‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘Abuse of toxic substances,’ interrupts Barker for the prosecution. ‘In contravention of Article 124 of the Health Code.’
Sophie places both hands on the lectern and leans forward as she fixes Mia with an angry glare. ‘This isn’t a conciliatory hearing,’ she hisses. ‘No discussion or mediation. You’re a defendant, not a respondent. This, Frau Holl, is a criminal trial.’
This time Sophie’s angry face appears for longer. It looks out of place with her ponytail.
Mia says nothing.
‘What did we discuss two days ago?’
Mia still says nothing.
‘Do you think I’m stupid? Is this a game to you? Answer me, Frau Holl!’
Mia tries to answer. She looks up, fills her lungs with air and opens her mouth. She would like to give the right answer, not least because she wants to please the nice judge. But the right answer won’t come to her, and this is a terrible shock for Mia, as if she has suddenly realised that something fundamental about her life has changed. In Mia’s world, it is customary for there to be an answer to each question or to be precise, one correct answer to every question. In Mia’s world, a person’s mind doesn’t slosh like water around her head.
‘Moritz,’ she says, and the voice seems to come from somewhere else in the room, ‘Moritz said smoking a cigarette is like journeying through time. It transported him to other places … places where he felt free.’
‘The prosecution moves for the defendant’s comments to be noted in her file,’ says Barker.
‘Rejected,’ says Sophie. ‘The defendant’s statement shall be heard in full.’
‘Forgive me, Your Honour,’ says Barker with a special smirk: the same smirk he brought out for Sophie when he was arguing with her at law school, ‘I was under the impression the court would be bound by the rules of criminal procedure.’
‘Absolutely,’ says Sophie, ‘and in accordance with Article 12 of the Health Code, I will hold you in contempt if you interfere with my examination of Frau Holl.’
Barker presses his lips together as if there is something bitter in his mouth that good manners obliges him to swallow. Sophie massages the back of her neck and nods for Mia to continue.
‘I feel the need to be close to him,’ says Mia. ‘As if death were a hedge that we could slip through with a bit of cunning. I still see Moritz, even though he’s dead; I hear him, I talk to him. I spend more time with him than ever. I’m always thinking about him; I can’t do anything without him. The cigarette tasted of Moritz: of his laughter, his zest for life, his need for freedom. And now I’m sitting here in front of you, exactly like him.’ Mia laughs. ‘We’re closer than I ever thought.’
‘Frau Holl,’ says Sophie in a considerably calmer voice, ‘I’m going to adjourn the proceedings and assign a counsel for your defence. After what you’ve said, I can’t in all conscience allow you to continue. However, since you ignored my previous warning, your earlier infractions must be punished. What does the prosecution recommend?’
Taken unawares, Barker leafs through his notes and in his haste fails to find what he is looking for.
‘Fifty days’ wages,’ he says at last.
‘Twenty,’ rules Sophie. ‘The hearing is closed.’
Once the two black-robed mannequins have left the room, Mia is alone in the dock. In the public gallery behind her, the private counsel gets to his feet, steps forward and waits for Mia to turn round.
‘Rosentreter,’ he says. ‘I’m your new lawyer.’
Nice Guy
HE IS CLEARLY a nice guy. A little on the tall side and his fringe is a fraction too long: hardly a moment goes by without him pushing it away from his face. In fact, his fingers are constantly occupied, examining the contours of objects around him, checking his clothes are sitting properly, disappearing into his trouser pockets and emerging an instant later to clap an acquaintance on the shoulder — but his palm never touches the shoulder. Rosentreter’s fingers are like a commando unit from the prophylactic health service, always on the go. At present they are engaged in a tactile examination of the tabletop, hence his stooped posture, which could otherwise be attributed to stomach cramps.
‘I’m honoured,’ he says. ‘Truly honoured.’
‘What’s so honourable about a case like this?’ Mia averts her gaze so as not to stare at his belt buckle. Rosentreter takes a step to the left, two steps to the right and decides to sit down. He manoeuvres the chair so he is facing the dock, where Mia is seated.
‘First of all, my heartfelt condolences, Frau Holl. The last few months must have been hellish; you’ve coped admirably well.’
‘If there were anything admirable about my coping, neither of us would be here.’
‘Which,’ Rosentreter says brightly, ‘would be a shame.’ He stops smiling when he notices that Mia, for good reason, doesn’t share his point of view.
‘All of this,’ he says, starting afresh and indicating the courtroom with an expansive sweep of the hand, ‘is just procedure. Procedere. A bureaucratic process set in motion by a particular type of action. It’s like pressing a button. You mustn’t take it personally.’
Mia watches as he unpacks his briefcase in search of a contract that will invest him with the authority to act in her defence. The hint of a smile crosses her face as he drops a sheath of pens.
‘What did I tell you?’ says Rosentreter, straightening up. His cheeks are bright red. ‘The court system can’t be that bad; not if people like me are allowed to work here. I knew your brother, by the way.’
Mia, about to sign her name, pauses.
‘Really? Another pen-pusher in the army of mannequins—’
‘I work for my clients!’ Rosentreter’s hands are flapping like startled birds. ‘I’m the private counsel! It’s my job to read the Method Defence bulletin for this jurisdiction every month. What more can I say?’
For a while he looks straight at Mia, as though he genuinely wants her to tell him what to say. He blinks a few times; his fringe is in his eyes.
Under normal circumstances, Mia would find him unbearable. He is precisely the sort of supposedly lovable clown who drives her up the wall. A man like Rosentreter keeps family photos in his wallet and shows them around in the supermarket queue. He is the sort of person who turns up late because he stops to help panicking strangers who are desperate not to turn up late. When asked about the meaning of life, he will make some crack about an ancient film. This is his idea of humour. To be honest, Mia only likes people with sharp minds and a willingness to put their intellect to the most effective use. She divides humanity into two categories: professional and unprofessional. Rosentreter very definitely belongs to the latter category. No amount of crying, screaming and waking in a cold sweat could be more revealing of Mia’s present state than the fact that, despite everything, she is glad of his company. She feels herself relaxing with every breath.
‘I never met Moritz in person,’ says Rosentreter eventually. ‘Only his virtual trace, if you know what I mean.’
‘I’m not a lawyer. You’ll have to speak plainly.’
‘Of course, absolutely. It’s very simple. Your brother was on the blacklist.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Here and here,’ says Rosentreter, pointing to the contract with his pen. Mia finally signs. ‘He was under surveillance by Method Defence.’
‘That’s ridiculous. There must be some mistake. Moritz wasn’t an enemy of the Method. That’s …’ Mia laughs. ‘It’s like pointing at a deer and seeing a great big bacteria with horns.’