The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (70 page)

As he waited for the trial to begin, Blomkvist glanced around at the other spectators. He caught sight of Armansky sitting near the exit and their eyes met for a moment.

Ekström had a large stack of papers on his table. He greeted several journalists.

Giannini sat at her table across from Ekström. She had her head down and was sorting through her papers. Blomkvist thought his sister looked a bit tense. Stage fright, he supposed.

Then the judge, assessor, and lay assessors entered the courtroom. Judge Jörgen Iversen was a white-haired, fifty-seven-year-old man with a gaunt face and a spring in his step. Blomkvist had researched Iversen’s background and found that he was an exacting judge of long experience who had presided over many high-profile cases.

Finally Salander was brought into the courtroom.

Even though Blomkvist was used to Salander’s penchant for shocking clothing, he was amazed that his sister had allowed her to show up to the courtroom in a black leather miniskirt with frayed seams and a black top—with the legend I AM ANNOYED—which barely covered her many tattoos. She had ten piercings in her ears, and a ring through her left eyebrow. Her head was covered in three months’ worth of uneven stubble after her surgery. She wore grey lipstick and more black mascara than Blomkvist had ever seen her wear. Her eyebrows were heavily darkened. In the days when he and Salander had spent time together, she had shown almost no interest in make-up.

She looked a bit vulgar, to put it mildly. It was almost a Goth look. She reminded him of a vampire in some pop-art movie from the sixties. Blomkvist was aware of some of the reporters in the press gallery catching their breath in astonishment or smiling broadly. They were at last getting a look at the scandal-ridden young woman they had written so much about, and she was certainly living up to all their expectations.

Then he realized that Salander was in costume. Usually her style was sloppy and rather tasteless. Blomkvist had assumed that she was not really interested in fashion, but that she tried instead to accentuate her own individuality. Salander always seemed to mark her private space as hostile territory, and he had thought of the rivets in her leather jacket as a defence mechanism, like the quills of a hedgehog. To everyone around her it was as good a signal as any:
Don’t try to touch me—it will hurt
.

But here in the district court she had exaggerated her style to the point of parody.

It was no accident; it was part of Giannini’s strategy.

If Salander had come in with her hair smoothed down and wearing a twin-set and pearls and sensible shoes, she would have came across as a con artist trying to sell a story to the court. It was a question of credibility. She had come as herself and no-one else. Way over the top—for clarity. She was not pretending to be someone she was not. Her message to the court was that she had no reason to be ashamed or to put on a show. If the court had a problem with her appearance, it was no concern of hers. The state had accused her of a multitude of things, and the prosecutor had dragged her into court. With her very appearance she had already indicated that she intended to brush aside the prosecutor’s accusations as nonsense.

She moved with confidence and sat down next to her lawyer. She surveyed the spectators. There was no curiosity in her gaze. She seemed instead to be defiantly observing and registering those who had already convicted her in the press.

It was the first time Blomkvist had seen her since she lay like a bloody rag doll on the bench in that kitchen in Gosseberga, and a year and a half or more since he had last seen her under normal circumstances. If the term “normal circumstances” could ever be used in connection with Salander. For a matter of seconds their eyes met. Hers lingered on him, but she betrayed no sign of recognition. Yet she did seem to study the bruises that covered Blomkvist’s cheek and temple and the surgical tape over his right eyebrow. Blomkvist thought he discerned the merest hint of a smile in her eyes but could not be sure he had not imagined it. Then Judge Iversen pounded his gavel and called the court to order.

The spectators were allowed to be present in the courtroom for all of thirty minutes. They listened to Ekström’s introductory presentation of the case.

Every reporter except Blomkvist was busily taking notes, even though by now all of them knew the charges Ekström intended to bring. Blomkvist had already written his story.

Ekström’s introductory remarks went on for twenty-two minutes. Then it was Giannini’s turn. Her presentation took thirty seconds. Her voice was firm.

“The defence rejects all the charges brought against my client except one. She admits to possession of an illegal weapon, that is, one spray canister of Mace. To all other counts, my client pleads not guilty of criminal intent. We will show that the prosecutor’s assertions are flawed and that my client has been subjected to grievous violations of her civil rights. I will demand that my client be acquitted of all charges, that her declaration of incompetence be revoked, and that she be released.”

There was a murmuring from the press gallery. Advokat Giannini’s strategy had at last been revealed. It was obviously not what the reporters had been expecting. Most had speculated that Giannini would in some way exploit her client’s mental illness to her advantage. Blomkvist smiled.

“I see,” Judge Iversen said, making a swift note. He looked at Giannini. “Are you finished?”

“That is my presentation.”

“Does the prosecutor have anything to add?” Judge Iversen said.

It was at this point that Ekström requested a private meeting in the judge’s chambers. There he argued that the case hinged upon one vulnerable individual’s mental state and welfare, and that it also involved matters which, if explored before the public in court, could be detrimental to national security.

“I assume that you are referring to what may be termed the Zalachenko affair,” Judge Iversen said.

“That is correct. Alexander Zalachenko came to Sweden as a political refugee and sought asylum from a terrible dictatorship. There are elements in the handling of his situation, personal connections and the like, that are still classified, even though Herr Zalachenko is now deceased. I therefore request that the deliberations be held behind closed doors and that a rule of confidentiality be applied to those sections of the deliberations that are particularly sensitive.”

“I believe I understand your point,” Judge Iversen said, knitting his brows.

“In addition, a large part of the deliberations will deal with the defendant’s guardianship. This touches on matters which in all normal cases become classified almost automatically, and it is out of respect for the defendant that I am requesting a closed court.”

“How does Advokat Giannini respond to the prosecutor’s request?”

“For our part it makes no difference.”

Judge Iversen consulted his assessor and then returned to the courtroom and announced, to the annoyance of the reporters present, that he had accepted the prosecutor’s request. So Blomkvist left the courtroom.

Armansky waited for Blomkvist at the bottom of the stairs in the courthouse. It was sweltering in the July heat and Blomkvist could feel sweat in his armpits. His two bodyguards joined him as he emerged from the courthouse. Both nodded to Armansky and then busied themselves studying the surroundings.

“It feels strange to be walking around with bodyguards,” Blomkvist said. “What’s all this going to cost?”

“It’s on the firm. I have a personal interest in keeping you alive. But, since you ask, we’ve spent roughly 250,000 kronor on pro bono work in the past few months.”

“Coffee?” Blomkvist said, pointing to the Italian café on Bergsgatan.

Blomkvist ordered a latte and Armansky a double espresso with a teaspoon of milk. They sat in the shade on the sidewalk outside. The bodyguards sat at the next table drinking Cokes.

“Closed court,” Armansky said.

“That was expected. And it’s OK, since it means that we can control the news flow better.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter to us, but my opinion of Prosecutor Ekström is sinking fast,” Armansky said.

They drank their coffee and contemplated the courthouse in which Salander’s future would be decided.

“Custer’s last stand,” Blomkvist said.

“She’s well prepared,” Armansky said. “And I must say I’m impressed with your sister. When she began planning her strategy I thought it made no sense, but the more I think about it, the more effective it seems.”

“This trial won’t be decided in there,” Blomkvist said. He had been repeating these words like a mantra for several months.

“You’re going to be called as a witness,” Armansky said.

“I know. I’m ready. But it won’t happen before the day after tomorrow. At least that’s what we’re counting on.”

Ekström had left his reading glasses at home and had to push his glasses up onto his forehead and squint to be able to read the last-minute handwritten additions to his text. He stroked his blond goatee before he readjusted his glasses once more and surveyed the room.

Salander sat with her back ramrod straight and gave the prosecutor an unfathomable look. Her face and eyes were impassive, and she did not appear to be wholly present. It was time for the prosecutor to begin questioning her.

“I would like to remind Fröken Salander that she is speaking under oath,” Ekström said at last.

Salander did not move a muscle. Prosecutor Ekström seemed to be anticipating some sort of response and waited for a few seconds. He looked at her expectantly.

“You are speaking under oath,” he said.

Salander tilted her head very slightly. Giannini was busy reading something in the preliminary investigation protocol and seemed unconcerned by whatever Prosecutor Ekström was saying. Ekström shuffled his papers. After an uncomfortable silence he cleared his throat.

“Very well then,” Ekström said. “Let us proceed directly to the events at the late Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin outside Stallarholmen on April 6 of this year, which was the starting point of my presentation of the case this morning. We shall attempt to bring clarity to how it happened that you drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin.”

Ekström gave Salander a challenging look. Still she did not move a muscle. The prosecutor suddenly seemed resigned. He threw up his hands and looked pleadingly at the judge. Judge Iversen seemed wary. He glanced at
Giannini, who was still engrossed in some papers, apparently unaware of her surroundings.

Judge Iversen cleared his throat. He looked at Salander. “Are we to interpret your silence to mean that you don’t want to answer any questions?” he asked.

Salander turned her head and met Judge Iversen’s eyes.

“I will gladly answer questions,” she said.

Judge Iversen nodded.

“Then perhaps you can answer the question,” Ekström put in.

Salander looked at Ekström and said nothing.

“Could you please answer the question?” Judge Iversen urged her.

Salander looked back at the judge and raised her eyebrows. Her voice was clear and distinct.

“Which question? Until now that man there”—she nodded towards Ekström—“has made a number of unverified statements. I haven’t yet heard a question.”

Giannini looked up. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand with an interested expression.

Ekström lost his train of thought for a few seconds.

“Could you please repeat the question?” Judge Iversen said.

“I asked whether . . . you drove down to Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin in Stallarholmen with the intention of shooting Carl-Magnus Lundin.”

“No. You said that you were going to try to bring clarity to how it happened that I drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin. That was not a question. It was a general assertion in which you anticipated my answer. I’m not responsible for the assertions you are making.”

“Don’t quibble. Answer the question.”

“No.”

Silence.

“No what?”

“No is my answer to the question.”

Prosecutor Ekström sighed. This was going to be a long day. Salander watched him expectantly.

“It might be best to take this from the beginning,” he said. “Were you at the late Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin in Stallarholmen on the afternoon of April 6 this year?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get there?”

“I went by shuttle train to Södertälje and took the Strängnäs bus.”

“What was your reason for going to Stallarholmen? Had you arranged a meeting there with Carl-Magnus Lundin and his friend Sonny Nieminen?”

“No.”

“How was it that they showed up there?”

“You’ll have to ask them that.”

“I’m asking you.”

Salander did not reply.

Judge Iversen cleared his throat. “I presume that Fröken Salander is not answering because—purely semantically—you have once again made an assertion,” the judge said helpfully.

Giannini suddenly snickered just loud enough to be heard. She pulled herself together at once and studied her papers again. Ekström gave her an irritated glance.

“Why do you think Lundin and Nieminen went to Bjurman’s summer cabin?”

“I don’t know. I suspect that they went there to commit arson. Lundin had half a gallon of gasoline in a plastic bottle in the saddlebag of his Harley-Davidson.”

Ekström pursed his lips. “Why did you go to Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin?”

“I was looking for information.”

“What sort of information?”

“The information that I suspect Lundin and Nieminen were there to destroy, and which could contribute to clarifying who murdered the bastard.”

“Is it your opinion that Advokat Bjurman was a bastard? Is that correctly construed?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think that?”

“He was a sadistic pig, a pervert, and a rapist—and therefore a bastard.”

She was quoting the text that had been tattooed on the late Advokat Bjurman’s stomach and thus indirectly admitting that she was responsible for it. This incident, however, was not included in the charges against Salander. Bjurman had never filed a report of assault, and it would be impossible now to prove whether he had allowed himself to be tattooed or whether it had been done against his will.