Juli Zeh - The Method

‘Many of us are working very hard to achieve precisely that,’ says Sophie. ‘We’re doing well, I think you’d agree.’

‘Maybe you are,’ says Mia softly, ‘but maybe it’s not enough. Maybe for a system to be legitimate, it has to be infallible, which is humanly impossible, per se.’

‘Did you hear that?’ crows Barker. ‘Now we’ve got her! Frau Holl is suggesting that errors in the interpretation of the Method would justify …’ His voice cracks with excitement and he loses his thread. ‘The prosecution demands—’

‘Your Honour,’ says Rosentreter, who has been sitting with his eyes half closed, showing no sign of whether he has actually been following the progress of the trial, ‘the defence would like to lodge an application for evidence relating to the Moritz Holl verdict to be heard by the court, the material in question being relevant to the current case.’

Mia meets Sophie’s eyes, and there is a moment of calm. In the fields beyond the city, mouldering fences topple over without a sound. The wind turbines stretch into the distance, rotating slowly and ponderously, as if the blades were turning the wind, not the other way round. And yet, thinks Mia, wind and wind alone is the reason for the light being on in the room while people interrogate each other about their political views. The world, Mia thinks, is a reflection on the outer surface of her mind. By the time the moment passes, she has forgotten the nature of Rosentreter’s request. She hadn’t understood it in the first place.

‘Granted,’ says Sophie.

Sophie has signed her professional death sentence. It is ironic that her reservations revolve around the likely reaction of Messrs Hutschneider and Weber. The associate judges will doubtless be furious with her decision. The introduction of new material will drag out the hearing and in any case it is common knowledge that this nice guy Rosentreter is way out of his depth. The case is politically sensitive, and the last thing Sophie needs is a floundering private counsel. All the same, she grants him his intermezzo. She has to. For one thing, it’s the correct decision in procedural terms, since Moritz Holl features prominently in the arguments put forward by both prosecution and defence. Quite apart from that, Rosentreter has gone to a great deal of trouble. As he sits there, his desk covered with sheets of paper, sorting and re-sorting his documents as if weighing up where to begin, Sophie feels sorry for him. She mistakes his barely contained excitement for nerves.

In the same way that Rosentreter thinks of himself as nice and is held to be so by others, Sophie thinks of herself as good and is thought of as such. Part of being good is always striving to do everything just right. A good person will want to illuminate every aspect of a case, even if the defendant is irksome and Messrs Barker, Hutschneider and Weber will be late for their lunch. A good person will respect other people’s hard work, even if the person in question perspires heavily, throws documents over the side of the desk, and fails to find the port for his memory key. With these thoughts in mind, thoughts that, incredibly, take no more than a fraction of a second to pass through the human brain, Sophie, who can’t be held responsible for anything, marches to her doom.

At last Rosentreter finds the right slot for his memory key. Mia’s face disappears from the screen to be replaced by Moritz: boyish, handsome, smiling mischievously, with, as they say, a roguish look in his eye. Mia, who isn’t prepared for the picture, turns away and buries her face in her hands. Rosentreter raises his index finger; the image changes and a strange photograph lights up the courtroom. Pictured on the screen is a perfectly round, flat disc, under which various bean-shaped items are swimming. Their crooked bodies are a grainy black with white casing.

‘Blood,’ says Rosentreter, ‘but not the standard variety.’

He raises his finger again. The next image shows a huge number of white bubbles and a reduced number of red ones. ‘A high concentration of white blood cells. You can clearly see the leukocytes.’

‘This had better be going somewhere,’ says Barker. ‘No one asked for a lesson in haematology.’

‘Herr Rosentreter, kindly stick to the matter in hand,’ says Hutschneider, glaring first at Rosentreter and then at the judge.

The screen changes to show a diagram with coloured squares and circles, all with three-letter acronyms: AML, ALL, CLL and other such combinations.

‘Leukaemic cells proliferate in the bone marrow,’ says Rosentreter. ‘As the disease progresses, it is common for the liver, spleen and lymph nodes to be affected and their function impaired. At the age of six, Moritz Holl was found to be suffering from paleness, fatigue and pain in his bones. He also bruised easily.’

‘His whole body was covered in bruises,’ adds Mia. ‘He looked like he’d been beaten black and blue.’

‘Objection, Your Honour,’ says Barker. ‘I can’t see why we should listen to this distasteful—’

‘Bone marrow transplantation,’ says Rosentreter determinedly. ‘It’s the usual treatment, together with monoclonal antibodies and various drugs.’

There is fidgeting and muttering in the courtroom, which Rosentreter assiduously ignores. The fact that the presiding judge is chewing on her pencil persuades him of the need to proceed at greater speed.

‘The classic method of bone marrow transplantation uses stem cells from the bone marrow. In the past, finding compatible donors was extremely difficult. These days, thanks to the Method, every citizen’s tissue type is listed in a database. This allows for mandatory anonymous donations of stem cells. We can say with pride that no one dies of leukaemia any more.’

‘That’s truly heartening,’ says Sophie, ‘but since none of this is relevant, you’ll have to stop there.’

‘Just a few more words,’ says Rosentreter. ‘The actual procedure is pretty basic. The donated material is transferred via a cannula to the recipient. The bone marrow finds its way into the bones and ten or so days later, it starts to generate new blood cells.’

‘This is going too far!’ exclaims Barker.

‘We should call the court bailiff,’ says Hutschneider.

‘Or notify the Agency,’ adds Weber.

‘Your Honour,’ calls Kramer from the public gallery, ‘I strongly recommend you put an immediate halt to this performance!’

His voice cuts through the hubbub, resonating so sonorously that it seems to come not from him, but from the ceiling. The gallery falls silent. Kramer’s commanding tone is strangely at odds with his bearing. He is sitting ramrod straight, with his hands on his knees. His face has paled and his mouth continues to move silently, as if he were explaining the situation to himself. He looks like a man who, for the first time in his life, has been overtaken by events. Yet Kramer is the only person in the room who knows where Rosentreter is heading; he knows what the lawyer has found. He and Mia look at each other. Right now, his silent lips might whisper, The system is human. Of course it is flawed .

‘Herr Kramer,’ says Sophie, ‘you are not a member of this court and you have no right to comment.’

If the proverbial pin were to drop now, it would be heard by everybody in the room. Even Rosentreter has frozen in front of the screen; his next sentence is trapped in his throat.

‘Please accept my apologies,’ says Kramer. ‘Unfortunately, circumstances compel me to—’

As Kramer rises to his feet, Rosentreter comes back to life.

‘After the transplant, the patient’s blood group will match the donor’s,’ he says with the urgency of a marked man whose only chance of escape is speed. ‘Their immune system will match and so will—’