As I passed the station, though, I decided to keep going. It would only take me a few minutes to get to Pilegatan.
Linda Lokind’s words echoed in my head. I pictured Chris. Amina. What was going on?
My bike flew those last few meters over the asphalt. The wind socked me in the face and I saw stars.
When I reached the building, I flung my bike up against it and stared up. The blinds were down in all of Chris’s windows. It was completely dark.
I went up the stairs on numb legs. My pulse was throbbing; my brain nothing but one big shriek.
I pounded on the door. Rang the bell. Not a sound.
I pressed my ear to the door, then opened the mail slot and yelled through it.
“Chris! Amina!”
Nothing.
I knew something had happened.
I had no idea what was about to happen.
PART THREE
THE MOTHER
There is no such thing as justice—in or out of court.
CLARENCE DARROW
83
Main proceedings are called to order in Courtroom 2.
Outside the windows, the snow is falling in large diamond flakes and every time the door to the courthouse opens, a chill sweeps through the building, making the hair on my arms stand straight up.
When I enter the courtroom, the district court judge G?ran Leijon meets my gaze and nods grimly. We have met on several occasions throughout the years, and I have never had reason to be dissatisfied. Leijon is not just a competent judge. He is also sharp and nuanced, a courteous person with great integrity.
The courtroom has in many ways become a second home for me over the years, but this time I feel anything but at home. Everything I usually find attractive—the solemn atmosphere, the gravity of the situation, and the tension in the air—provokes nothing but anxiety in me now. The room, the air, the walls, the faces—they all seem threatening and make me dizzy.
The past several days are a blur. Places and moments crisscross in my mind like brambly patterns. Impressions flash by here and there, all out of order in time and space. It’s like walking around in an endless, foggy dream.
I was just in a meeting with a client in Stockholm. I no longer have any notion of what was said or why I was there. I know I dozed off on the plane home. A flight attendant asked if I was feeling okay. I can still see her worried face.
I was so recently at the height of my career, with a bounce in my step, clad in Dolce & Gabbana from head to toe, admired for my straightforward manner, my skill, my industriousness. Now I’m sitting in a courtroom and awaiting the proceedings that will determine my daughter’s future, the future of myself and my family.
Until so recently, we were a perfectly ordinary family. Now we are prisoners under a merciless spotlight.
There before me, Presiding Judge G?ran Leijon whispers something to the lay judges. Two of them are women in their seventies, one from the Green Party, one Social Democrat—rather typical lay judges. By all appearances they are empathetic women who bring to the court great understanding of how socioeconomic factors may influence criminal acts. The type of lay judges I have myself encountered in hundreds of cases, and who, nine times out of ten, mean good news for me and my client. In this particular matter, however, I’m not entirely convinced that the effect will be positive, a worry I have brought up with Michael. Partly this is because Stella is a woman; partly it’s because her appearance will work against her. What’s more, she must in every respect be considered a member of the white upper middle class. To make matters worse, she has a tendency to refuse, under any circumstances, to live up to the norms of how a well-brought-up young lady is expected to present herself. With any luck, Michael has helped her come to understand what a crucial role her courtroom behavior might play.
I feel more confident about the third lay judge. He is a man in his forties, retired on disability, a Sweden Democrat—according to Michael he seldom shows any great interest in the legal process.
It is often not worth expending too much worry on the lay judges. In reality, their role in the courtroom can be considered window dressing. No one gives much weight to their opinions, and should they have the poor taste to disagree with the presiding judge’s decision, he will squash them flat without batting an eye. In that aspect I can rely one hundred percent on G?ran Leijon.
The door on the far end of the room opens and each head in the gallery swivels. Everything stops. The open door gapes before me. It feels as if I am caught in a narrow tunnel. I twist my body, squirming and trying to breathe normally.
First, a uniformed security guard appears in the doorway. He turns around and says something. My vision is limited and blurry and the tunnel keeps closing in around me.