“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…”
Mustikkamӓki 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 cases 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.
“We haven’t met before. You haven’t done many criminal cases, have you?” the reporter asked.
“No. The well-known attorneys get the high profile cases. I got this one, well, partly by…coincidence.”
Römpötti let out a small laugh. Lind seemed to have a sense of humor. She was the kind of person Römpötti could have a conversation with at a bar as well. That’s more than she could say for most lawyers.