“It’s Joxe,” Leclair said, learning forward in disbelief. “Remember, he stopped us that evening? He’s here on his day off. He has gone over to the other side. He’s wearing that far right show of sympathy for that police killing.”
10:51. The onlookers had thickened to ten deep, and they sprawled from the bank across Rue du Temple to where the riot controllers stood. Many had turned restless because of the unexplained delay. Many had turned glum, Stanislas could sense. Any instant they could crash through the metal barricades, trample the police, stampede into the square, fearless of the German shepherds and machine guns and helicopters whirling above. Any moment they could reassert the blind primordial rage of the poor against the powerful. They could burn, loot, and stomp to death innocen
