by Jens Lapidus
Nikola wanted to fly under the radar, float like oil on water. He wanted to be a shadow, live life the way he wanted. Not be caged up in a classroom. Not controlled by any stupid abbreviations or acronyms.
Anyway: it was almost time. His twelve months in the ass end of boredom would soon be over.
Life would have some meaning again.
Life would be Life again. Things had already started to happen. They knew he was on the way out. Yusuf had been in touch to ask if Nikola would give them a hand with a thing in a couple of days.
Some kind of guard duty. Not just any old small job: this was a negotiation. Their own law court. A trial between two warring clans in Södertälje.
And Isak would be the judge. He’d decide the matter—a replacement for the system that had decided to lock up Nicko here.
Man, Isak. It was a step up.
But Nikola hadn’t said yes yet.
Stockholm County Police Authority
Interview with Mats Emanuelsson, 10 December 2010
Interview leader: Joakim Sundén
Location: Kronoberg Remand Prison
Time: 14:05–14:11
INTERVIEW
Transcript of interview dialogue
JS: Just so you know, I’m going to be recording everything we say here today.
M: Okay.
JS: We’re in the interview room, Kronoberg Remand Prison, and it’s the tenth of December, 2010. With me here, I have the suspect, Mats Emanuelsson, forty-four years of age. Correct?
M: Yes.
JS: And you agree for this interview to go ahead without a lawyer?
M: Uh, what does that mean?
JS: It’s not unusual. You’ll be out of here much quicker if we forget about contacting the courts; they have to get in touch with a lawyer, who then needs to have the time to come over. Look, I’ll put it like this: if you want a lawyer, I can’t promise we’ll manage this interview today or tomorrow. And that means you’ll go back to your cell to wait.
M: But…I panic when I’m locked up. I got kidnapped once, did you know that?
JS: No, I didn’t. What happened?
M: They abducted me, nailed me into a box. It was about five years ago now. I can’t cope with stuff like this….I’ve seen a psychologist about the claustrophobia. I need to get out of here as quickly as possible.
JS: Well, okay, then I suggest we get started without a lawyer, and if you feel like you want to stop, just let me know.
M: Yeah, let’s do that, then. I need to get out of here.
JS: In that case, I’d like to start by talking about why you were arrested. You’re suspected of aiding in a drug offense in Gamla stan the day before yesterday. It’s suspected that, in agreement and partnership with Sebastian Petrovic, or Sebbe as he seems to be known, you helped in the handover of an unknown quantity of narcotics. Do you understand?
M: A drug offense?
JS: Yes, that’s the claim.
M: Are you sure?
JS: Completely sure. Shouldn’t I be?
M: Is there anything else?
JS: I can’t go into that right now. But I’d like to know your thoughts on this.
M: I’ve got nothing to do with that.
JS: So you deny any crime?
M: Yes, of course.
JS: In that case, there are a few more questions I’d like to ask.
M: Okay.
JS: What exactly were you doing in Gamla stan?
M: Nothing much, I was just there.
JS: Do you know Sebastian Petrovic?
M: No comment.
JS: Do you know who he is?
M: No comment. Is he being held?
JS: You don’t want to say whether you know him, but you want to know if he’s being held?
M: Yes.
JS: Well, since it would be public knowledge if he was being remanded in custody, I can tell you that he’s not being held. He’s a free man. I’d like to ask you a few more questions.
M: Right.
JS: Does the Range Rover, registration number MGF 445, belong to you?
M: No comment.
JS: Do you know who Sebbe was meeting in Gamla stan?
M: No comment.
JS: Do you know what he was doing there?
M: No comment.
JS: You have no comment about anything?
M: No, I really don’t. I told you already, it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t know why I’m here. I just need to get out. My head’s going to burst in here….
JS: You were involved in the incident the day before yesterday.
M: I don’t know anything. That’s not my world, drugs…
JS: No, I see that. I’m surprised, if I’m completely honest. Okay, we might have to do things another way. Wait here, I’ll switch off the tape recorder, and we can take a little break.
Interview terminated, 14:11.
MEMORANDUM 1
Transcript of dialogue
JS: The tape recorder’s off, so this isn’t a formal interview anymore. Think of it as a conversation. Just between me and you.
M: What does that mean?
JS: It means we can be freer in what we say. I won’t report any of this to anyone, not if you don’t want me to. And I’ll be straight with you, Mats, I’ve done a bit of research on you. You’ve got two kids, you had an ordinary job, and it’s true: you were kidnapped a few years ago. That must’ve been awful. You shouldn’t be locked up somewhere like this.
M: Can’t you just let me go, then? I’ve been here almost two days. I’m still traumatized from before. I’ve been through too much crap. Please, I’m begging you. I feel really bad in here.
JS: The thing is, we’re talking about a drug offense here. We’ve been using covert measures against certain people in this investigation—not you, but others.
M: What does that mean?
JS: Covert wiretapping of rooms, phone tapping, surveillance. We’ve got strong evidence. You’ll be convicted, I can say that with certainty. You’ll get at least ten years. And I don’t really think prison’s the right place for you, either.
M: But…(sound of crying)…I can’t be here…it’s been going on for years now.
JS: You’ll be sent to Kumla for a couple of years first, that’s the toughest jail in the country, and I’m sure you know what happens to people like you there. It’s not a fun place for softies….
M: But…but…(inaudible)
JS: I know. None of this can be easy. Wait a second, I’ll get some tissues.
M: (Inaudible)
JS: There you go.
M: Thanks…(sniffing sound)
JS: Look, I know this is awful, but I’m a straight talker. It’s like this: I have a proposal for you. It’s a bit outside the box, but like I said, I don’t think you fit in here.
M: Please, tell me. I’ll do anything.
JS: It’s pretty simple. We understand you’ve had extensive contact with certain people who are of interest to us—we’ve seen and heard this, if you see what I mean. So, I want to know everything about them. I want to know what you’ve been working on. And if you can help me with that, then I promise we’ll keep things like this. No interviews, no recordings, no judges or lawyers. Your name won’t appear anywhere. And then I can help you in return.
M: You’ll let me go?
JS: If you help with this, I’ll let you go and we won’t take things any further. We’ll do a deal, you and I, do you understand what I mean?
M: I don’t know….
JS: Think about it. Weigh up your different options. Eight, maybe ten years in Kumla versus a few hours talking to me.
M: It could be awkward…It’s dangerous. I’ve been through a lot, believe me.
JS: Yeah, that’s what I suspected. But you’re not one of the lowlifes. You’re normal. And if you go along with my suggestion, it has to be your own decision. I can’t force you. But what I can do is arrange the guarantees you need.
M: What about my kids?
JS:
I’m only going to use what you say as a basis for further investigation. You’ll never need to testify or be named in any way. You’ll be under an alias, “Marina,” and I’ll be the only one who knows about it. Complete secrecy. You don’t need to worry about yourself or your kids. We can take a break now, if you like. I’m going to go out, so you can have a while to think.
M: Yeah, okay.
JS: Good. Just remember: at least ten years. Kumla. Or a couple of hours of talking.
2
They made small talk as they waited in the velvet-clad armchairs and sofas. Emelie knew a few of the others from before. She’d studied with some of them and met others at Swedish Bar Association training courses—one of them was even her colleague at work.
But beneath all the niceties there was tension. Of course: one by one, they were being called in to see the examiners. They had been asked to put their phones into small plastic pouches on a table at the end of the hall. All they were allowed was paper, a pen, and a folder containing the ethical guidelines and disciplinary committee’s questions.
It was time: very soon, she would be called in to her examination. The verbal exam, which would determine whether she would become a lawyer. Everything up to this point had, more or less, been a journey toward this goal. Twelve years of school followed by a year abroad in Paris—though she’d spent most of her time there partying in the Bastille area, she’d also learned fluent French—and then three and a half years as a law student before she gained her bachelor’s degree. Finally three years of work as a legal associate with the Leijon law firm.
During that time, she had taken Swedish Bar Association courses on ethics and professional regulations. She’d gathered all the necessary references. It wasn’t like applying for a normal job, where you just gave the names and contact details of your two favorite bosses. No, the Swedish Bar Association wanted the names and addresses, plus an account of the context in which you’d met, of all the opposing lawyers and judges you’d ever faced.
For Emelie, that hadn’t actually been too extensive. For the most part, the partners had fronted the cases she’d been involved in. But still, that was more than twenty people they were talking about. Each of them had to be contacted by the Bar, and all had to give their opinion on whether she was worthy of being allowed entry into their holy chamber.
And now, today, the final exam. If she made it through this, the rest would be pure formality. She would soon be able to give herself the title of lawyer.
“Emelie Jansson,” a voice called from the hallway.
It was her turn.
The examiner handed her an 8½" x 11" sheet of paper covered in text. She now had twenty minutes to think through the issue, prepare her presentation, and plan for the cross-examination. She went into a separate room, furnished with nothing but an oak desk and chair. A copper engraving representing some old case was hanging on the wall. She glanced through the first point.
QUESTION A
Discuss the questions of an ethical and professional technical nature arising in the situations apparent in the below account.
The English businessman Mr. Sheffield has made contact with the legal firm Vipps, and asked for help with the acquisition of a property complex in Gothenburg.
Mr. Sheffield tells the lawyer, Mia Martinsson, that roughly ten years ago he worked with the law firm. This was when the previous partner, Sune Storm, helped him with a complex matter. Mr. Sheffield says that he “really feels like a client of the firm, and expects assistance thereafter.”
After several weeks of correspondence with Mr. Sheffield, Mia starts to feel slightly hesitant about who Mr. Sheffield really is. He does not require any bank loans, and wants to transfer the entire purchase sum, 220 million kronor, to one of the law firm’s client accounts. The transfer will not, however, come from Mr. Sheffield’s account in the UK, but from a company based in the British Virgin Islands.
Emelie underlined several words in the question, and picked up the folder of regulations. She quickly put it back down again. Before she started searching for clauses, she needed to think. Identify the actual issues. The ethical pitfalls.
Shouldn’t the firm and the lawyer have run some kind of check on the client? Made a copy of his identification documents, run him through the firm’s conflict-of-interest database? Should Mr. Sheffield really be regarded as their client, just because he had been ten years earlier? When did a client relationship really become a reality? And what were the Financial Supervisory Authority’s rules when it came to checking and preventing money laundering?
She jotted down some notes.
Eventually, she heard a knock at the door: her time was up. The twenty minutes had passed much more quickly than she’d thought. She’d dealt with the questions as best she could, four situations similar to the one about the lawyer, Martinsson, and Mr. Sheffield. Each of them contained different problem areas. The firm community, witness management, committee questions. Conflict of interest.
The examiner was a lawyer in his sixties, a man with an incredibly well-groomed mustache, and the external examiner was a woman, probably about ten years younger than him—though she was trying to look like she was twenty. Both were formally dressed: the man in a dark blue suit and tie, and the woman in a burgundy dress.
“So, let’s start with the lawyer, Mia Martinsson? How should she act?” the examiner asked.
—
That had been three weeks ago.
Today, Emelie was in the office. She needed to work, but her mind was elsewhere. They might get in touch at any moment.
The phone rang.
“Hi, it’s Mom.”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“I thought you were someone else. I find out today.”
“Find out what? Something at work?”
“Kinda. If I passed the exam and my application went through. Whether I become a lawyer or not.”
“Oh, that’s exciting. Congratulations. Does that mean a pay raise?”
“I haven’t even found out yet, but there probably won’t be any pay raise. It doesn’t mean all that much in this firm. Being a lawyer has the most formal value for people working on criminal cases—you need it to be appointed as a defense lawyer. But for me, it’s mostly symbolic. I’m full-fledged, if that makes sense.”
“Well, it’s still exciting.”
Emelie could hear that something wasn’t right.
“How are you both?”
“Oh, you know.” Her mother started speaking more slowly. “I’ve barely seen your dad over the last three days.”
“Like before?”
“Yeah, like before. He comes crashing in in the middle of the night, but he didn’t even come home yesterday. Could you come down to see us this weekend?”
“Us?”
“Yes, us.”
“So Dad’ll be back?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
This was what Emelie’s world had looked like during her entire childhood. Dad’s drinking benders. She hadn’t really realized it before she left home, got to university, and started thinking everything through. But she knew how he could be. How she herself could be.
They could never find out at work.
Emelie ended the call with her mother. She studied herself in the round mirror hanging on the end of the bookcase. Her dark blond hair was parted to one side, tucked behind her ears. She might not have enough makeup on today—she might not have put on any at all, now that she thought about it—but her gray eyes still looked huge. She really should go down to Jönköping on the weekend. Find her dad. Try to make him understand, once and for all.
—
An hour later. The door opened, and Josephine came tumbling in. They still shared an office despite the fact that Jossan was a senior associate now and should’ve been given a room of her own long ago. Maybe that was a bad sign for her roommate.
But Emelie liked sharing the office, even if Jossan could be incredib
ly self-absorbed and spent ten times as long talking about her manicure girl on Sibyllegatan and the sale on Net-a-Porter than about anything important. Anyway, she always practically tripped through the door, like Kramer in Seinfeld, and that alone was worth at least one laugh a day.
“Pippa,” Josephine roared once she’d closed the door. “I can see it on your face: something good’s happened. You’ve got dimples, even though you’re not laughing. Did they just call?”
Emelie nodded. Five minutes earlier, someone from the Bar had finally called to let her know that she had been accepted as a member of Sweden’s Bar Association.
She had the title now. The journey was over.
“Congratulations, Pippa. You’re a lawyer. That calls for celebrating with a glass of Bollinger at dinner.”
Josephine always called Emelie Pippa. For some reason, she thought Emelie was the spitting image of Pippa Middleton.
“You know what my favorite author always says. Happiness is something that multiplies when it’s divided.”
“So cheesy. Who said that?”
“It’s not cheesy. It’s from the world’s most insightful man: Paulo Coelho.” Jossan blinked. Then she started talking about all the books by him she’d read, how they had changed her life. They’d helped her find herself, she could be happy even during difficult times, she’d become much more aware of her spiritual self, and she could do without her materialistic lifestyle.
Emelie pointed to the three handbags hanging on a hook on the wall behind Josephine. Céline, Chanel, Fendi. “What about those?”