The Method (19 page)

‘Are you trying to convince me
not
to put my signature to your pack of lies?’

‘Maybe, my sweet,’ says Kramer, smiling slightly. ‘But I’ll come back and ask you again to sign. Santé.’

JUDGE HUTSCHNEIDER IS
a man of some sixty years with a full beard and most of his professional life behind him. His children speak four languages; his son lives in Paris, his daughter in New York. At weekends he takes the Cityhopper to visit his grandchildren, whose faces are pasted inside a locket around his wife’s neck. The outside of the locket bears the family crest, likewise the mat outside the front door. When the Hutschneiders refer to their house as their ‘abode’, they do so without a hint of irony. Judge Hutschneider’s life is an immaculate chain of correct decisions: the doormat, the locket, Paris and New York. He leads an orderly, peaceful existence in which there is no place whatsoever for the Mia Holl affair.

Now that Sophie has been stood down from the trial and transferred to a provincial court, Hutschneider has been dragged out of semi-retirement and installed as her replacement. The boost to his pension does little to console him: Mia Holl is not a defendant; she is a time bomb. Since his appointment as presiding judge, his house has been besieged by journalists, none of whom pay any attention to the crest on the mat. The crowds outside the law courts are slowly thinning, but Hutschneider is still
obliged
to sneak round the back. And his office has been colonised by Method Defence.

Hutschneider has never had such reason to be grateful that his children live abroad. Humans are very vulnerable, even when their every movement is supervised by two inscrutable bodyguards with transmitters in their ears. Humans breathe, eat and drink – they touch things with
bare hands
. And a rumour has been circulating that the Snails are about to launch a large-scale chemical attack. Under the circumstances Hutschneider is reluctant to play the hero, especially when the well-being of his family is at stake. One false move could ruin his chances of a peaceful retirement, and Hutschneider, by his own admission, is no match for Mia Holl. Luckily, there are people who are trained to deal with terrorists, and he has taken their advice.

Despite the experts’ warnings not to get emotionally involved, Hutschneider is immediately affected by the sight of the defendant, seated mere metres away behind a Plexiglas screen. With her slight frame and hollow face, against which her eyes are unnaturally big and bright, she doesn’t look like a potential mass murderer. He thinks of clever, discerning Sophie, who was duped by this woman, and reminds himself that no one can see into another person’s soul. And with all respect to human nature, he isn’t much tempted to try.

Contrary to his usual practice, Hutschneider has brought a complete edition of the Method’s statutes to the hearing. The volumes are lined up like a barricade across his desk.

‘Frau Holl,’ he says, ‘I’d like you to tuck your hair
behind
your ears and raise your head properly. Look towards me … Thank you, that’s right.’

Mia complies. She is sitting on a stool, with a straight back and something resembling pride. She looks at the judge with torturous determination. Her gaze conveys a mixture of childish outrage, anguished hope and utter dismay. For the first time in his life Hutschneider wishes he were wearing dark glasses.

‘Please summon the chief witness,’ he says to the microphone on his desk.

Barely a second later, the door opens and a pair of guards bring in a man in handcuffs. Like Mia, he is wearing overalls made of white paper. The lower half of his face is obscured by a hygiene mask. Hutschneider gestures for the guards to lead him to the Plexiglas partition.

‘
No one
,’ he says, ‘do you recognise this woman?’

The chief witness doesn’t hesitate. ‘Her name is Mia Holl.’ He scans the courtroom nervously, not looking at the defendant.

‘Good gracious,’ says Mia, staring pityingly at the handcuffed man. ‘What on earth did they do to you?’

Hutschneider activates his digital recorder. ‘Point one. Let it be noted that the defendant, on seeing the chief witness, greeted him in the manner of a friend,’ he says.

‘Is Kramer making you do this?’ asks Mia.

‘She’s Moritz Holl’s sister,’ says
No one
in the flat tone of a person reading from a script.

‘You’re Wörmer, aren’t you? The TV presenter. “Legitimate governments are like custom-made shoes – they never pinch or rub.” That was you, wasn’t it? I thought it was good.’

‘Point two. Let it be noted that the defendant has identified the witness by name. She shares his views.’

‘Mia Holl replaced her brother Moritz as the leader of the Snails,’ continues Wörmer.

‘You don’t have to say that,’ says Mia sadly.

‘I was her contact person. I used to meet her in the cathedral.’

‘Point three. The chief witness has identified the defendant as the leader of an anti-Method faction.’

No one
turns to face the judge. ‘That’s all,’ he says.

‘Wörmer,’ says Mia, ‘when you wrote your article, you must have been thinking about me, an innocent citizen at the mercy of the Method.’

‘Can I go?’ asks
No one
. ‘Right now.’

‘And while you were writing the article, you must have imagined what it would be like to talk to me, to tell me your thoughts, to express the things you’d never said. You must have imagined how good it would be to talk to someone and look them in the eye.’

‘Point four. The defendant addressed the chief witness and made reference to their shared beliefs.’

No one
glances around frantically and tries to beckon the guards with his manacled hands. ‘I’ve made my statement,’ he says.

‘I’m right here, Wörmer. You can see my eyes. You can hear my voice. Lean against the Plexiglas and you’ll smell me as well.’

‘Point five. The chief witness concluded his statement and left the stand,’ says Hutschneider to his digital recorder.

‘Look at me,’ says Mia, raising her voice. ‘I stand for
what
we all think! I’m the
corpus delicti
. Look me in the eye and repeat your lies.’

‘Take him away,’ says Hutschneider.

No one
casts a quick look at Mia; the guards tug him away and march him out of the room. The judge hurries to gather up his books.

‘Since life,’ says Mia, ‘is meaningless and yet you have to keep going, I sometimes feel like making sculptures out of copper pipes. I could weld them together and make a crane, or pile them up randomly like a nest of fossilised
worms
. A good joke, wouldn’t you say, Judge Hutschneider? Why aren’t you laughing?’

Mia laughs. She is still laughing as Hutschneider closes his briefcase. She is laughing, thinks Hutschneider, at
him
. He leaves the courtroom in haste.

HE IS A
terrible actor. He knows that she knows that he knows – and so on and so forth until the end of time. Rosentreter is on his way to the visitors’ room and already he feels exposed. Ever since Moritz was proven innocent, there has been a strange look in Mia’s eyes. It seems to pass through everything, as if the world were made of glass. It is a look that hurts, a look that is best avoided, especially by people bearing bad news. And Rosentreter’s head, hands, shirt pockets and trouser pockets are spilling over with bad news. In fact, he is ready to believe that he himself is a piece of bad news. The upbeat expression he assumes as he walks through the door puts a strain on his cheeks. He isn’t surprised to see that Mia is there already. He can’t recall a single occasion when he has arrived in time to see her walk through the door: she is always there before him, standing or sitting as the situation demands. It is almost as if she has been left there, in exactly the right location to deliver her lines. Rosentreter imagines a zip running down her back and cables in her belly. Over the past few days he has caught himself starting to hate her. He is ashamed of himself for hating her and ashamed that it makes him feel better. It
simplifies
the situation. It is a relief to hate Mia, to hate her without the slightest justification and with all his heart.

She looks in his direction and waits motionless as he takes up position on the other side of the Plexiglas. Her face is drawn and Rosentreter wonders if they are giving her enough to eat. If he is honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to know. Given the choice, he would like the matter to be over. Since his historic victory in the courtroom, things have taken a wrong turn. Mia is to blame.
She
was the one who refused to follow his advice;
she
was the one who insisted on her radical stance. She opened the door to the predatory Kramer – and why? In Rosentreter’s eyes, there can only be one explanation: Mia is obsessive, masochistic and, very likely, psychologically disturbed. Things had started so well: he had taken the initiative and triumphed in court. Then Mia hijacked the situation and insisted on pursuing her own crazy goals. Rosentreter can’t do much to help her at this stage. Legally, this is known as superseding causation. It is a simple question of accountability. Mia wanted to be the cause of something, thus Mia alone is responsible for the consequences. There isn’t the slightest reason for her lawyer to feel bad on her behalf.

Mia’s face brightens as soon as Rosentreter takes a seat. ‘Hello,’ she says simply.

She is clearly pleased to see him, which makes Rosentreter hate her more. He privately attributes his emotional state to confusion. He feels thoroughly out of his depth. He doesn’t know how to start the conversation, much less where to take it from there. Mia comes to his aid.

‘It’s quite simple,’ she says, while Rosentreter wonders, not without anxiety, whether she can read his thoughts. ‘You draw air into your lungs, you raise your soft palate, air passes over your vocal cords, and you move your lips and tongue. Or, to put it another way, you speak.’

She smiles. She was probably trying to be funny. At this point she places her hand on the partition in a comforting gesture, whereupon Rosentreter is stricken with such despair that he finally finds the impetus to pull himself together.

‘The High Court has dismissed your, I mean,
our
appeal.’ He clears his throat. ‘The judge cited insufficient prospect of success.’

‘So I’m stuck here?’

‘Apparently so. The application for exemption was rejected as well. You’ll have to go back to court.’

‘We were expecting as much, were we not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you bring the papers? Tell me what they’re saying.’

‘Are you sure you want to know?’

‘I insist.’

Rosentreter produces a small stack of daily papers. It includes only the least condemnatory articles.

‘
New Information in the Case of Mia Holl
,’ he reads out. ‘
Detectives Uncover Botulinum Stash
.’

‘Botulinum?’ asks Mia.

‘Should I carry on reading?’

‘Of course! What’s the matter with you?’

‘Maybe I should tell you myself.’ Rosentreter puts down the papers and gets out a tissue to wipe his palms.
‘Bacterial
cultures were found in your apartment. In protein tubes, to be precise.’

‘In my apartment?’ Mia thinks for a second; her face clouds over. ‘Of course … That’s why Kramer needed those things!’

‘Your fingerprints were found on the tubes. Inside were fifty grams of botulinum.’

‘Fifty grams is enough to wipe out half the population.’

‘Someone in your laboratory is quoted as saying you worked with botulinum.’

‘That was a decade ago – a pharmacological research project.’

‘Irrelevant, Mia. Method Defence has sifted your data: telephone calls, conversations in your apartment, electronic messages.’

‘And?’

‘Drawings of the city’s water supply were found on your computer.’

‘I live in a monitored house. I’ve got drawings of the electricity supply and the drains as well.’

‘An outbreak of botulism would be catastrophic.’

‘You do realise this is utter nonsense?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘I complained about them searching your apartment, but they were careful. Not the slightest breach of protocol. Legal warrant, approval of the judge. The discovery of the botulinum was witnessed by two independent observers. A Frau Poll and a Lizzie someone-or-other.’

‘I bet they were pleased.’

‘It’s isn’t easy to pick holes in Method Defence’s investigations. Impossible, some might say.’

Mia nods slowly, wrapped up in her thoughts. At last she cocks her head as if listening to something. ‘They’ve stopped calling for my release, haven’t they?’

‘Yes,’ says Rosentreter regretfully. ‘They’ve all gone.’

‘It’s funny. I can hear them.’

‘And rightly so!’ Rosentreter brings his palm down against the plastic arm of the chair. ‘We’re not giving in! I’ll appeal again to the High Court. I’ll petition the Method Council and explain our stance. There’s a young journalist I can …’