Naturally, it has pained me to find that I have an easier time talking to Amina than to Stella. That guilt has constantly lain at the bottom of my soul like a heavy layer of sludge. At times when I found it impossible to make sense of Stella’s actions, reasoning, and motives, I have seen my own driving forces reflected in Amina.
“Stella’s not like you and me,” she once said. “Stella’s just Stella.”
This was soon after Stella quit handball. One day she was at a gathering with the national youth team, where she was predicted to have a dazzling future; the next she was putting her handball shoes up for sale online. Adam and I were befuddled.
“You can’t understand Stella unless you start to think like Stella,” Amina said.
It sounds so simple, so obvious—and yet it’s not.
“Stella can’t deal with other people trying to control her,” Amina said. “At this level, handball is so much about running preplanned plays, stuff we’ve practiced over and over. Stella can’t handle that.”
I think Adam was the one who suffered most for never having more children. He has his crosses to bear. He bashed himself bloody, trying to force Stella to live up to our expectations instead of accepting her for who she is. It’s a wonder our family didn’t crumble to pieces. I try to see what is currently happening as a chance to start over, a new opportunity I intend to seize at any price.
“Why can’t you be more like Amina?” I once said when Stella had gone off the rails, turning the world around her upside down for the umpteenth time in a row.
For once she had no withering response. She just fell silent. She looked at me, and although her eyes were perfectly dry, it was as if she were crying.
She knew what I meant, of course. The words just slipped out of me—only one time, never again—but Stella saw right through me. She saw the way I looked at Amina, the way I talked to her, how we shared something.
I caught Stella up in my arms and cried on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
It was pointless, of course. We both knew exactly what I meant.
* * *
As I walk out of the courtroom, Adam is nowhere in sight. The benches in the lobby are occupied by strangers. I take a few steps down the hallway, but there’s no Adam.
Where is he?
Just a moment ago he was sitting in court, swearing before God that his daughter was at home when that man lay bleeding to death on a playground in another part of the city.
He has to be on the verge of a breakdown.
My heart pounds and I take a few long strides into the next hallway. I find him outside the bathrooms. He’s hunched on a bench, looking as if every bone in his body is broken.
“Honey,” I whisper, “I’m so proud of you.”
I put my arm around him. His body feels hard and cold. I cautiously lean against his shoulder and a gentle warmth branches through my chest. Stella and Amina aren’t the only ones I’m doing this for.
“What if it doesn’t help?” His gaze is a desperate plea. “What have I done?”
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 Skånskan 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.
* * *
; The clerk calls in the day’s first witness and the door opens.
Amina walks straight to the witness’s seat and sits down without raising her eyes even once. She is pale and without makeup; her cheeks have become slightly sunken over the past few weeks.
Michael glances anxiously in my direction.
“Do you understand what it means to act as a witness?” Göran Leijon asks.
Amina nods and whispers, “Yes.”
Then she repeats after Leijon.
“I, Amina Bešić, swear and affirm on my honor and conscience that I will tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
I put a hand to my chest and concentrate on breathing. Unease is eating its way through my body. A horrific sense of looming catastrophe forces me up against the back of my seat.
“We’ll begin with questions from the defense attorney,” says Göran Leijon.
This is it.
Michael speaks slowly and gently. Next to him, Stella has raised her chin and is looking straight at Amina. It’s been several weeks since they last saw each other.
“Can you start by telling us how you and Stella know one another?” Michael asks.
Amina looks down at the table.
“We’ve been best friends since preschool. We were in the same class from first through ninth grades and we were on the same handball team.”
There’s a burning sensation in my chest. In my mind, I picture the two girls.
“How would you describe your relationship today?” Michael asks.
Amina continues to stare at the table. Time passes, and I can sense Michael’s growing doubt.
“She’s still my best friend.”
Michael nods. In the ensuing silence, I glimpse a cautious light in Stella’s eyes. What has she been thinking? What did she assume was going on? If it had been up to Amina, we never would have left Stella alone in that prison of thought and anguish. It was my decision, what we did, and I’m the one whom Stella will have to hold accountable—whatever happens.
“How would you describe Stella’s personality?” Michael asks.
“Well, she … she’s just the way she is. She’s Stella, there’s no one else like her.”
I can’t help but smile. In the midst of all of this, I’m actually sitting there with a smile on my face.
“She’s really brave. She always says what she thinks and does what she wants to do. Peer pressure—it’s like she’s never even heard of it.”
The two best friends look at each other. The bonds that link Stella and Amina are stronger than anyone in this courtroom could imagine.
“And she’s really smart, too,” Amina says. “Not everyone gets that until they truly get to know her. And she’s easily the most stubborn person I know. Very impulsive and forward. A go-getter. Some people think she’s too much. I think Stella’s the kind of person you either love or hate.”
Michael is just about to ask the next question when Amina interrupts him.
“And I love her.”
Her voice cracks and she buries her face in her hands. Giant tears run down her cheeks. There’s a lump in my throat. Even Michael seems moved.
“Can you tell us a little about Christopher Olsen?” he says. “How did the two of you get to know him?”
Amina looks at Stella. My heart is pounding at my chest; sweat makes my underarms sticky. It feels horrible, no longer being able to influence what’s happening. Now I have to trust in Amina. Now everything is in her hands.
95
“Tell us about Christopher Olsen,” Michael says. “How did you two get to know him?”
He pushes a box of tissues across the table and Amina dries her cheeks.
“We met Chris at Tegnérs one night.”
I sneak a look at Adam, who appears deep in concentration. I’m terrified about what’s coming.
Amina tells the same story Stella did yesterday. The girls saw Christopher Olsen a few times, both out and about and at Olsen’s residence, but that was it.
“Would you say that Stella and Christopher Olsen were a couple?” Michael asks.
“Definitely not. Stella and Chris messed around a little, that’s all.”
Michael nods.
“Would you like to elaborate? Did they have a sexual relationship?”
“They had sex, but it wasn’t a relationship.”
Amina sounds confident and convincing.
“Yesterday we heard allegations that Stella sometimes acted violently. Is that true? Have you ever felt that she has been violent?”
Amina draws up her shoulders. My heart leaps.
I don’t understand why Michael is asking this question. To forestall the prosecutor?
“No,” Amina says.
But she doesn’t sound nearly as convincing anymore.
Michael wipes the sweat from his brow.
“Does the defense have any further questions?” Göran Leijon asks.
“No, thank you.”
“Then I give the floor to the prosecution.”
I bring my hand to my heart. I can’t feel my heartbeat anymore. Adam is looking at me, wide-eyed.
* * *
Jenny Jansdotter takes her time. She does it on purpose—it’s a technique to throw Amina off balance. She places documents in stacks before her, meticulously straightening their edges, and stretches slowly.
Michael and Stella observe her in suspense.
When I found Stella’s cell phone on her desk that Saturday, I was immediately struck with desperate alarm. How could she have forgotten her phone at home?
I’ve actually never been the type to snoop. Gossip and juicy secrets seldom interest me. I’m someone who finds appeal in cold, hard facts and reliable proof. If anyone was spying on Stella, and to a certain extent even infringing on her right to a private life, it was Adam. I don’t know what would have happened if he had been the one to find her phone.
As the hours passed and we didn’t hear from her, I decided to go through the phone. It wasn’t to snoop. I was beside myself with worry. And when I read the messages, it dawned on me that something really had happened, something truly terrible. I immediately attempted to contact Amina, but she refused to speak to me. She had closed herself up in her room, claiming to be too sick to talk. I knew she was lying.
Now she is sitting before the prosecutor, testifying under oath. Jansdotter’s voice is sharp as a scalpel, and Amina recoils.
“What do you mean when you say that Christopher Olsen and Stella were not a couple?”
“I … I mean exactly that. They weren’t a couple.”
“Can you define their relationship? Describe who they were to each other?”
Amina looks at Stella, as if she’s asking permission.
“According to Stella, Chris was a summer fling.”
“And what did you think about that?” Jansdotter asks.
“About what?”
“About the situation. That Stella was having a sexual relationship with Christopher Olsen, even though she wasn’t seriously interested in him.”
Amina bows her head. The seconds tick by in silence.
“How did you really feel about Christopher?” Jansdotter asks.
“I liked Chris. He was charming and cool. It was fun to spend time with him.”
“Were you attracted to him?”
“Maybe.”
I look at Stella. Her expression is vacant. What thoughts are going through her head right now? I don’t even know how much she knows.
I feel sick. What kind of mother puts her child through this? There must be something seriously wrong with me. An emotional dysfunction? Some sort of failure to bond? I view myself from the outside and see a person I don’t want to be.
Would I have done the same if the roles were switched, if Amina were the one in jail? I’m far from certain. Presumably I would have just let Amina decide from the start. I should have listened to her. We should have done as she suggested. Now it’s too late.
Jenny Jansdotter squeez
es Amina with her gaze.
“Did anything sexual happen between you and Christopher Olsen?” she asks.
Amina’s shoulders slump.
Everything is spinning, going blurry.
“Yes,” Amina says. “Things happened.”
96
It became clear to us early on that Stella liked to be in charge. She often played Adam and me against each other. The first to capitulate was showered with love, while the other wasn’t worth a fig. It could turn on a dime—one second you were the best mom in the world; the next, a pariah for who knew how long.
Happily, Amina was always present as a neutralizing force, an intermediary between our obstreperous daughter and the rest of the world.
Handball, too, functioned as a way for Stella to vent. On the court she had an outlet for all the energy bubbling and fermenting insider her; her pigheadedness and explosive nature were enormous assets on the six-meter line.
Handball was good for Adam too. As a pair, he and Dino became well-liked coaches who soon attained great success with their team. It often seemed as if Adam forgot himself on the sidelines of a sizzling match. He was thoroughly consumed by the game—the shouting, cheering, and gesticulating.
One Saturday a few years ago, as I sat in the bleachers at Borgeby watching Stella pelt in goal after goal, I experienced something that still affects me. My thoughts had wandered off, but suddenly Amina was lying on the court and writhing in pain—I had completely missed whatever had caused her injury. But since Alexandra wasn’t there, it seemed natural that I should be the one to trot down to the court and prop Amina up as we went to the locker room.
“Do we need to go get you checked out at the hospital?” I asked.
We were sitting across from each other on the benches, looking down at her hastily bandaged knee.
She shook her head.
“I just can’t do this anymore.”
A Nearly Normal Family Page 31