Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  “My past experience with the media hasn’t exactly been positive,” Stig managed to say when Lasse Wilander sat down across from him and took a stack of small notes from his pocket; they were covered in cramped writing.

  Lasse Wilander nodded and turned to his photographer.

  “We’ll take the shots of me afterward,” he said. “Back home, if we have to.”

  Then he turned to Stig.

  “I understand. A large portion of our program is going to revolve around that very thing. Self-critical examination of the media’s role. What sort of impact it had on what happened to you. I mean, what befell you. Not least, how it influenced the justice process.”

  Then the interview began.

  A green light glowed on the front of the camera. The words flowed from Stig Ahlin. Not quickly, but astonishingly easily.

  “I was picked up at my place of work on a Monday in October, thirteen years and eight months ago. I had brought a gym bag to the office. I wasn’t allowed to take it with me to jail. Nor did they let me have my outerwear. My cell phone was in my coat pocket, so I didn’t have it with me. I haven’t been back in my apartment since that October day in 1998. When the decision was handed down by the court of appeals, I put it up for sale. My attorney at the time paid a moving company to empty it, since I no longer had any friends who would pick up the phone when I called. For four years I rented a storage unit, but later I gave that up as well. Some of my belongings were donated to charity, and practically everything else was thrown out. I have a safe-deposit box with a few personal documents. A couple of pieces of jewelry that belonged to my mother. I’d been planning to…”

  Stig fell silent, letting the sentence remain unfinished. The camera operator had placed a plastic bottle of sparkling water on the table before him. Stig unscrewed the cap, filled the provided glass, and took a drink.

  “I’ve never even seen the key to that safe-deposit box,” he said at last. “It’s held by the prison. I left detailed instructions for what should be kept and put aside. But naturally I don’t know…How could I have checked to make sure it was done right?”

  Stig blinked into the lamp the cameraman had set up to provide more light in the squat building. He wiped his forehead with a paper napkin. Lasse Wilander nodded in encouragement.

  “I have been robbed of my life,” said Stig. “Even if I am freed, even if I am given redress, even if this is all over someday. I will never be able to get my life back.”

  “It’s hard to understand,” said Lasse Wilander. “How you’ve managed to survive. That hatred hasn’t destroyed you.”

  “It’s been many years since I hated anyone,” Stig heard himself say.

  I’m lying, he thought at first. But then a realization struck him. His dreams of revenge and longing were something different. Hatred was clear, metallic, unambiguous. It was an expression of a comprehensible emotion. Everything would have been much simpler if he was in fact full of hatred.

  “Something happened to me when I was convicted,” said Stig Ahlin. “I believe it’s been many years since I’ve been able to feel.”

  That was what he said. It might even have been true.

  43

  “We’re making history.” Hans Segerstad’s face dipped forward; his head had become too heavy for his neck, so it drooped like a three-day-old tulip. “We’re making history, you and me. My dearest Sophia. Fourteen years after Stig Ahlin was locked up, almost to the day. Almost to the day.”

  If, by “almost to the day,” you mean he will have been imprisoned for fourteen years in almost three months, Sophia thought, digging a painkiller out of her pocket.

  “Fourteen years after the murder,” she said, taking a sip of champagne and washing down the pill. “A little longer.”

  They were sitting at a round table; Hans’s treat. At least, so he’d said. But Sture had appeared extremely skeptical when Sophia invited him to come too. If she knew Sture, he would have brought his own credit cards along.

  “I remember it so well,” Hans said, refilling his glass. “When I first decided to have a look at Stig Ahlin’s case. No one asked me to, but I did it anyway. And I thought I might have gone and become sentimental in my old age. But I felt, he’s innocent, that man is innocent, I have to do something about it. So I did.”

  He smiled in satisfaction. His eyes flashed in the dim light of the dining room as he swirled the wine around in his glass.

  “Solely based on that gut feeling. I’ve become an old man. A romantic.”

  Sture groaned out loud. Sophia frowned. But it seemed Hans Segerstad hadn’t heard.

  It wasn’t the fault of old age that Hans Segerstad was sentimental. Every decision he made came from the heart; he’d always been like that. True, he often spoke about the necessity of objectivity in law, that lawyers must not allow themselves to be controlled by emotion, but those were only words. Segerstad had been married three times. Not a single one of those marriages had lasted longer than it typically took for one of his doctoral students to write the introductory chapters of a middling dissertation.

  Jurisprudence was the closest to true love Hans had come in his life. Sophia wasn’t surprised in the least that he had taken on Stig Ahlin because he believed in the man’s innocence. What did surprise her was that he would admit it.

  “You?” Sture muttered, annoyed. Hans Segerstad still hadn’t heard him. “You haven’t done a whit to get Stig Ahlin freed, have you? You’ve been far too busy giving lengthy interviews. It’s thanks to someone else entirely that Stig Ahlin will have a new trial. A toast to you, Sophia.”

  Sophia shook her head but still clinked glasses with her grandfather. She didn’t have the energy to argue. With either of them. Hans Segerstad’s gaze had drifted out across the dining room again, landing on a table of particularly noisy teenagers. He was ignoring both Sophia and Sture. Soon he would disappear from their table and find someone who would treat him the way he thought he deserved. It wouldn’t be difficult: Hans Segerstad had gotten to give all the victorious interviews while Sture and Sophia were out sailing. Hans was the man of the moment, and the crowd at Teatergrillen kept up with that sort of thing.

  When she’d received the decision, Sophia had thought at first that she should stay home. That this incredible news demanded her complete attention. But then she’d spoken with Stig Ahlin and her euphoria subsided. It had been replaced by worry, and a sense of emptiness. Stig Ahlin was not in the least inclined to start celebrating. It wasn’t over yet; the court of appeals loomed ahead and Stig Ahlin was still at Emla. And there he would remain unless the court freed him.

  She had decided to stick to her plans. Delayed only by an hour and a half, she and Sture had boarded the boat. They’d just returned after three days of sailing in a drizzle. The temperature had never climbed above fifty-seven degrees, and she hadn’t turned her phone on again until she was back in her apartment and lying in a scalding hot bath.

  The only journalists whose calls Sophia had returned were Tor Bengtsson and Lasse Wilander. All she would tell them was that she was very happy with the decision and was now preparing for the proceedings, which she hoped would take place as soon as possible.

  The very next day, Tor Bengtsson had made her statement a headline, as an exclusive interview. He succeeded in blowing up her brief comment, along with a few photos and old quotes, into an entire two-page spread. Lasse Wilander, on the other hand, hadn’t seemed very keen when they spoke. He’d done a lengthy interview with Hans Segerstad while she was still out at sea. It had complemented the exclusive chat with Stig Ahlin. He didn’t need more than that.

  “Hans Segerstad praised your effort,” Lasse had assured her. “A very generous and magnanimous man. So strange that he never became a Supreme Court justice.”

  But it wasn’t only Hans Segerstad who’d given interviews while Sophia was sailing against the wind up by Huvudskär. The
case was receiving enormous attention, even though the decision had been handed down on Midsummer’s Eve.

  The prosecutor-general had been forced to hold a press conference. He stated that he didn’t see any reason whatsoever to reconsider the indictment. According to him, it remained strong despite the new information. He expected the court of appeals to agree. Stig Ahlin would remain in prison.

  Tor Bengtsson had spoken with the new chancellor of justice. She said she had no plans to become involved in the matter.

  “You mean you’re waiting to see what the court of appeals decides?” Tor Bengtsson had wondered.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” the chancellor insisted. “It’s deeply unfortunate that this has happened, but I don’t expect it to become a matter for the office of the chancellor of justice. Our justice system in Sweden has a consistently high degree of legal security. I don’t consider there to have been any mistakes made during the investigation.”

  Those positive reactions that did appear were not aimed at Sophia.

  “A victory for legal security and investigative journalism,” claimed author and journalist Jan Guillou, who also named Lasse Wilander “peak of the week.” A similar take was on offer in Johan Hakelius’s editorial “Injustice Is So Not Fair.”

  In the legal journals, Hans Segerstad was the hero of the hour. Legally Yours planned to put him on the cover; Juristtidningen was going to publish a special issue on his career, and Juridisk Tidskrift had launched a massive effort toward a belated Festschrift in his honor.

  The criticism, though — Sophia got to enjoy that all on her own. It wasn’t necessarily to be found in the newspapers, but Sophia Weber and her lack of moral compass were a hot topic in the comments below each online article.

  Sophia received almost all of these reactions via anonymous email. She’d never experienced the like. Hundreds of missives full of threats, more or less explicit, more or less offensive. Once she’d labored her way through twenty of them, she decided to stop reading. There was no point. Why waste her energy on it?

  She decided to ask her law partner Lars Gustafsson for help. He had a summer intern — a male one, for a change. This man could sift through her emails. Lars had offered the help, after all; he’d almost insisted. Asked her to keep the intern busy while he himself was on a last-minute charter trip to Greece. This time of year, there was relatively little to do. And what else were summer interns for, if not scut work?

  Sophia tried to find a comfortable position on the restaurant chair. Her five-inch heels were still in her handbag. Just as well; the soles were coming loose. She wiped her forehead again. Makeup, she thought. Next time I’ll at least put on makeup.

  Sture caught her eye.

  “What’s wrong, honey? Do you think it’s too early to celebrate?”

  Sophia shrugged. He was right, of course. That was exactly what she was thinking. She couldn’t escape from her spiraling thoughts. Sure, she was drinking champagne Hans Segerstad had ordered and Sture, in all likelihood, would have to pay for. It would have been impolite for her to do anything else. But she didn’t feel particularly happy. Stig Ahlin had been granted a new trial. It was thanks to her, and that was fantastic. But it didn’t necessarily mean Stig Ahlin would be freed. It should mean that. But nothing was for certain.

  The court of appeals could still arrive at the decision that Stig Ahlin was guilty. Certainly, Stig was starting from a better position now, but it wasn’t over yet. There were tons of people who were convinced Stig Ahlin was guilty. It would only take three of them serving in court on the day this matter would be retried.

  I have to get out of here, she thought, get away before it’s time to socialize with this herd. People crowding in, newly discovered intimacy that only gets more intense as blood alcohol concentrations rise.

  Sophia leaned toward her grandfather to whisper.

  “I’m going to head home. Do you want me to drop you off first, or will you get a cab on your own?”

  Sture frowned. “I’ll stay.” He observed Hans Segerstad. “This clown is going to forget to pay the tab any moment now. And I want to be here to keep from ending up in the papers as a simple fraudster.”

  Sophia kissed Sture’s forehead and made her way to the bar, where she’d hung her coat upon arriving. Now it was crowded and noisy and she pushed through to the bar counter to ask what had become of her coat. As she tried to get the bartender’s attention, a man she’d never seen before leaned toward her. She tried to back up, but there were too many people behind her. She was stuck; the man steadied himself against her shoulder, raised his glass, and slurred into her ear.

  “Cheers to Professor Death,” he hissed. The man’s saliva sprayed across her cheek. “Cheers, you fucking cunt! I hope you’re happy.”

  The man let his hand slide from her shoulder down her back and toward her waist. He pulled her close as someone passed behind Sophia, forcing her even closer to him. She felt his heavy breath against her neck.

  “Excuse me,” she managed. She tore herself from his grip and shoved her way through the wall of people and away from the bar. The exit was only a few yards on; she could retrieve her coat tomorrow. She skidded out to the street, past the bouncer and a pair of smoking patrons. She stumbled, regained her balance, and jogged up Grev Turegatan. Only when she was a few hundred yards away did she turn around. No one was following her.

  44

  “What exactly do you want me to do with them?”

  The summer intern was standing in the doorway to Sophia’s office. He was holding a stack of email printouts four inches high. Sophia had asked him to go through her in-box. He’d made a face as if she’d asked him to scrub the bathroom on his knees. But he hadn’t dared to refuse.

  “I’d like you to pass on the ones I need to answer,” Sophia said with as much calm as she could muster.

  “And how am I supposed to know which ones those are?”

  “If it comes from another law firm, a government authority, a client, or the courts, I want it right away.”

  He handed over six sheets of paper.

  “Thanks,” she managed to say. “Is the rest about Stig Ahlin?”

  “Uh-huh. And quite a few ads too.”

  “Did you read the ones about Stig Ahlin?”

  He nodded and handed that bundle to her. Sophia shook her head and pushed it aside.

  “Can you give me a summary, please?” she asked. “If I wanted to read them myself, I would have.”

  “‘How the hell could you, you goddamn witch?’” The intern curled his upper lip. His capacity for empathy was impressive. Reluctantly, he went on. “In summary, that is. And you got the occasional congratulations. And a few that say they know who really murdered Katrin.”

  “Did they seem credible?” Sophia took the opportunity to glance through the six emails that didn’t have to do with Stig Ahlin.

  The intern snorted. “Two of them claim they killed Katrin Björk themselves. Because they were possessed by evil spirits. Or because Katrin Björk was possessed by evil spirits. One claims Breivik did it. Another said it was the prime minister. The rest are in a similar vein.”

  “Okay.” Sophia looked at her watch. “Thanks. You can set them there.” She pointed at the pile of unread material on her visitor’s chair. “And delete the emails from the server, please. Otherwise it won’t be long before it crashes.”

  The young man gave a stiff nod, put down his printouts, and walked off. He closed the door behind him, only a little too fast and a little too hard. He didn’t quite dare to slam it.

  * * *

  —

  The summer intern returned to the reception desk. He plunked himself down in the parental-leave secretary’s seat at the main computer.

  She was so bossy, that Sophia Weber. So smug that half as much smugness would have been enough for at least five female assistants. She didn�
�t look at him when she spoke, and she cut him off anytime he used more than three words per sentence.

  This was definitely not how he’d imagined a summer job at a law firm. They hadn’t even given him an office. People who visited the firm thought he was a receptionist. That he sat there answering the phone, watering the flowers, opening the door, and booking appointments for the partners. Him. A guy who’d received an A on every exam since he started his legal studies, who was scheduled to go on an Erasmus exchange program to King’s College in London. Who certainly had no intention of wasting two years of his life clerking in the lower courts but could have done it if he’d wanted to. His grades were good, really good — he could have gotten a clerking position anywhere in Sweden. It was just those high-end business law firms who sent back his applications without even bringing him in for an interview.

  “Criminal law,” he’d said to his classmates to explain why he wouldn’t be working on Norrmalmstorg that summer. “That’s real law, what real lawyers do. The only ones who go to the business firms are people who couldn’t get jobs at Goldman Sachs.”

  But clearly he had ended up at the wrong place.

  Each morning when he arrived at the office, he was assigned a fresh batch of pointless tasks. First, he’d had to write a couple of case briefs for Lars Gustafsson. Presumably no one would ever even read them. Then they’d asked him to write a lecture on legal ethics for Lars to give at the Swedish Bar Association. And now this. Going through Sophia Weber’s email account and cleaning out crap from nutjobs. And he wasn’t even earning anything at this stupid gig. Flipping burgers at McDonald’s paid better.

  Never again, he thought, opening Sophia Weber’s email account. Never again.

  He clicked through quickly. But only one at a time; he better not delete an important work email by accident, that woman would probably go mad. Because you could tell by looking at her she was unbalanced. She was clearly the type to shout and go on rampages if something didn’t go her way. Not that he’d seen this for himself, but it was obvious that she was capable of it. He clicked on. It was incredible that people had time to sit around writing this sort of thing.