Stella makes a gesture that’s meant to seem blasé.
“Chris,” she says. “Christopher Olsen. He wasn’t in his apartment, so I went home.”
“But you didn’t say ‘he.’ You said ‘they.’ Plural. More than one person. Who was it, besides Chris Olsen, that wasn’t there?”
Stella shoots a quick glance at Michael.
“Amina, I guess.”
“Amina Bešić?”
Stella nods.
“I must ask you to respond verbally to the prosecutor’s questions,” says Göran Leijon. “For the sake of the recording.”
Stella glowers at him. Her upper lip trembles.
“Yes,” Stella says, her voice exaggeratedly loud.
When I turn my head, I discover that the bearded journalist is watching me. He hastily turns away as soon as our eyes meet.
What is he thinking about me? I look around at the spectators. What are they thinking? Maybe they feel sorry for me. Surely some of them blame me. Others probably feel that a parent bears partial responsibility for the actions of their child. Especially in my case. Partly because I’m a woman and a mother; a man could never be burdened to the same extent. Partly because I’m a hard-boiled defense attorney, while my husband is a charming pastor who preaches God’s love and the Golden Rule.
Should I also be sitting in the defendant’s seat? Side by side with Stella, accused of having an inadequate aptitude for parenting and being an accessory to murder. I am convinced that some people think I should be.
Jenny Jansdotter aims a meaningful look at the presiding judge before going on. I have no idea what the prosecutor is thinking, but I consider it highly unlikely that she regards me as thoroughly innocent.
“Why did you assume Amina would be at Chris’s residence?” she asks Stella.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I did assume that.”
“But that’s what you just said.”
Jansdotter has orchestrated an effective silence in the court. Stella doesn’t know where to look.
“Why did you believe that Amina was with Christopher Olsen on this particular night, the thirty-first of August?” the prosecutor asks. “Wasn’t it true that you had broken off all contact with Olsen? Both you and Amina?”
Stella’s forehead is sweaty. Her fear creeps through this confining room and attaches to my skin like a sticky goo. Desperate, I scratch and tear at myself.
You can do it, Stella. Don’t lose courage now!
“We had stopped spending time with Chris,” she said, looking at the prosecutor.
“You had?” Jansdotter stares at her for a long time, but Stella won’t give in. “You had an agreement?”
“Something like that.”
Jansdotter hardly listens to this response. She’s already on to her next question.
“You say that you biked home when no one answered the door at Chris’s apartment. What time was it then?”
“I don’t know,” says Stella.
She glances at Michael. It’s so quick that most people in the room likely don’t even notice. But I see it. And I know that this is a critical juncture. If Stella continues to claim that she came home at two o’clock, that’s the end of Adam’s testimony. He can’t sit before the court and contradict Stella. My chest feels like it’s filling with cement.
Michael tugs at the knot of his tie. Sweat is beginning to soak through his shirt. We are about to learn whether he has succeeded in his task.
“You have no idea whatsoever what time it was?” Jansdotter says.
Stella’s lips purse slightly.
“I suppose it was around eleven thirty, midnight. That seems reasonable.”
The cement block in my chest feels a little lighter. Air trickles into my lungs.
“During police questioning you said you came home at two o’clock,” Jansdotter says sharply. “Isn’t that correct?”
Stella looks down.
“I said that to punish Dad.”
Jansdotter seems genuinely surprised.
“Please explain.”
“When I learned that Dad had given me an alibi, I wanted to make him seem like a liar.”
Not an ounce of hesitation in her voice. I breathe calmly, peacefully.
“Are you saying that you lied in a police interrogation to punish your father?”
Stella nods.
“Why would you want to punish your father, Stella?”
“He’s always been so overprotective. Sometimes we have a rough time. I was being childish.”
I’m glad Adam can’t hear this. I knew he wouldn’t get to hear it, otherwise I’m not sure it would have been possible.
“I’m sure you understand that this sounds strange,” Jansdotter says.
“It is what it is.”
“Is it really? Are you sure you’re not lying right now, Stella? To protect your father?”
She looks up and shakes her head firmly.
“No!”
Jansdotter pages through her documents.
“When did you arrive home that night, Stella? When the police questioned you, you said you came home at two o’clock…”
“I was home before midnight. Between eleven thirty and twelve.”
The prosecutor sighs loudly.
“So you and Amina Bešić had an agreement that neither of you would see Christopher Olsen again,” says the prosecutor. “Have I understood this correctly?”
“It wasn’t an agreement. We just said we wouldn’t.”
The prosecutor moves her eyes as if to suggest that Stella is splitting hairs.
“Why did you say so, then? Why would you stop seeing Christopher?”
“We found out that he was lying. It was as if he was trying to play me and Amina against each other, and we would never allow anyone to do that, ever.”
“Wasn’t it the case that you knew Amina and Christopher had a sexual relationship?”
“They never had a sexual relationship.”
“Did you discover that Christopher was going behind your back, Stella?”
“Absolutely not.”
I recognize that sharp tone in her voice. Her patience is wearing thin.
“Isn’t it true that you found out that your best friend and the man you had just begun a relationship with were spending time together without your knowledge? Surely you couldn’t have believed that everything was strictly platonic between them.”
I hold my breath.
Stella gazes around the room. For a fraction of a second we look at each other. It’s enough.
Does she know that I know too?
“Platonic means…,” Jansdotter begins, but Stella brushes off her explanation.
“I know what platonic means,” she says. “At least I think I know what you’re getting at. Actually, though, Plato never meant that true spiritual love can’t involve physical closeness and sex, but it’s a very common misunderstanding, so don’t feel stupid.”
A man in the gallery laughs and the bearded man next to me gives me an encouraging smile.
“Plato is my favorite philosopher,” Stella says.
“I’ve always preferred Socrates, myself,” Jansdotter responds.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
Michael hides a chuckle with one hand. The lay judges turn to each other and a small smile appears even on Presiding Judge Göran Leijon’s lips.
“Amina didn’t sleep with Chris Olsen,” Stella says, and the merry atmosphere dies out as quickly as it appeared.
Jenny Jansdotter is about to formulate another question, but Stella isn’t finished yet. She raises a hand. Her voice is thin and shaky.
“Amina never slept with anyone. She was … is … a virgin.”
88
I dig through my handbag for a wet wipe. My heart is in my throat and the sweat keeps coming even though I dab incessantly at my forehead. It’s as if the heat has forced its way into my brain and is making my thoughts boil.
Stella is slowly shrinking before my
eyes. I don’t know if it’s an optical illusion or if her shoulders are dropping and her body is curling in on itself.
What are her motives? For eight interminable weeks, Stella has been locked up in jail with full restrictions.
Naturally she is doing this for Amina’s sake. But that’s not a sufficient explanation. There would have been other paths for Stella to take. Simpler paths. The only reasonable conclusion is that she is doing all of this, that she is sitting before me now with sunken shoulders and glassy eyes, not just for Amina but also for us. For Adam and me. For our family.
I have wished many a time that I too had had a friend like Amina. Ever since preschool she and Stella have been more or less inseparable. Certainly they have had their share of conflict and discord, but in the end their unshakeable solidarity has overcome every imaginable obstacle. At least until now.
I cannot imagine anything that could feel more secure than having an ally in life the way Stella and Amina have always had each other. Perhaps my life would have been different if I had been open to such an intimate friendship. To be sure, I had a few best friends in middle and high school, but even then I had begun to erect walls around the deepest parts of me. I have always considered it a weakness to show my emotions in front of other people.
I pat my forehead again and try to look poised. The bearded man beside me rustles a bag of candy and chews with his mouth open as the prosecutor presents the forensic evidence. A lab technician is called in and explains to the court that there can be no doubt that the shoe print discovered at the scene of the crime came from Stella’s shoe. The print was found just a few feet from Christopher Olsen’s body and there was a bit of blood spatter in it, which indicates that the print was made before Olsen was stabbed. Since there were rain showers on Friday morning, one can also draw the conclusion that the earliest Stella could have been at the playground was lunchtime on the day leading up to the murder.
When My Sennevall takes the stand, there is a change in the atmosphere. It’s as if everyone is afraid that this frail girl, with her guarded gaze and unkempt hair, is about to go to pieces right in front of them. Both the prosecutor and Michael lower their voices when they pose questions. My Sennevall shoots paranoid glances around for some time before responding.
“You say you heard shouting at one o’clock,” Michael says. “Can you describe how it sounded?”
My Sennevall looks at him for a long time.
“It sounded like someone was getting stabbed. He screamed several times, like someone was stabbing him with a knife.”
Naturally, Michael questions her on this. How could she possibly know that the screams were coming from someone being stabbed?
“If he’d been shot I would have heard the gun,” My Sennevall says.
The bearded journalist rolls his eyes.
“Would you like to tell us a little about your health?” Michael says. “Is it true that you see a psychiatrist regularly?”
I’m only listening with one ear as My Sennevall shares her sad life story. When she leaves the courtroom, she does so as an even more broken woman. The door sounds like it gives a sigh of relief as it closes behind her.
The testimonies that follow are quick and without sensation. Stella’s colleagues from H&M, Malin and Sofie, confirm that Stella always has pepper spray in her purse, and that she had the purse with her that Friday night. The prosecutor displays a spray bottle and both witnesses verify that the one Stella owns is exactly the same.
The police technicians present the same spray bottle to the court and explain that, by way of chemical analysis, it has been confirmed that the traces of liquid found on Christopher Olsen’s body are identical to the brand of pepper spray that Stella owned.
After this, correctional officer Jimmy Bark says that, during her time in jail, Stella has been violent on more than one occasion. Jimmy Bark gives a plainly unsympathetic impression, answering the questions briefly and nonchalantly, and I reflect that someone like him could likely provoke aggressive tendencies in the Dalai Lama.
The bearded journalist wrinkles his forehead during the correctional officer’s testimony. Then, just like that, he holds out his bag of candy to offer me some. I’m so nonplussed that I take a caramel, even though I don’t like them.
He smiles at me. Have I misjudged him?
I have always received other people with doubt. A healthy skepticism. All my life, I have dreaded appearing gullible. My father once said that only submissive dogs bare their throats to their adversaries. Only recently have I begun to understand that I don’t need to consider other people adversaries.
During my time at law school, my entire existence was one big competition.
“I’m collecting As, not friends,” I might say when turning down a social invitation.
It was as if I had built myself into a capsule, the shell of which grew harder every day. Every imperfection must be hidden by smarts and success, even as the fear that my true self would be revealed just kept growing. In spite of this, I often ended up in the spotlight at all sorts of gatherings. I had difficulty being in a situation without taking action, being an influencer. People were drawn to me and were eager to get to know me, but the only one who ever really understood me beyond arguments, exam points, and superficial mingling was Adam.
Now he’s waiting outside the courtroom door. Very soon, it will be his turn. At any moment the clerk will call him in via the PA system. I am still uncertain about what will happen.
At first I didn’t think it would work; didn’t believe we would get this far. Adam has always been unyielding when it comes to his moral standards. The idea that he would lie to the police seemed remote, if not unthinkable. But I underestimated the significance of family. People are prepared to put aside everything in the way of ethics and morals to protect their families. The most rigid of principles can be easily pulverized when it comes to defending your own child. Lies, guilt, and secrets. What family isn’t built on such grounds?
In the moment a person comes into the world, two other people are transformed into parents. The love for our children does not obey the rule of law.
Last night Adam and I sat in the kitchen with silence and a bottle of wine.
“I don’t know if I can do it, honey.”
I pray to God that he can do it. It feels odd, but I actually fold my hands and send up a prayer to God. An instant later, the clerk summons Adam into the courtroom.
89
Adam walks slowly through the room. He never takes his eyes from Stella as the presiding judge welcomes him and tells him where to sit.
He takes the witness’s seat, his back to the gallery. The bearded man looks at me the way you look at someone who’s critically ill.
Then the judge gives Michael the floor.
“Hello, Adam,” he says. “I understand that this is incredibly hard for you, so I’ll try to keep it brief. Can you begin by telling the court about your work?”
Adam still hasn’t taken his eyes off Stella.
“I’m a pastor in the Church of Sweden.”
At Michael’s urging, he explains that he was a prison chaplain for many years but is now a pastor for one of the city’s largest congregations.
His voice falters a bit.
“Can you briefly describe your relationship with Stella?” Michael asks.
Adam and Stella look at each other.
“I love Stella,” Adam says. “She means everything to me.”
My heart ties itself in a knot. More than once, over the years, I have reproached Adam for the state of my relationship with Stella. When she was little, I constantly heard about what a wonderful dad Adam was, and how lucky I was to have had a child with him. That was certainly true. Adam was and is a fantastic family man and I love him dearly for it. I am ashamed of the envy I have sometimes felt. Why did I react to my own failures with Stella by further distancing myself? I worked too much instead of dealing with our relationship, spending even more time on something I knew I was act
ually good at. I was clearly deceiving myself; it was a betrayal of Stella.
Next Michael asks for an account of Adam and Stella’s relationship over the years.
“It hasn’t always been perfect,” Adam replies. “There have been ups and downs. At times it was very difficult.”
Michael gives him a chance to elaborate and Adam hangs his head slightly.
“Nothing is as difficult as being a parent. Naturally I fell short many times. I had so many hopes and expectations about what it would be like. What sort of dad I would be; what sort of daughter Stella would be. What our relationship would be like.”
“It didn’t always turn out the way you’d hoped?” Michael says.
“I don’t think the problem is how it turned out—more like what I had expected. I’ve had trouble accepting some of Stella’s life choices. Sometimes you forget what it’s like to be a teenager.”
I look at the presiding judge. There’s a flicker of understanding in Göran Leijon’s expression. He knows. He has teenagers himself.
“Adam,” Michael says, “can you tell us what happened on Friday the thirty-first of August?”
Adam turns his body to look at Stella again. I lean forward to catch a glimpse of his face.
Adam doesn’t say anything. Why isn’t he saying something?
Naturally I should have allowed him more into the loop, but I was terrified that he wouldn’t understand or that his firm morals would stand in the way.
What if it’s too late? If he changes his mind, if he takes it all back? That would be devastating.
“I worked pretty late that day,” he says, drawing out the words.
His voice unsteady, he talks about the funeral of a young person. It had been a rough week, and by Friday Adam felt generally tired and run-down. After work he made dinner, after which we played games on the sofa and went to bed.
“Did you know where Stella was that night?” Michael asks, fingering the knot of his tie.
Adam’s cheeks are pale.
“She had said she was going to meet up with a friend. Amina Bešić.”
“Okay,” Michael says calmly, “so you and your wife went to bed before Stella had arrived home?”
A Nearly Normal Family Page 29