I stroke his nape, his back.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “We’re together.”
It’s not much, but it’s the best comfort I have to offer. During these past weeks I have always thought I understood his agonized suffering; I have equated it with my own anguish. Just as Adam has violated the ethics of his profession, I have gone against everything I believed in. The law has been my religion. It certainly has its faults, rather extensive ones in some respects, but still I firmly believed the law to be the pillar and guiding light of a modern society. I believed the law to be the optimal means to regulate a democratic society. Now I don’t know what to believe. Some values are impossible to explain or to measure in statutes. And just as with life, the law has no regard for what ordinary people call justice.
When I look at Adam, I understand that this must be taking a greater toll on him than on me. In the worst-case scenario, he himself will face charges: trespassing, violence against a public officer, unlawful influence.
At last we stand up. I keep my arm tightly around his waist all the way through the courthouse, past the reception desk, and out to the steps.
“You did the right thing, honey,” I say. “Tomorrow it’s Amina’s turn.”
We take a taxi home and Adam grills me about everything that happened in the courtroom prior to his testimony. When I tell him about the footprint and the analysis of the pepper spray, an expression of concern appears on his face.
“But there’s no concrete evidence,” he says.
“It’s up to the court to evaluate the evidence. In a case based on circumstantial evidence like this one is, one cannot judge each piece of evidence individually; one must look at the whole picture. After that, the court will test the prosecutor’s narrative of the crime against alternate hypotheses. If it’s not possible to rule out other explanations, there is reasonable doubt and the court must acquit.”
“Aren’t there always other explanations?”
“Typically the minimum requirements are that the defendant was at the scene of the crime, the person in question had the opportunity to commit the crime, and that other potential perpetrators can be ruled out.”
Adam gazes out the window and I take out my phone to see what the newspapers are reporting. Sydsvenskan and Sk?nskan have brief pieces on the first day of trial but haven’t said much. Aftonbladet’s crime section bears the headline “Father Squeezed Hard by Prosecutor.” The article is full of insinuations that question Adam’s testimony. One hundred years ago it would have been completely unthinkable for a pastor to lie in court, but after today’s proceedings in Lund County Court there is every reason to wonder if this is still the case. I can hardly believe my eyes. Under no circumstances can I allow Adam to read this. At the top of the page is a byline and a photo of the writer. It’s the bearded man I’ve been sitting next to all day.
The taxi turns onto our street. A few neighbors are standing in a tight clump, looking in our direction.
“Have a good night,” the driver says as I pay.
“Mmhmm.”
I walk around the car and take Adam by the hand. Neither of us looks at the neighbors.
In the entryway, Adam goes stiff.
“Was it … was she the one who did it?”
I don’t like lying to him. Just one last time.
“I don’t know, honey.”
94
The courtroom is my home and my fortress. I have almost spent more hours in various courtrooms than at home with my family. But I have never felt this lost and exposed here, choked with anguish, tormented by regret.
Adam stays close by my side as we walk through the courthouse hallway. At first, as we enter the courtroom, I only see strange faces among the spectators. Journalists, I assume, perhaps a curious onlooker from the so-called general public. I look for the bearded reporter, but he’s nowhere in sight. Perhaps Aftonbladet sent someone else today? Christopher Olsen’s suit-clad business acquaintances, at least, form the same phalanx as yesterday. They’re whispering loudly. Apparently a few of them were investigated for their involvement in the massive ring of shady business deals and illegal labor Michael uncovered.
In the back row of the gallery, I spot a familiar face. Alexandra has just bent down to take something from her purse, and her bangs have fallen over her eyes.
My eyes dart back and forth for a moment. Then Alexandra brushes her hair away and looks at me. We exchange brief nods and I exhale when I realize Dino isn’t here.
I’ve always thought well of Alexandra. In many ways I see myself in her. A strong woman with a successful career and a relaxed outlook on life. Good food, a few glasses of better wine, and a good laugh in the company of friends have united us. At the same time, I can’t deny that I have envied her at times, when I have seen how easy Amina is—there have been moments I wished we could change places.