Darling (15 page)

“Education statute
s concern a large segment of our viewers.”

“Sure, sure. Facebook will probably be buzzing with posts about the upcoming huge
scoop we have on tonight’s news…about education statutes.”

Lӓhdesranta turned
all attention to Römpötti. “What does our crime reporter have to offer for the day?”

“
The report of sentences for sex crimes will be published next week, but we can deal with that then.”

Lӓhdesranta
laughed. “Well, that’ll interest the rapists, at least.”

The others didn’t find his comment funny.

Römpötti had reported on sex crimes a few years back, and it had resulted in a tightening of the laws. She was anxious to see what the impact was on sentencing.

“Don’t you have anything for today?”
Lӓhdesranta pressed.

“Not really. Sometimes I just don’t.”

“If you don’t think our viewers find education statutes interesting, we’ll need something else to waken passions and shake up the Facebook crowd—and people are intrigued by crime.”

Römpötti
stared at her boss. She should’ve kept quiet, because he was now about to get back at her by suggesting some totally stupid story idea.

“Yeah,”
Römpötti said. “Apparently you have an idea.”

“Actually I do.”

Römpötti feared the worst.

“The police reported last night about a homicide in Haaga,”
Lӓhdesranta continued. “A young female was killed in her apartment.”

“That’s probably not…”

“Don’t knock it. I think it’s interesting. Take it and add some human element to it. They’ve had several homicides around Haaga and Kannelmӓki in the past few years.”

“Well, they’ve got
lot of public housing.”

“Th
at’s a great angle.”

“Nah,
” Römpötti said.

The other
reporters followed the conversation, heads turning from side to side as if watching a tennis match at Wimbledon.

“If this was England, you’d be reporting live
from the front yard of the building. This would be breaking news.”

“Yeah, but this is Finland.”

Lӓhdesranta smiled.

“You’re always complaining that human life isn’t valued and homicide cases get shrugged aside. Here’s a
chance to get air time for a homicide, but yet you don’t seem very excited.” Lӓhdesranta started singing, “It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears; it’s a world of hopes and a world of fears…”

To his chagrin,
nobody laughed this time either.

“While we’re quoting children’s songs, I’ve got one,”
Römpötti said, getting on her feet.

She cleared her throat and started singing quietly as she walked out of the room: “
I’m going on a
story
hunt!
I’m gonna catch a big one! I’m not afraid!”

The others guffawed
and Lӓhdesranta asked, “Where you going?”

“T
o get a cameraman and go to the apartment,” Römpötti replied without turning. She’d been given a challenge and, despite all, Lӓhdesranta had a point. The media did shrug off homicides, leaving their causes and effects in the dark. Each had a story behind it and here was her chance to grab one and tell it to the million Finns who watched their newscast.

* * *

“You serious?” Takamäki asked incredulously.

He was on the phone with Sanna
Römpötti who had just asked him for an interview on the Laura Vatanen case.

“I’m very serious.”

“TV news is covering a simple homicide. Why?”

“The news
chief wants a touching, human interest story, and he thinks this case has the makings for one.

“Is that right?”
Takamäki said. “You want me to send someone to administer a drug test on him?”

Römpötti chuckled. W
ouldn’t that be a sight!

“But really, when can we come?”

Takamäki had known Römpötti for years. If she was in a bind because her boss had come up with a dumb idea, he’d help her out and grant an interview.

“We’re not talking about a Trojan here, are we?”

“No,” Römpötti assured him.

A Trojan was a technique where reporters enticed the interviewee with an easy topic that, as soon as the cameras rolled, turned into something they didn’t want to talk about. The method was popular among investigative journalists.

“Unless you have something else you want to address.”

“I can’t think of anything
just now. But you can do a story about how easily criminals get off for committing serious crimes, due to the policies of the current government.”

“Oh, is that
something new?”

Takamäki
couldn’t tell from Römpötti’s tone if she was serious or joking. He decided to take her seriously—he thought that best when dealing with reporters.

“You can go with
converting unpaid fines for prison sentences, and inheritance tax evasion.”

“Kari,”
Römpötti said. “Three-quarters of our viewers can’t connect with those topics. So they’re unsuitable for TV.”

“Yup,”
Takamäki agreed.

“If you have a
sensational new case about those issues, then maybe, but people aren’t interested in generalities,” Römpötti said. “How about we come by around three so you’ll have time to think about it.”

“Three o’clock works fine.”

Römpötti asked Takamäki for the exact address of the crime scene, and the names of the victim and suspect. Takamäki knew Römpötti wouldn’t put them on air yet—the media had strict ethical rules about that—but the information would be helpful. And she could repay him with other tidbits, since sometimes people would rather talk to reporters than the police. As the head of investigation, Takamäki was free to talk about the case any way he chose; and the names would be on public record anyway, come Saturday’s court hearing.

CHAPTER 13

FRIDAY, 2:00 P.M.

SALMISAARI COURTHOUSE, HELSINKI

The stocky
security guard with short, spiky hair smiled at Römpötti, waving her through the metal detector in the courthouse lobby. During the morning rush, reporters and attorneys were sometimes permitted to cut in line. In a late night hot dog stand or a cab line, people would’ve grumbled—and rightly so. But when it came to security, they just stood quietly and waited politely, just like at airport security checkpoints.

The
metal detector beeped and Römpötti exchanged a few words with the guard. Ari Mustikkamӓki, the bald cameraman, followed her.

The lobby was open to the eighth floor, with hallways leading into courtrooms encircling it like balconies. During the courthouse’s inauguration, a
fireworks show was held in the open space. But on the flipside, suicides have also been committed by jumping off the top floor. Alko, the government-owned distillery, was once housed in this massive brick building.

After going through security,
Römpötti and Mustikkamӓki came to a large airport-style screen that listed the day’s cases and room numbers. As usual, Römpötti scanned the names of defendants to see if any of them rang a bell. Sometimes she recognized one or two, but not today. The first floor contained several courtrooms, an office, and a cafeteria. Römpötti and Mustikkamӓki headed to the right and into the cafeteria.

The rectangular room
had glass walls that separated it both from the outside and the lobby. Inside were a dozen tables and a small counter with pastries and good coffee. Römpötti chose her favorite: a Karelian pirogi with egg butter and a large coffee. She treated Mustikkamӓki to a cinnamon roll and a Pepsi. They sat at a black table near the door. A prosecutor acquaintance of Römpötti’s had finished his coffee and came over.

“What do you have today?”

“What have
you
got?”

The forty-year-old lawyer in a suit,
with silver sideburns, gave a short chuckle.

“Good question. We’ve been hashing the
never-ending tax fraud case for thirty days now. The attorneys’ fees already amount to double the losses from the fraud. It doesn’t make any sense to send defendants on probation or slap them with fines they can’t pay. You could do a story on that.”

Römpötti
sipped her coffee.

“Will you say that
on camera?”

“Of course not. I’
d say that it sometimes takes a lot of resources to uncover the truth, and a constitutional democracy should be able to afford it.”

“Call Channel 2, they’re interested in that sort of thing. I’m not,”
Römpötti said with a smile.

A few more people she knew waved hello from other tables. Whenever there was a big case, reporters were accepted as
part of the crew. That was a few dozen times a year. On the so-called quiet days, however, reporters were the oddities—no one knew why they were there, but everybody wanted to find out.

Römpötti
finished her pastry and coffee; Mustikkamӓki was already done.

“Now what?” the cameraman asked.

“Now we wait for her to show up.”

* * *

Nea Lind leaned against the balustrade on the second floor as she talked on her cell phone. The call had lasted almost ten minutes. Laura Vatanen’s mother had wondered why she had to meet with Lind, but Lind agreed to stop by her work at six o’clock. Lind hung up and dropped the phone in her purse.

She glanced at her watch and realized she was fifteen minutes late. She could say
her other case took longer than expected.

Lind stopped by the restroom and checked her makeup. In her previous life at the
large law firm she had learned tricks about presenting herself and influencing people, but she was a rookie when it came to dealing with the media. The reason was simple: big law firms avoided media publicity like the plague. They hired consultants, known as “spin doctors” to take care of any problems. No attorney ever had to be on TV to explain their actions, risking their futures.

Attorneys who worked for large
firms sometimes appeared as top income earners in annual tax disclosures. Finland was one of the few countries to publish people’s personal taxable incomes and effective tax rates. Being on the top of the list wasn’t considered bad. It signaled success, and also served as a recruiting tool for graduating law school students: “Come work for us, we’ll pay you well.”

Nea Lind had never
made partner and didn’t earn the large bonuses, though she made good money. She purchased her apartment on Museo Street with those earnings.

Lind felt nervous as she descended the stairs to the main floor. She wore a navy blue suit, the same style as her gray one from the day before. She wasn’t sure how it would look on television,
but she had dressed for the trial. The call from Römpötti had been a surprise, but it was exactly what Lind wanted. She needed publicity in order to gain credibility and clients.

Lind
saw Römpötti and the cameraman sitting by the cafeteria door. She improved her posture and went through the key words: honesty, openness, and confidence. To hell with those, Lind thought. When the camera was rolling, it was just a battle for survival.

“Hello,” she said, walking to the reporter’s table.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to make a phone call after the trial,” Lind said. She decided not to start lying right off the bat.

Römpötti
introduced herself, shaking Lind’s hand, and Mustikkamӓki followed suit.

“Is it alright if I get a cup of coffee?”

“Um, we’re in a hurry. We need to be at the police station at three o’clock and then get to Nӓyttelijӓ Street…”

Mustikka
mӓki stood up and said, “You two can talk while I set up.”

Lind got a cup of coffee and returned to the table, seating herself opposite
Römpötti.

“I remember you from a legal
conference where you gave a lecture about the media. You summed it up in three rules, and they all were ‘Don’t lie.’”

“That’s a good starting point when talking to the press.”

“So be honest, then,” Lind said. “Why is this case so interesting to you? Really.”

Römpötti
was about to recount her conversation with the news chief, but at the last minute she changed her mind.

“Sometimes homicide case
s deserve more thorough coverage, and today is a slow news day, so it’s partly a…coincidence.”

“Okay, that’s good enough for me,” Lind said and took a sip of her coffee.