by law. But the application of the above basic principles is fairly straightforward. Wiretapping for law enforcement purposes is an illegal intrusion on private life, and wiretap evidence is subject to automatic exclusion, unless the wiretapping—by definition a coercive search, is part of a judicial investigation or police investigation for a flagrant offense.”
Roger Langeron’s shoulders slumped.
“Let’s just say I wanted a second opinion.” The old man across the way nodded.
He reached for the pen…
“I understand.” He signed, and in fact, there were a number of documents.
He still had his hands on the papers.
It would be wrong to just grab them and run—
Terribly tempting though it was.
Finally the old man relinquished his hold.
He nodded.
“You do have some bodies, after all.”
“For the sake of the Republic. Sir.” Sweeping the papers together, sliding the bunch into his briefcase, took but a moment.
“Thank you. Thank you very much—” Sir.
“Good luck. And God help you.”
It was hardly necessary. He knew that part already. Rising, he was halfway to the door.
“Roger.”
“Yes?”
“Cover your ass, young man. Cover your ass.” The cold, tired eyes looked away. “In other words, be careful. We live in very uncertain times.”
“Er. Yes, sir—” Well, that seemed sincere enough.
***
Clear enough.
END
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