At Emla Prison there was no graffiti. No discarded, empty bottles on the side of the driveway, no tunnel stinking of urine that visitors must pass through with their hearts in their throats. There were neither sheer cliffs nor a ferocious sea around the prison. There was no sniper at the ready. There were only row houses, managed forests, and fallow fields. The Emla facility was centrally located, in among baby carriages, pets, and apple trees. When Sophia got off the bus and began to walk toward the building, she found herself in the company of a man with a Rollator. He was out for a walk and looked at her as she glanced toward the prison: at the perimeter fence, the lawn, the security wall, the spotlights, the palisade fence, and the security cameras. Nothing was visible of the world inside.
Sophia approached the wooden security booth, feeling oddly cheerful for such an errand, and pressed the button to state her business. A dull metallic pop from the gate let her know that she could enter. The same pop echoed from every door. Even as she lifted her hand to touch the handle, it buzzed. Someone was watching her and knew when she was ready to open it. There was no need to wait.
The visiting room was empty when Sophia stepped in. She sat on the chair, leaving the sofa for Stig. While she waited for him to arrive she armed herself as usual, with a pen and notepad. She had jotted down a number of questions beforehand. But in fact, she was most interested in what Stig Ahlin would tell her about his expectations, should she take up his cause. And what she could expect from him.
A few minutes later he came through the door. He didn’t look like the man Sophia remembered. During the trial his hair had seemed unnaturally thick, and his teeth ridiculously white. But that was all gone. What was left was a sinewy man with his gray hair cut so short it hardly covered his scalp.
They said hello. Sophia tried to squeeze his hand with the perfect amount of pressure, then sat down again, a bit too quickly, and ran her hand over her notepad a few times.
She cleared her throat. Stig Ahlin said nothing. His hands rested against his thighs, still, his palms upturned. It looked like a meditation pose. He looked at her without smiling, absently. Neither spoke.
Sophia cleared her throat again. She would have to be the one to begin.
“Well,” she said. “You know why I’m here.”
Stig Ahlin threw out his hands, then returned them to his legs and smiled stiffly. “And here I am.”
Sophia didn’t say anything for a moment, waiting for more words that never came.
I could stand up and leave, she thought. I don’t have to stay.
“Right. Well,” she said. “I need to know why you want me to work with you, if that is in fact what you want.”
“Hans Segerstad recommended you. And so far, that’s enough. For me.”
“Thank you for your confidence,” she managed to say. She opened her notepad and looked down at it. Thirteen years he’s been behind bars. And yet he manages to look as if I’m the one who came here to bother him. As if he’s spending his precious time on me, and not vice versa. I suppose I should count to ten. To keep from saying something I might regret.
“How can I help, counselor?”
One, two, three, four, Sophia thought. Five, six, seven, eight. Nine. Ten.
“You can tell me what you want. How you feel about this. Whether you truly want me to take this on. As I’m sure you know, it is very unusual to be granted a new trial. It would be simpler to apply to have your sentence converted to time-limited. The chances of that happening are much higher. And that doesn’t rule out…You could petition for a retrial from the outside.”
“I’m not interested in having my sentence converted.” Stig’s voice sliced through the room. “As long as I remain convicted, there is no reason for me to get out. I can’t work, I have no family, I have no life. That’s all been taken from me. In here, at least I’m somewhat safe.”
He fell silent and returned to staring at her.
“Safe?” Sophia asked. “You know, there are ways to…If you get out, you can apply for protected identity.”
Stig Ahlin shrugged.
“Then how do you think I can help you?” she asked.
Stig Ahlin remained silent. His hands were motionless on his legs. She tried again.
“If I’m going to help you, you need to help me.” Sophia looked at her wrist. It was bare. She’d had to leave her watch at the security checkpoint. “I’m not a mind reader. Tell me something I haven’t read in the papers. Or in the case file. I assume you’ve had time to take a look at it. Could you tell me what you think of what’s in there? Anything, really.”
“So that’s it,” said Stig. “You want to know who I am. Get to know me?” Even though they were sitting less than three feet apart, Stig managed not to look at her. “What an empathetic person you are, I’m impressed.”
Sophia didn’t respond.
“Are you looking for a good reason to say no?” he asked.
Sophia still didn’t respond.
“Naturally you don’t believe I’m innocent. But you don’t want to admit that’s the reason you don’t want to represent me. A pretty little lawyer like you. It won’t do to gain a reputation as squeamish.” Stig lowered his voice. “Is it money? Is that the problem? That’s usually the reason people like you say no to people like me. Or lack of time? Do you have too many clients already? Probably. And yet here you are. You need more, something you can tell Hans. Something he’ll have to accept but doesn’t cause him to lose respect for you. You don’t want to blame it on having too much to do, because it’s important for Segerstad to believe you can take on any amount of work. Did you come here to annoy me? A difficult working relationship would be a splendid excuse. Put the blame at my feet. The best thing for everyone involved, of course, would be for me to make the decision for you. ‘Stig Ahlin doesn’t want me to represent him.’ Because then you can say your hands are tied, that there’s nothing you can do.”
Stig Ahlin turned to the closed door. The room had no real windows, but just below the ceiling was a rectangular opening. Sophia leaned back. One of Stig Ahlin’s hands twitched.
“How do I convince you?” he snapped. A drop of saliva landed on the table. “What do I need to say to make you want to work to get me freed? Do I have to tell you about my unhappy childhood? How I was beaten as a boy, and lost my father at an early age? Or would you rather hear about something that happened later on? How I was a victim of prejudice? How the papers designated me a symbol of patriarchal oppression? How my ex-wife made sure to get me convicted of one crime by accusing me of another? You’re already sure that this is how I managed to convince Hans Segerstad. By taking that tack. Segerstad has a weakness for those who’ve been subjected to unfair treatment by women. Naturally, you’re already aware of that.”
He fell silent.
The window opening was barred on the outside. It was an inexplicable precaution. Even if someone did manage to squeeze through the eight-inch gap, it didn’t lead anywhere. The opening might as well have been an unlocked sliding door — it still wouldn’t have been possible to use it to escape.
You’re not relaxed and calm, Sophia thought. You’re nervous. Afraid of being turned down. You hate that you have to talk to me. For thirteen years you’ve been locked up, but you’ve never gotten used to depending on others.
“Nothing I say can make you change your mind,” Stig Ahlin said at last. “You can pretend as much as you want, but you believe I killed Katrin Björk and you have no desire to get your hands dirty with that sort of case. I’m sitting here because everyone thinks I’m guilty of killing a woman when I didn’t. But why should I expect you to believe that?”
Stig gestured around the visiting room. It was so cramped that, in doing so, he almost touched Sophia. He ran his other hand over his buzz cut.
“So, if that’s all…” Stig Ahlin rose and bent his head in a deliberate nod.
A woman, Sophia thought. So, you call Katrin a woman.