“Are you declining to make a statement?”
“I'm not sure yet if I will decline or not. I'd like to give the matter some thought.” He was about to reply, and I knew what he was going to say. “Yes, I am declining to make a statement.”
He shrugged his shoulders, pressed the bell, and without saying a word waved me off with the warden who came in.
Back in my cell I sat down on the bunk, smoked, and was incapable of thinking in an orderly manner. I tried to remember the name of the professor with whom I had studied criminal law as a young man, as if his name were of the greatest importance. Then images of my years as a public prosecutor went through my mind: interrogations, trials, and executions at which I had been present. In the flood of images there wasn't a single one that might have instructed me about the specifics of obstruction of justice, or otherwise about the legal problems of my situation.
The warden returned and led me into the visiting room.
“Brigitte!”
She was crying and could not speak. The officer allowed us to embrace. He cleared his throat, and Brigitte and I sat down at the table, facing each other.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Nägelsbach called me yesterday evening, and this morning another friend of yours, a journalist, Peschkalek. He was the one who actually brought me here. He wants to talk to you, too.” She looked at me. “Why didn't you call me? Were you trying to hide the fact that you are in jail?” Nägelsbach had told her my situation was serious, and she had immediately set out to get me a good lawyer. Because the sick like to be treated by a professor, she wanted me to be represented by a professor and had called the Heidelberg professors of law. “Some of them said it wasn't their field, which sounded like internists who don't want to operate; with others it seemed to be their field but they couldn't understand what I was talking about; and then there were also those who didn't want to get involved in pending proceedings. Is that how it is? Aren't defense lawyers allowed to get involved in pending proceedings? I thought that that's what they're there for.”
“Did you find one?”
She shook her head.
“It doesn't matter, Brigitte. I might not even need one. If I do, I know one or two lawyers I can turn to. What does Manu say to my being in prison?”
“He thinks it's great. He's behind you-we're both behind you.”
Peschkalek also assured me he was behind me. He twirled his mustache anxiously and asked if he could do anything. “You could bring me a meal from the Ritter Restaurant. It's only a few steps away.” He had brought a carton of Sweet Aftons.
“How did you find out about my arrest? Was it in the papers?” If I was to get out quickly, I didn't want Frau Büch-ler to hear the news and hit the roof.
“I tried calling you at home, and when I couldn't reach you there I called your girlfriend's place, and she told me the news. No, there's nothing in the papers yet. I don't think it will hit the local or regional press till the middle of next week. But things won't really get going till you appear in court. A former public prosecutor being cross-examined: You'll be the star of the show! Then you'll turn the tables on them, and become the accuser instead of the accused. You'll question them on the exact location where the attack took place, what the damage was, what the aftereffects were, and then the bombshelclass="underline" The attack was in the Lampertheim National Forest, the target was a poison-gas depot, and all this is being covered up because the fact that there is poison gas stored there is itself being covered up. What a tour de force! I admit I'm quite jealous.” He beamed, delighted by the scenario he had created and my role in it. “And then we have the romantic touch-not that I think the judge will be interested, but the readers will love it. Ticking bombs, beating hearts, an old man and a young girclass="underline" That kind of stuff makes for a great story. The old man and the young girl,” he savored his words, “that would make a good title, wouldn't it? If not for the whole story, then at least for an episode.”
“You're skinning me, basting me, roasting me, carving me up, and serving me-I am still alive, Peschkalek, and old stag that I am, it is closed season right now, not shooting season.”
He blushed, ruffled his mustache, clapped his hand on his bald head, and laughed. “Oh no! The vultures of the press, the hyenas! Am I confirming all those preconceptions about reporters? Sometimes I frighten myself when I can't see or hear anything without thinking whether it would make a good story. Reality is only real when I've captured it”-he tapped his hand against his hip, where his camera usually hung-”or, rather, when the story has been aired or is in print. We've talked about this before. Who cares about anything that isn't in the media? And when nobody cares, the thing itself has no effect, and if it has no effect it's not real. It's as simple as that.”
I let Peschkalek have his media-driven idea of reality. I didn't hold it against him that he reduced my story to a feature article. He asked me to forgive his déformation professionelle, asked anxiously how I was, and looked at me again the way a friendly sea lion might. No, I didn't hold any of it against him. But the favor I had wanted to ask of him I asked of Brigitte instead, and also asked her not to tell him anything about it.
20 As if
If the first night in prison was bad, the second was worse, not to mention the fear now plaguing me that things would escalate, each night proving worse than the one before.
I dreamed that I had to arrange the layout of the front page of a newspaper. Every time I thought I had artfully put together the pictures and articles I had been given, another picture or article would turn up. And every time, I was faced by the insolubility of the task: The page was full and there was no space for additional material. But I would start over every time, moving things around, thinking I had pulled it off, but then realizing yet again that I had missed a picture or an article. I was unsettled, but hard-nosed and persistent. Then it struck me that I hadn't really looked at the material properly. The articles all had the same foolish headline-”Self Himself”-and the pictures showed me always with the same wide eyes and awkward grin. But even this didn't wake me up. I continued moving the pictures and articles around, failing each time, until the sun woke me.
“We want to set up an interrogation on Sunday. We'd like to talk to you one more time before you are brought before the judge.” Dr. Franz was again sporting his affable smile. Nägelsbach was sitting next to him unhappily, Bleckmeier looked glum, and Rawitz had grown even fatter, holding his paunch in place with folded hands. “Unfortunately we had a silly little slipup, and your arrest was entered on Saturday instead of Friday. As a result, we couldn't secure the judge yesterday and will have to do it today. We'd be grateful if you wouldn't mind considering yourself as having been arrested on Saturday.”
Had Nägelsbach entered me under the wrong day? Was that why he was looking so unhappy? I didn't want to cause him any problems, and waiting an additional day for a hearing before a judge didn't make much difference to me. But what was I to make of the prosecuting attorney's “as if” philosophy?
“I will be brought before the judge as if I'd been arrested yesterday. I am being accused of obstruction of justice as if a sentence for Frau Salger is imminent for a crime she committed in Käfertal. An attack in Viernheim is going to be handled as if it had occurred in Käfertal. Wouldn't you say there are a few too many 'as ifs' here?”
Rawitz unclasped his hands and turned to Franz. “There's no point. Let him tell the judge whatever he wants to. If the judge decides to release him, we'll just bring him in again. And don't worry, we'll purge him of that Käfertal-Viernheim nonsense by the time of the hearing.”