At last I see Stella. Tears squeeze from my eyes, further clouding my vision.
She is so small, and everything hurts so frightfully much. It feels like just yesterday that she fit on my lap, when she would sit with me to be petted like a doll. Her pacifier and security blanket, the first time she stood up and ran. Stella neither crawled nor walked—she ran right away. I remember chicken pox and scraped knees, strawberry stains on her summer dress, her freckles, and how I fell asleep in her bed night after night with a book on my face.
I think about all her dreams. She wanted to change the world. What could otherwise be the point of living? At first she wanted to become a pastor like her father, and later a police officer or fireman. She was so enraged that people said fireman—she was going to become the first firegirl.
Are there any dreams left? As I watch her being led into the courtroom it all becomes so clear, like a blow to the face. My failure is as thorough as it is unforgivable. Stella is eighteen years old and all her dreams have been crushed.
She has always wanted to help people. She was going to see the world, swim with sharks, climb mountains, learn to dive and fly, go skydiving, and ride a motorcycle across the United States. For a while she dreamed of becoming an actor or a psychologist.
What is a human being without dreams?
Our gazes meet for the briefest of moments before she sits down next to Michael. Her eyes are tired and empty; her hair is lank, her skin full of spots. She is still a frightened little girl. My frightened little girl. And I rise slightly from my seat, balancing on my toes and stretching out my arm. To fail to be there for your own child. There is no greater betrayal.
84
Here in my seat in the gallery, I cling to the walls of my tunnel. Should my gaze deviate in the slightest I risk encountering accusations, blame, and hatred I cannot face.
Adam is waiting out in the corridor, because he will be testifying. I realize I miss him. I have never needed him the way I do now.
Since I’m seated closer to the prosecution, I can’t help but catch a glimpse of Margaretha Olsen at the edge of my tunnel. In the nineties, I had her as an instructor in a few courses during law school; these days she is a professor of criminal law. But today, she is first and foremost the mother of a man who was robbed of his life. Next to her sits the injured-party counsel, a red-haired woman in her fifties whom I think I recognize but can’t quite place, and a male assistant prosecutor with slicked-back hair and round glasses. And last but not least, the prosecutor herself: Jenny Jansdotter.
I know Jansdotter is my age, but she appears much younger, possibly because she’s so short. Her hair is secured in a severe bun and her gaze is narrow and focused as she slips on her glasses. I think of all the times I’ve found myself in this very situation: the tension and suspense when you’ve just stepped into the courtroom at the start of a new trial.
In the gallery, the atmosphere is entirely different. I squirm and fight back tears, trying to find something to do with my unwieldy hands. Here, concentration is exchanged for confusion and concern. Sweat trickles from my underarms and my tongue crackles, dry against the roof of my mouth.
I look at Michael. I wish he would glance in my direction, but he is fully consumed with his preparations. We have gone through the indictment together a number of times.
This case is based on nothing but circumstantial evidence. The prosecutor has based her account of the deed solely upon circumstances that cannot prove criminal wrongdoing on their own, but together they form a chain that is meant to rule out any other possible explanation.
The evidence in question consists of a shoe print that demonstrates that Stella was at the scene of the crime on the night of the murder, phone records and chat transcripts between Stella and Christopher Olsen, and forensic evidence from Olsen’s apartment and clothing in the form of flakes of skin, strands of hair, and fibers of fabric.
Beyond this, the prosecutor has called witnesses: My Sennevall, a resident on Pilegatan, will attest that Stella was at the scene at the time of the murder. Stella’s colleagues from H&M, Malin Johansson and Sofie Silverberg, will testify that Stella had pepper spray in her purse. Jimmy Bark, an employee of the jail, will confirm that Stella has demonstrated violent behavior on repeated occasions during the last few weeks.
The defense has called two witnesses: Adam and Amina.
Jenny Jansdotter clears her throat and looks straight at Stella. I want to shout at her to stop, to leave my daughter alone. She delivers her opening statement without blinking, without taking a breath, without stumbling over her words at any point.