A Nearly Normal Family(90)

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 Trollebergsv?gen, 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 G?ran 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 walking 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 G?ran 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.