In a case that has left the French legal system clutching its pastis in existential dread, 79-year-old Monique Olivier (no relation to the other one, she swears) is being hauled before a judge for allegedly turning her son-in-law into a very permanent member of the family. Yes, you read that correctly: France’s oldest female prisoner, a woman who has been collecting a pension longer than she’s been drawing breath, is going on trial for the brutal murder of her daughter’s husband.
The victim, a man whose name I can’t pronounce without doing a little spit-take, was found in a state that can only be described as ‘well-done’. Authorities allege that Madame Olivier, after years of passive-aggressive comments about his tie collection, finally snapped and used a baguette as demonstrated by the Michelin Man: not for eating, but for beating. The weapon was never recovered, possibly because it was eaten.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Biff, this sounds like a case of simple domestic squabbling gone troppo.’ But hold your horses, you crusty old sceptic. This is France. The land of Camus and existentialism. The question isn’t whether she did it (she probably did, the look in her eyes says ‘I’ve been waiting 40 years to say this’). The real question is: can you even prosecute a 79-year-old? The French legal system is currently having a collective meltdown, torn between ‘letting the old bird sleep it off’ and ‘throwing the book at her, preferably a heavy one’.
Her lawyer, a man who clearly hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the Maastricht Treaty, argues that his client is too old to understand the concept of murder. ‘She thought she was just sending him to a very early retirement,’ he claims, with a straight face that needs its own human rights tribunal. The prosecution, meanwhile, is insisting that age is no barrier to justice. ‘If she can still complain about the price of cheese, she can stand trial,’ said the prosecutor, a man who clearly has never had to deal with a French grandmother in a supermarket aisle.
The trial promises to be a circus. Witnesses include a neighbour who claims to have heard ‘unusually aggressive baguette slicing’ at 3 AM, and a local fromager who insists the victim’s body smelled of ‘Sartre and regret’. The judge has already requested a translator for the inevitable rambling about the ‘good old days’ and the ‘decline of French masculinity’.
As for Madame Olivier herself, she remains unrepentant. When asked by reporters if she had anything to say, she replied, ‘He never called me Maman. Not once. And he put the butter in the microwave. The microwave! What kind of monster does that?’ The courtroom erupted, not in shock, but in a quiet murmur of understanding. Indeed, in the great pantheon of French crimes, butter-related atrocities are right up there with surrendering to the Germans.
So, as the trial begins, we are left to ponder the eternal question: does old age grant you a free pass to commit murder? Or does it simply give you more time to plan the perfect crime? And more importantly, will the baguette ever get a fair trial? I, for one, will be watching from the bar, drinking to the absurdity of it all. À votre santé, Monique. You’ve given us something to chew on.
