TV host, journalist, columnist, and author Lasse Wilander stepped through the door, gathered momentum across the threshold, and seemed to wind up, swinging his arm in a half circle before slapping Sophia’s hand with his own palm, remarkably enthusiastic. Four journalists shared the role of host, but Primetime 60 Minutes was his baby.
“I want to thank you for agreeing to talk to us.”
Sophia smiled tentatively.
“What a story,” he went on. “Just incredible. This is the greatest judicial scandal in Sweden’s history. No one else has been exonerated after spending such a long time in prison. No one.”
Sophia hesitated. The Primetime team had been working on the case for just about four weeks exactly. It was reasonable to assume that most of their material was made up of her own information, of the work she had done and shared with them.
“He’s not free yet,” she attempted.
A crease appeared between Lasse Wilander’s eyebrows. He observed Sophia for a moment before sitting down beside her and gazing into the mirror that covered one wall of the room.
“A minor detail, given the situation,” he declared.
“Can you close your eyes for a sec?” The makeup artist gently laid a finger on Sophia’s forehead. Sophia leaned her head back and complied.
“Have you gotten a chance to watch the tape?” Lasse Wilander leaned toward the mirror, carefully inspecting his own face. He gently pinched the skin under his eyes with two manicured fingertips and turned to the makeup artist.
“You’ll fix that, won’t you, Nettan?”
The woman, who had just introduced herself to Sophia as Helena, nodded.
“No.” Sophia took the opportunity to respond as Helena dabbed her forehead with a rubber sponge. “Not the new one. I just got here — I haven’t had time to look at anything yet. Did you find lots?”
Helena took hold of Sophia’s chair and spun her halfway around so her back was facing the mirror. Lasse replied.
“You’re probably already aware that we’ve decided to devote the entire pilot episode to this. I don’t understand how we managed, given the time crunch, but we have a ton of material. Their British expert — all we had to do was call Scotland Yard. And what’s more…” Lasse turned around and scanned the room, as though looking for something. “…I haven’t got my notes here, but, well, a court of appeals in Wales made him eat humble pie. I’ll show you what they wrote.”
Sophia had already heard this.
“You’ve done a fantastic job,” she said.
“I’d say so. The pedophile Stig the Pig, Professor Death himself, is innocent. Who would have thought?”
“I’m sorry.” A sudden jab of pain in Sophia’s eye and the makeup artist grabbed a cotton swab to wipe away the mascara that had ended up on Sophia’s eyelid. “That was an accident.”
“No problem,” Sophia whispered back.
“I actually need to wash my hair,” said Lasse. “But you usually have that stuff…freshly washed hair isn’t optimal either. You could get me some of that dry shampoo, right?”
The makeup artist nodded, annoyed. “Did anyone talk to Stig’s daughter?” she wondered. “Or are you not bothering with that? Don’t people care how she feels?”
Sophia had seen the segment about the incest allegations. It was brief. One of the hosts read aloud from the decision to close the investigation, sounding matter-of-fact and distant. A psychiatrist discussed the failings of the investigation and pointed out that Ida had never said her father sexually abused her, not explicitly. Nor had she said he’d done anything that couldn’t also be interpreted as normal contact between parent and child. A doctor had been interviewed about alternative factors that could have caused the swelling and marks that had been found around Ida’s genitals.
“He was never charged for that crime,” Sophia said quietly. “It was a mistake from the start to make the general public aware of it. You are innocent until found guilty by the courts. That’s the way it has to be.”
The makeup artist shook her head. She went over Sophia’s face with a soft brush. This time her motions were more abrupt and firm. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “If there’s going to be an hour-long program about how innocent her dad is, someone should ask how she’s doing. How she is nowadays.”
Lasse cleared his throat. “There are two kinds of journalists,” he said. “The great majority are charlatans who think it’s in society’s best interest to publish the names and photographs of anyone suspected of being a sex offender, those who believe the most important thing is to make sure no guilty person goes free. If you were a journalist, Nettan, we would find you among those people.”
The makeup artist still hadn’t corrected him about her name. Lasse went on.
“Then there’s a minority of journalists who have come to understand the basics of what we call ‘the rule of law.’ We, my lovely girl, believe the most important thing is that no one is convicted of a crime they didn’t commit. That is more important than anything else. Even if it means a pedophile is set free. Do you understand? But of course, this isn’t popular in homes across Sweden. Or even among the majority of journalists. To find awards for this sort of journalism, one must look abroad. The Pulitzer. The Peabody Award. Because Stig Ahlin is innocent. Of the pedophilia allegations as well, no doubt. His crazy ex-wife — why would anyone believe that cow?”
“Tell me what I’m about to see.” Sophia wanted to change the subject. Helena was going through her hair with the curling iron and Sophia could swear she already had three burns on her scalp. “I understand you interviewed Katrin’s mother.”
Lasse Wilander spun on his chair and leaned toward Sophia.
“Made for unbeatable TV. She spills all. She talks a lot about her regrets. What a tough time Katrin had. What she should have done. I interviewed Katrin’s mother along with Eija, that little friend. It was their idea. A stroke of genius, I must say. When Eija talks about how her friend’s parents let her down and her mother is sitting there blowing her nose all over the place — shit, it’s so good. We’re all sobbing. Even me. Like I said, good TV.”
“How her parents let her down?” I don’t follow, Sophia thought.
“Yeah, maybe her mother most of all. We don’t put the blame on her, nothing like that. But she had quite a bit to deal with. What was she supposed to do? She had to. You can see it for yourself. I asked them to play it for you while I’m in makeup. That gives you something to do. It’s all set up, out in the studio.”
“You’re done now,” said the makeup artist, spinning Sophia around. She looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Jeez. Sophia blinked in disbelief. Is that what I look like?
A beige easy chair and a pale gray sofa were facing each other in what looked like a cross section of a living room. Sophia declined a cup of coffee and sat on one side of the sofa.
“Do you want to watch?” The studio gal shot Sophia a questioning look. When Sophia nodded, the woman started the VCR on the cart. “It’s not fully edited, but Lasse thought you should see it anyway.”
On the TV screen, Sophia watched a woman in her fifties enter the studio, the same studio she was in right now. She was shown to a seat and given a microphone. Eija Nurmilehto was already seated, but it was the older woman who spoke first.
When she was finished, the camera zoomed in on Lasse. He was leaning forward slightly in his chair. His eyes were shiny.
“Why didn’t anyone notice how Katrin was feeling?”
Eija responded. “Because she didn’t say anything.”
Lasse still hadn’t taken his eyes from Katrin’s mother. He had moved so close that he was almost brushing her knee.
“She didn’t mention anything to you either?”
Katrin’s mother was clutching a tissue in one hand. But she wasn’t crying. Instead she just shook her head.
“I wasn’t there,” she said at last.