I’m crying again. Letting everything pour out of me.
Shirine hugs me hard, for a long time.
“Good luck now,” she whispers.
I don’t respond. I have no voice.
81
I straddled my bike in the alley by the deli. It had gone too far. Too damn far. Linda Lokind was still following me, even though I’d broken up with Chris. Cautiously I peered over to the bus stop, but I couldn’t see her anywhere.
I shook off a shudder, took out my phone, and called Amina. When she didn’t answer, I tried text, Messenger, and Snapchat, but it was radio silence everywhere.
Each noise and movement made me twist my body. My heart was pounding. I felt hunted, and I didn’t want to be alone.
As I quickly led my bike toward the cathedral, I weighed my options. Obviously I could rejoin my coworkers at Stortorget. I wouldn’t need to say why I was back, and it would still make me feel safer to sit with them for a while.
Or else I could bike home. The downside to that was, it would take at least fifteen minutes. It was getting dark and the streets were empty. I needed people around.
I checked my phone again. Amina was offline everywhere. She was probably sleeping.
Someone else?
There, among the little profile pictures across the top of Messenger, I caught sight of his face. His big smile and diamond eyes. A green dot glowed in front of his name. Online. I had forgotten to remove Chris from Messenger.
Shit! I had decided to forget him, delete him from my life, but now that I thought about it Chris seemed like the best option after all. He knew Linda. Maybe he could explain that there was nothing between us anymore. Maybe he could convince her to leave me alone. If there was anyone who could calm me down, it was Chris.
I looked at his picture again, and in that moment I realized how much I missed him. Tears burned behind my eyes as I headed into Lundagård Park.
Here and there a bike skidded past on the gravel paths, and an older lady was dragging her scraggly dachshund around by the statue of Tegnér, but for the most part everything was quiet and still.
What should I do?
I called Amina again. Still no answer.
I made a hasty decision and messaged Chris.
Are you there?
I stared down at the screen, but nothing happened. Several times I spun around to look over my shoulder, thinking I’d heard footsteps, seeing glowing eyes in the bushes.
Still no response on Messenger.
I looked up Chris’s number and sent a text. I waited five minutes, then called multiple times in a row. Nothing.
What was I going to do?
I parked my bike outside Tegnérs and sent even more messages, to both Chris and Amina. I wrote in all caps that they had to get back to me ASAP. It was important.
I headed into the club to hide in the crowd. After dashing around aimlessly, in the hopes of finding a familiar face to take my mind off Linda Lokind, I stood at the bar sipping at a pear cider and checking my phone at least ten times a minute. Still nothing.
People were giving me strange looks. A guy with Ronaldo hair attempted to flirt out of habit, but I waved him off like a gnat. I surfed the net for a while and texted Amina for the eleventh time.
When I came back out, the darkness was just about impenetrable. I got on my bike and pedaled through the park, swerving around a puddle and nearly crashing into two rivet-studded dudes who asked if I had a light. I didn’t respond, just looked around in the dark and decided to bike home. Just as I took a right onto Kyrkogatan, I glanced over my shoulder, wobbled, and almost toppled over.
Linda Lokind was standing across the intersection, looking like a ghost in the dull yellow umbrella of light cast by the streetlamp. Both hands were shoved into her pockets, and she was staring at nothing.
With that, I veered up onto the sidewalk and climbed off my bike. There’s this little pub at the end of Sandgatan, I think it’s called Inferno—the door was wide open and music and laughter were streaming out, so I shoved past a couple tattooed guys with full beards and into the dim bar.
It had to have been Linda. This time I was sure of it.
Or was I? Could I have been mistaken after all?
Hunched over a glass of wine in a deep corner, I lingered. My heart was pounding. Was it really Linda? Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t really gotten a good look at her face.
I recalled her words in the park. How she threatened to hurt Chris. What if he was in danger? Or worse? She could have hurt him already. And now … was she out to get me too?
Where was Amina? Why hadn’t she gotten back to me?
I glanced at the dimly lit bar. No Linda. People were drinking beer, bullshitting, laughing like nothing was wrong. I finished my wine and got the hiccups as a result. At last my phone vibrated.
Everything’s ok. Sleeping. See you tomorrow. <3
It had come from Amina’s phone.
I read it over and over.
What the fuck was this?
Amina and I have been texting each other since preschool. I know how my best friend writes as well as I know her voice.
Amina doesn’t use punctuation when she texts.
Amina does not shorten okay to ok.
That text had been written by someone else.
82
I pedaled so hard I couldn’t feel my legs beneath me. Nothing else existed; it was just me and my bike. Traffic, cars, and people whizzed by at the periphery. I saw nothing, heard nothing. My thoughts flew by without taking hold.
All I could see ahead of me was Amina. I had to get a move on. I had to get hold of Chris.
On my way up and out of the railroad tunnel on Trollebergsvägen, I saw the police station up ahead and it occurred to me I could turn to the police. This was serious. Someone wanted to make sure I thought Amina was fine. Someone who wasn’t Amina.
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 Göran 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 w
alking 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 Göran 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 Göran 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.
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.
“Stella Sandell got to know Christopher Olsen in June of this year. They met at the restaurant Tegnérs, where they initiated a conversation. After a relatively short time, they began a sexual relationship.”
Stella looks vacant. She is staring straight ahead at Jansdotter, and it’s impossible to spot even a flicker of protest against the prosecutor’s version of events.
“Eventually, Stella’s friend Amina Bešić, whom we will hear from today, began to see Christopher Olsen behind Stella’s back. Amina, too, had a sexual relationship with Christopher, which Stella soon discovered.”
I think I see a nearly invisible nod from Presiding Judge Göran Leijon. Beside him, the lay judges are following the prosecutor’s story with intense interest. Thus far, there is no
other narrative. Thus far, what she is presenting is the truth.
“Christopher Olsen chose to end his relationship with Stella Sandell and for one week they had no contact. But on the night of August the thirty-first, just hours before the time of the murder, Stella tried to call and text him again, and she went to his residence on Pilegatan. At eleven thirty, witness My Sennevall, a neighbor of Olsen’s, saw Stella arrive at the residence by bicycle and run up to Christopher Olsen’s apartment. Thirty minutes later, My Sennevall saw Stella once more. This time, she was standing on the sidewalk across from Olsen’s residence, apparently waiting for something.”
The structure of these proceedings gives the prosecutor an undeniable advantage. There is a psychological benefit to being the first to present a series of events. The narrative one is first given simply appears to be the truth; any subsequent versions must meet a much higher threshold of believability to change one’s original understanding of said chain of events. And unfortunately, both judges and lay judges are only human, no matter how much they strive to rise above and ignore prejudices and all the other psychological mechanisms that affect and guide us.
People are typing away at keyboards in the gallery. Some are taking notes by hand. Journalists and reporters, who naturally have their own neatly prepackaged ideas about what happened, ready to be shared with every soul who has access to a TV antenna or an internet connection. I extend my hand toward a bearded guy in the seat next to mine. There is another truth; you haven’t heard everything yet. Both sides must have the chance to speak. The bearded man looks at me in surprise between his strikes of the keyboard, raising his eyebrows as if to ask if I want something from him. I retreat back into my tunnel. I can smell the odor of my own sweat rising.
“Sometime between midnight and one o’clock on September the first, Christopher Olsen arrives at his residence,” the prosecutor says. “Stella has been waiting on the street outside, and he lets her in. An argument breaks out in the apartment, in all likelihood linked to Olsen’s relationship with Amina Bešić. During the argument, Stella takes a knife from the wall of Christopher Olsen’s kitchen. Olsen flees his residence and goes out to the street. He runs to the playground at the corner of Pilegatan and Rådmansgatan. As he reaches the playground, Stella Sandell catches up with him and brutally attacks him, stabbing the defenseless Christopher Olsen with the knife. He is struck in the chest, stomach, and neck, but none of the wounds are immediately fatal and Christopher does not die right away. Stella Sandell leaves him to bleed to death.”
A Nearly Normal Family Page 27