Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

There was a better way. The other day his lawyer, Burtig, had explained that they weren’t allowed to detain him for more than two weeks at a time without a court ruling. Today it was time for his hearing in the District Court.

Niklas ate breakfast early. He did push-ups and sit-ups. When he stood up, it felt like all the blood rushed from his head. At around ten o’clock, there was a knock at the door: Markko, a big detention officer. Niklas asked to change his shirt—he was soaked in sweat and wanted to feel fresh in court.

Markko put handcuffs on him. He and two other detention officers led him down the hall. There was nothing wrong with them, they were just doing their job. Niklas eyed the information panels on the cell doors. Allergies: Nuts. No pork. Allergies: Fish. No pork. Reminded him of the Americans and their weird prisons down in the sandbox.

They walked into a small room with a metal detector. Markko undid the handcuffs. Niklas walked through the metal detector: it remained silent. The cuffs went back on. They took an elevator down. This was a part of the building that he hadn’t known existed.

“We’re going to the tunnel under the Kronoberg Park,” Markko explained. “They call it the Path of Sighs.”

The guards unlocked two metal double doors. The road to the District Court, underground. Like a bomb shelter dug out by al-Sadr’s mujahideen. Their steps echoed. The fluorescent lights gave off a cold glow, the concrete looked like the sand down there after rain: full of small holes. Markko tried to make conversation, be as nice as possible. Niklas couldn’t concentrate.

They reached another set of metal doors. He was led into the bottom level of the District Court. Granite hallways and reinforced wooden doors. A small detention room. A wooden table. Two chairs. On the other side of the table: his lawyer, Burtig, was sitting, waiting.

“Hey there, Niklas, how are you?”

“I’m fine. At least they let me make a snowball yesterday.”

“Was there snow in the rec yard?”

“Tons.”

“Yeah, it’s some climate thing, all this. It’s snowing like never before. Do you feel prepared for what’s going to happen today?”

“I’m assuming it’s pretty much the same deal as last time.”

“In principle. Some new things have come to light. They’ve gone through your computer.”

“What’ve they found?”

“Take a look at this.” Burtig handed him a pile of papers. Niklas flipped through them. Realized already by the fourth page—the seizure report—that they’d gotten ahold of his surveillance videos.

He didn’t really have the energy to read more. If it was all over, fine. There were more important things to think about right now. He couldn’t wait around for a conviction.

“Are we meeting in the same room as last time?” Maybe his question seemed strange.

Burtig held his poker face. “No, we’re meeting in room number six.”

“And where is that?”

“How do you mean?”

“I was just wondering. I’m feeling a little nervous. Is it on the same floor as last time?”

“I think we were in room four last time. So yes, it’s on the same floor.”

Niklas nodded. Continued to flip through the arrest memo. The cops hadn’t only found the files with the videos he’d saved. They had the info he’d written down, too: lists of routines, photos of the wife-beaters, bugging equipment. They had nearly everything.

He asked Burtig a few more questions. At the same time: laser focus on a different target.

The case was called a little while later. Burtig rose. The detention officers came back into the room. Put the handcuffs on. Led him through a hallway.

They stepped into the courtroom.

It was large: high windows with long curtains, the prosecutor’s desk, Niklas and his lawyer’s desk, the witness stand, a raised platform, the railing. The judge was sitting up there, along with a thin, dark-haired guy who was going to take down the transcript: the court reporter. The judge: the same old man as at the last hearing. He was in his sixties. Concentrated gaze. Tweed jacket, pale-blue shirt, green tie with ducks on it. It might actually be the same tie as last time. There was a computer on the table and a law book in front of the judge.

Niklas turned around. Stared for a brief moment. The room was filled with spectators. Burtig’d already warned him—journalists, law students, the curious public. They’d be crowding outside trying to get a seat. In the last row, he spotted his mom.

The detention officers spread out. Markko and one of the other two sat down behind Niklas. The third sat down by the entrance. Kept watch.

Markko unlocked the handcuffs and told Niklas to sit down.

On the other side: the two prosecutors. In front of them: piles of paper, notebooks, pens, and a laptop. They were also the same team as last time—one man and one woman. The man was apparently the chief prosecutor. Burtig’d explained, “You have to understand, Niklas, that this isn’t just any old case. The key witness in the Palme trial has been killed—and everyone thinks you’re the murderer.” Niklas agreed. It really was not just any old case.

The judge cleared his throat.

“The Stockholm District Court will conduct a hearing on detention in case B 14568-08. The suspect, Niklas Brogren, is present.”

Burtig nodded. The judge went on.

“And his public defender, Jörn Burtig, is present. On the side of the prosecution, we have Chief Prosecutor Christer Patriksson and County Prosecutor Ingela Borlander.”

The prosecutors responded affirmatively. Niklas thought it seemed like they were making an effort to sound authoritative.

The judge leaned forward. “Mr. Prosecutor, please present your charges.”

“We move for the continued detention of Niklas Brogren based on reasonable suspicion for the murder of Claes Rantzell on June second at Gösta Ekman Road in Stockholm. He is also reasonably suspected of the murder of Mats Strömberg on the fourth of November of this year as well as the murder of Roger Jonsson. The sentence prescribed for these crimes constitutes imprisonment for not less than two years. The special reasons for detention are due to the risk that, if Niklas Brogren is able to move freely, he may impede the investigation by tampering with evidence, that he may continue his illegal activities, and that he may evade punishment. Furthermore, we move for a private hearing for the remainder of the hearing.”

The clerk was taking notes like a maniac.

The judge turned to Burtig.

“And how does Brogren view the matter?”

Burtig was flipping his pen back and forth between his thumb and index finger.

“Niklas Brogren objects to the request for continued detention and seeks his immediate release from pretrial detention. He denies that reasonable suspicion exists for the alleged murder in June and for the alleged murder on November fourth. He also objects to the special reasons for prolonged pretrial detention. However, there is no objection to a private hearing.”

“Okay,” the judge said. “In that case, the District Court rules that the hearing will proceed as a private hearing. All spectators must leave the courtroom.”

Niklas didn’t turn around. The sound of rustling, whispering people could be heard behind him. Two minutes later, the room was empty of spectators. Go time.

Christer Patriksson, the chief prosecutor, began to read details about the Rantzell murder. How he was found, what the cause of death was, who he’d been. Then he went on. He described Niklas’s relationship to Rantzell. What’d emerged regarding Rantzell’s treatment of Marie. Finally, the information from her interrogation—in which she claimed that Niklas’s alibi didn’t hold up. Why the hell did she say that? Niklas didn’t get it. The cops must’ve pulled a fast one on her.