Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  Soon she was done. Sture had wanted her to come out to dinner with him. But she didn’t have the energy to deal with him right now; she had no strength left over to worry about him or give him all the attention he needed. She’d told him she had already promised to have dinner with Anna. This wasn’t true. Yes, she had tried calling, but Anna was on a business trip and when her oldest son answered the phone he was still so upset about her appearance on Primetime 60 Minutes that he hung up on her. Sophia realized he thought she had done something he needed to rebel against, something as upsetting as long and environmentally harmful morning showers, human trafficking, and hamburger meat.

  Carl wasn’t in Sweden, or she would have gone to see him. He would have understood. He could have told her convincingly that she’d done a fantastic job. But she would have to manage without him too.

  She picked up her cell phone. The registrar’s office wouldn’t open for another forty minutes. But if she headed over now she would miss the worst traffic. She called a cab and meticulously taped up the box that contained the petition and copies.

  It was time. There was nothing more to do. It was time to go to the Supreme Court.

  * * *

  —

  Today that attorney would be sending in his petition for a new trial.

  “We’ll deliver it on Friday,” Sophia had said last time they spoke. That was exactly how she’d put it: we’ll deliver it. As if he had agreed to pretend this were a joint project.

  “Would you like to read it first?” she had asked. But he could hear it in her voice, that she didn’t want him to say yes. Sophia Weber wasn’t a fan of listening to others. Even if she claimed to do her utmost to make her clients feel like a part of the process, she wanted to be in charge.

  Still, Stig had demanded to see the petition. Afterward he had shared his thoughts. She had thanked him without sounding particularly grateful.

  But Sophia Weber was a good lawyer. Stig could tell. She was a skilled writer, thorough — she was good for him.

  He’d certainly been wrong about that sort of thing before. There had even been a time when he’d thought the same of Marianne. That she was good for him.

  Back when they got to know each other, Marianne worked at the information desk at Karolinska Hospital. She greeted visitors and called queue numbers. Answered questions with a cautious smile on her thin lips — not too forward, not too withdrawn or shy. Just reassuring. There was something about her voice. It wasn’t too loud or too soft. She made people believe she would help them, set things right, show them the way. No one blamed Marianne for long wait times, incorrect diagnoses, or canceled consultations. If they wanted to shout or make demands, they turned to her colleagues.

  Stig had thought it was her personality. Not something she had practiced; she might have been born that way. And from the very first day they spent time together, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the type of woman he should marry. That she would make his life easier, more orderly. Not too much. Not too little. Better.

  But he was wrong. He realized as much during the birth. As Marianne sweated, began to smell, as feces and blood came from her body, as her hair stuck to her head and she demanded water and nitrous oxide and took his hand to squeeze it in order to ease her own pain. That was when he understood that she was not good for him at all.

  Marianne came home from the hospital a different person. With a personality change. From the shell of what had once been a competent woman, stable and dependable, crept a timid, catlike animal. Marianne became sloppy, inattentive, and distant. Her sleep patterns changed; her eyes became restless and her hands were always nervously busy. Gathering and folding, wiping and patting. Her anxiety took over every movement. She had lost control.

  Stig assumed Marianne had a hard time handling Ida. It seemed like she didn’t know what to do, and that terrified her. Initially Stig had assumed it would get better in time, once her hormone levels stabilized and Marianne had settled into the baby’s routines. But instead Marianne began to make demands of Stig. About how he should be and what he should do.

  Now it was Friday morning. Sophia Weber had delivered Stig’s petition, and all that was left to do was wait.

  There were no rules about how long it could take. Sophia Weber had explained this. The Supreme Court could, in principle, consider the petition for as long as they wished. Three weeks or four years. And no one had any way of knowing what decision the court might reach.

  Stig shouldn’t be too optimistic. The program on TV had presented the issue as obvious, but the justices on the Supreme Court were no easily-swayed viewers. They would not be convinced by anything other than jurisprudence. There were any number of miscarriage-of-justice cases in which the huge media attention actually led to the opposite outcome.

  Sophia had explained all of this to him. She had done so in her usual competent manner. Stig had not found it difficult to understand what she was saying or why. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything either. He would have to wait and see.

  39

  Sophia was let into the stairwell by the postal carrier. Once inside, she stopped and stared at the ceiling, at the decorative stucco and the murals. She was already regretting this. It was a terrible idea. She turned to head back out to the street, but she ran into Ludwig Venner at the door. He was carrying a Styrofoam coffee cup and a sticky paper bag.

  “Sophia,” he declared.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said hesitantly.

  Ludwig looked puffy, half-asleep, and surprised. But not surprised in a good way. Sophia raised her hands.

  “I’m going back home,” she said. “Let’s pretend this never happened. It was a dumb idea. But I was on Riddarholmen and I wanted…I wanted to thank you for your help.”

  She felt her voice betraying her. It wasn’t true, and Ludwig knew it. Ludwig wasn’t part of her life; she’d made that decision on her own. She looked up at him and swallowed.

  “So, thanks. Thanks for arranging Primetime 60 Minutes. It made my petition an awful lot better, and I never could have done that on my own. I just delivered it, and I wanted…but I should have called instead, I don’t know, I never would have…it was nice of you. I’ll be going now.”

  Ludwig stood in her way and handed her the coffee and sack of pastries. Then he dropped a set of keys in Sophia’s coat pocket.

  “You’re not going anywhere. Now that you’re here, let’s have breakfast together. Take the elevator to the sixth floor. You’ll need the key to go up. Let yourself in, I’m just going to get another cup of coffee and I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  —

  Adam was sitting on the bathroom floor. Norah’s nude-colored slip was hanging in the bathtub to dry. The moisture dripped from the slippery fabric and onto the enamel. It would be an hour or two before she got home. Then they would wake up the kids, and he had to get up before it was time.

  He was all packed. Three suitcases. It was all he would need for now.

  “If you forget something, you can always drop by,” she had assured him. And in a week, he would come home again. Then it would be her turn to pack the suitcases and disappear.

  “I don’t want them to have to live in two places,” she had added. “Not until we know what we’re going to do.”

  So she had said. But she had already made up her mind. He could tell by looking at her; he could hear it in her voice. It was only a matter of time before he would have to find a new apartment. Before they would have to do all of that. Go through their belongings. Buy new beds. Divide up books, CDs, memories. Buy double sets of rubber boots and gym clothes for the kids. He and Norah hadn’t done it yet; they hadn’t even talked about it, not properly. But it already felt so trite.

  The tile was cold. He was holding his daughter’s pajamas in his hand. He’d been trying to straighten up the bathroom and was planning to put her jammies in the h
amper. Now he wanted to take them with him.

  He had packed three suitcases. But this was his home. His children lived here. And his wife. He lived here with his family.

  * * *

  —

  The elevator opened directly into Ludwig’s penthouse. The hall, living room, office, library, and kitchen were combined into one huge room; it must have been over two thousand square feet. The ceiling was rather low, and one of the walls was covered in a gigantic oil painting, black cranes against a dark blue sky, the style was almost Japanese. But the artist wasn’t Japanese; it had been painted by Bruno Liljefors. The short walls gave way to four bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms, and beyond one long wall was a seven-hundred-square-foot terrace where she had stood years ago, gazing out across Stockholm. Back then this had been Ludwig’s bachelor pad; as she assumed it was once again, although the clothes and shoes in the hall and the toys scattered all over the place suggested that these days, he had regular visits of a different sort from when she used to be invited to parties here.

  This was a terrible idea, Sophia thought, sinking onto one of the three sofas in the living room area.

  When Ludwig walked in with coffee and a sack of pastries the size of an IKEA bag, Sophia began to cry.

  “Sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m just a little tired.”

  Ludwig sat down and put his arms around her. She drew in his scent as deeply as she could; he smelled like tobacco and, faintly, sweat. She shifted closer and let him stroke her back. When her sobs had abated she turned her face to his and slipped her hand around to the back of his neck. But Ludwig put a finger to her lips and shook his head.

  “Stop,” he said. “Let’s just eat breakfast. Because you clearly need to eat. Then you can go grab a few hours of sleep in my bed. Alone. Because you clearly need to sleep.”

  Sophia rose from the sofa as fast as she could. Ludwig reached for her, but she slapped his hand away and headed for the door. As she shoved her feet into her shoes he pressed the pastry bag into her hands. When she tried to give it back, he handed her the coffee as well. He took her by the shoulders.

  “Sophia,” he tried. “This is just silly. Come in and sit back down. Don’t be angry. You know I’d love to sleep with you. But not when you’re worn out and overtired. We can wait until you’re well rested and horny. Otherwise it won’t be any fun. And I do want you to find it fun. Really, I would have preferred that you liked me back, a little. That would have made me happy. But you don’t. So, don’t be angry with me, Sophia. It doesn’t happen so often, that I care about women this way. Don’t punish me for it. My therapist would be very displeased with you if you were to do that when I’m finally doing something kind. Mom too.”

  Sophia shook her head. Her throat ached, but she wanted to stop crying.

  “No, no,” she mumbled. “I’m not angry, not at you, anyway, but I never should have…I’m sorry.”

  “Stop. Don’t apologize. And definitely don’t thank me. That would just be silly.”

  Her tears dripped to the floor. Ludwig wiped them away with his thumb and pulled her close. He hugged her as hard as he could without squashing the coffee cup and the pastries.

  “If you want,” he mumbled into her hair, “we can have dinner next week. I have the kids from tonight until Sunday, but after that I’m available.”

  She nodded against his chest and wriggled out of his grasp. When the ancient elevator showed up she opened the door as fast as she could and closed it hard behind her.

  The coffee was gone before the elevator made it to the ground floor. She tossed the cup in a bin just outside the front door, shoved the pastries into her purse, and jogged all the way down to the Royal Dramatic Theater. There, she stopped and sat on one of the steps leading to the main entrance. Slowly her pulse returned to normal and she caught her breath. Once her chest stopped burning she turned her face to the sun.

  The archipelago ferries were resting at the edge of the water. A group of gulls were arguing loudly over a forgotten sandwich. It was a typical workday, too early in the year for tourists or recreational boats. In the lee of the building behind her it was surprisingly warm; the snow had melted a few weeks back. And the archipelago was iced out, she’d heard on the radio.

  It might just be possible, she thought.

  As she walked up Sibyllegatan, she called the marina.

  The director at Rådmansö answered on the first ring. Sophia introduced herself and explained what she was after. She heard him place his hand over the receiver.

  “It’s that lawyer girl with the Shipman,” he said. “She’s gotten it into her head to go sailing.”

  The phone crackled. It sounded like a small crowd had burst out laughing.

  “Hello,” she tried. “Are you still there? Can you arrange that?”

  The director uncovered the receiver. Someone wolfwhistled.

  “Slow down there, missy. You know it’s only forty degrees in the water? At the shore. Just a few yards out and as soon as it gets deeper it’s even colder. The ice may be gone, but once you get out on the water you’ll hardly be able to tell.”

  “I know,” she said. “Could you bring over the gear in storage as well, and check the batteries? I’d like to get moving right after lunch.”

  The director snorted.

  “So no cleaning or waxing. How about propane and gas? A thermos and warm socks, have you got those? Because you may have been enjoying coffee out on your little balcony, but you can hardly order a latte at sea.”

  The laughter in the background was renewed. This time they applauded as well.

  “I don’t know how far I’m going,” said Sophia. “But I need to be back on Sunday night.”

  The man stopped laughing.

  “Are you out of your mind, girl?” Now he sounded upset. “You’re going to sack out on the boat? Do you have any idea what that involves? This time of year, there’s no such thing as a breezy little jaunt on the sea. But there is such a thing as freezing to death. If you fall in the drink it’ll be over in a few minutes. And you’ll just stay there. You might wash up on land around Midsummer, but you won’t look pretty, I can promise you that.”

  “I understand it’s cold.” Sophia crossed the street to her front door. “Could you please include the items from the storage area as well?”

  “You’re a stubborn one. I hope you have a fellow with you. For warmth, if nothing else.”

  “I have propane.” Sophia clamped the phone between her shoulder and ear and fished out her keys. The keypad lock seemed to be broken again. “The bottle’s almost full and I have an extra in the boat. You tuned up the engine in the fall. The batteries are still in the boat, and as I said, if you have time to check them that would be great. And say hello and thanks to your noisy colleagues whom I can hear in the background — it’s so kind of them to offer to share my sleeping bag, but I’ll manage on my own.”

  She headed straight to the basement. If I kept the rest of my life as organized as my boating equipment, I would never have any problems.

  40

  It took some time for Sophia to get from the bus stop to the pier. Although she’d done her best to pack practically, it was hard to transport everything. Lined boots, gloves, scarf, long johns, a thick and wind-resistant hat, two sleeping bags, sheets, the nautical charts she’d had at home to use for desk-sailing over the winter, binoculars, a bearing compass, and a GPS. The lined survival suit that wouldn’t help in the least if she fell overboard, because she would freeze to death long before she had time to drown. And food. She’d brought way too much food.

  Titteli was waiting for her in the water when she arrived, looking lonely. Sophia had taken over the care of Grandpa Sture’s old boat. A line of empty buoys bobbed along the piers; there were only four boats in the harbor, and none was a sailboat like hers. The sun was still shining, but you could tell by looking at the water how
cold it was; it was winter-shiny, like a metallic gray sheet of ductile steel.

  The boatyard director and three men in their twenties were on board her boat. They turned to look as she walked onto the pier. The sun was still warm; the boatyard guys had taken off their jackets. They observed her in silence as she approached.

  Sophia nodded curtly and put down her bags. It smelled like tar here, and seawater, diesel, and coffee. The director turned off the engine; he’d been warming it up for her. The boat’s bumpers were out, and the flag was at the stern. The spray shield had been installed, the mainsail was on the boom, the battens were in, the furling jib was attached, and all sheets were in place. One of the men took her bags from the pier; another held out his hand to help her on board. The heater was on. Sophia peered below deck. They’d even put the cushions and rugs in place.

  She offered her hand. The boatyard director shook it. With his other hand he removed a packet of snuff from his lip and tossed it overboard.

  “I sent one of the boys out to pick you a bouquet of flowers. I thought you should have a vase in the cockpit,” he said, spitting. “But he claims nothing’s growing yet.”

  Sophia smiled, opened one of the bags she’d brought, and handed over two bottles of Russian Standard Vodka.

  “You sure aren’t the typical Stockholmer,” the director declared, a smile blossoming over his face. His upper teeth were still black from the snus. “Sture’s kid, makes sense. Totally fucking nuts.”

  Sophia took her time stowing everything she’d brought along. She turned on the radio; it was already tuned to P1. The weather promised westerly winds.

  She gazed out at the water. The sunlight was glittering here in Gräddöviken and the possibilities were endless. She didn’t want to sail to Åland; if the wind held that would mean a headwind all the way back and she didn’t need that. The cold would be bad enough as it was. She could head north through the Väddö Canal toward Grisslehamn, but the bridges at Bagghus and Älmsta weren’t yet open for the season. That only left one good option: she should sail for Tjockö, Långskär, and the open sea.