EMMA STEERS HER white Toyota up to the curb and parks directly in front of Catherine’s office. She walks around the car and bends low to help her grandmother from the passenger seat. It is a windy morning and Britta grasps her wide-brimmed straw hat. Today she wears a dark blue suit over a white silk blouse with a bowknot collar. Emma is taken by how fashionable her ninety-two-year-old grandmother always keeps herself. Her makeup is expertly applied, never pasty or powdery like other grandmothers Emma has known. Her nails are freshly manicured and polished in a cherry red. Emma keeps a strong grip on Britta’s elbow as they make their way across the sidewalk to the office door.
As they enter the office, Gladys loudly announces their arrival over her shoulder, “Catherine, Mrs. Stein and Emma are here.” Then to Britta, she says, “Oh, how pretty you look today, Mrs. Stein. I love your hat.” Britta smiles and feigns a curtsy.
Once settled, Catherine opens her file, folds back the pages of her yellow pad to find her place and says, “So, your father has returned from Berlin. What happens next?”
“As I recall we are now into the winter of 1941–1942. Given the harsh winter weather in the Nordic countryside, Professor Koch’s traveling lectures were more or less on hold. He spoke only at the university. We all returned to school; Grethe and Lukas to the university, and I, to my second year of high school. So, in a way, it was a return to normal for us.”
“Was it really normal, Britta? Had the situation changed in Copenhagen? I mean, you still had German soldiers on the streets. The war in Europe was intensifying. What do you mean by normal?”
“Poor choice of words,” Britta says. “Remember, Denmark was not fighting in the war. We were technically an occupied country, but existing day-to-day under the Cooperation Agreement. In many ways, it mirrored our neutrality in World War I. The Cooperation Agreement allowed us to pretend that we were still independent. To our south, all Europe belonged to Hitler from the Baltic to the Mediterranean. But that winter the war had expanded to the Pacific and brought in America as well. So, to answer your question, life returned to normal for my sister and me.
“It was later that spring, when I learned that Grethe and Lukas had joined, or I should say, formed their own resistance club. One night, well after midnight, Grethe came home and I asked where she had been. She could have said ‘Mind your own business, Britta’ but we were very close. She confided in me that she and Lukas had formed their own club, the Holger Club, with several of their friends. I swore to keep it confidential.”
“They called it the Holger Club?”
Britta nods. “My sister loved mythology, and especially Nordic legends. Holger Danske was a mythological figure, and a great warrior who dwelt deep in the catacombs of the Castle of Kronborg. According to Danish legend, when the time comes that Denmark is threatened, he will arise from his slumber, unleash his fury and save the nation. So, that is why they named their group the Holger Club. Grethe continued to attend Koch’s lectures in Copenhagen, and I suspected she was getting more and more involved in resistance activities.”
“Is that what she told you?”
Britta shakes her head. “Obliquely. She didn’t want to tell me too much, both for my sake and hers. But she was staying away from home more often, coming back in the wee hours of the morning, and her shoes were often scuffed or muddy. If I showed curiosity, she’d wag a finger at me to tell me to stay out of it. That way, I didn’t have to lie to my parents. Whenever they would question her, she’d give lame excuses—her study group ran late, she fell asleep at the university library, she was out with Lukas, any of which could have been true, but I had become adept at reading Grethe’s face. I knew they were false alibis.
“Other groups of young people had also formed their own enclaves, their own clubs, and expressed themselves in different ways throughout Denmark. Some published leaflets, some held rallies, some hosted bonfires, and others engaged in acts of sabotage. I heard of one group of young boys in the north who managed to set fire to a railroad yard and destroy German supplies and armaments. There was never a shortage of rumors. We didn’t have the internet or Facebook or any of that modern stuff, but we did have what we called the ‘did-you-hears.’ Did you hear what the Churchill Club did in Aalborg? Did you hear what happened in Odense? Did you hear about the bridge in Randers; well, it’s not a bridge anymore. There seemed to be a person-to-person network which was quite efficient even without a World Wide Web. I know that Grethe kept up very well with resistance activities.”
Once again, Britta’s narrative is broken by the sound of squealing tires and a shout from Gladys, who yells, “You son of a bitch. Liam, we got trouble.”
Liam and Catherine dart out to the reception area where Gladys is standing at the door. “Some bastard drove by and threw something at our office,” Gladys says, “but whatever it was, it hit Emma’s car and not our windows.”
The projectile happened to be a sack of red paint, which splattered the front of Emma’s white Toyota. As the group gathers on the street staring at the car, Catherine dials the police. Emma is in tears. Britta hugs her granddaughter and whispers, “It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s just paint. And think about this: an innocent man wouldn’t try to scare us away, would he? It proves our point. What we say about Ole Hendricksen is the truth.”
“Henryks might not have done this,” Liam says, “but I know a guy who would, and I have his address.” Then, turning to Catherine, he says, “Why don’t we call in the media now? It’s time. When Rivers is arrested, and he will be later today, he won’t take the heat for Sparks. He’ll flip in the blink of an eye. The public is not going to like it when they find out that Henryks or his lawyer are deliberately trying to intimidate a little old lady.”
“A little old lady?” Britta says with a scowl.
Catherine is still hesitant. She shakes her head to dismiss the thought. “Liam, you know that’s not how I operate. I don’t try my cases in the press. But when Rivers is arrested and charged with criminal damage to property and maybe intimidation, and if he flips on Sparks, the press will be all over it. Then I’ll be happy to give an interview.”
“If that happens, will the case go away?” Britta says.
“Only if Henryks is directly involved. If this is a publicity stunt by Sparks, and if Henryks didn’t know about it, then the court will give Henryks time to find a new lawyer, and the case would continue.”
Britta smiles. “That’s good.”
Britta’s comment draws a bewildered look from Liam. “Good? That the case would continue? You think that’s good?”
Flashing lights fill the room as a CPD squad car arrives.
Despite Catherine’s reluctance to involve the media, the story gets picked up by NBC. They have film of Emma’s car with paint on the left front quarter panel. A reporter who interviews the investigating officer learns that there have been other incidents: threatening telephone calls with racial slurs made to Britta’s home phone, and a brick with a hateful message written in red paint thrown through her lawyer’s office window. Catherine receives an inquiry: will she and her client sit for an interview? Catherine consents to be interviewed, but she will not allow Britta to appear or be questioned.
“WE ARE HERE this afternoon with attorney Catherine Lockhart, who represents Mrs. Britta Stein. As we see in this video taken earlier today, Mrs. Stein’s granddaughter’s car, which was parked outside Ms. Lockhart’s law office, was splattered with a large amount of red paint.”
Catherine nods. “That’s correct.”
“We understand from the police reports that this is the third time intimidation has been directed against you or Mrs. Stein in the past few weeks. Is that right? Would you call them acts of intimidation?”
Catherine nods. “Intentional acts or communications of one person that place another in fear of injury or harm do constitute intimidation. That’s right. In this case, the conduct can be considered ethnic intimidation because the acts included specific reference to Mrs. Stein’s religion. They are, quite simply, hate crimes. She received a number of threatening telephone calls, a brick was thrown through my office window with a religious hate message on it, written in red paint, and then, this most recent act of violence, again with red paint.”
“It’s general knowledge that Mrs. Stein is being sued by Ole Henryks over a series of defamatory statements she painted on the walls of The Melancholy Dane last month. I believe that she has confessed to painting those statements, am I right?”
“Well, I wouldn’t use the word ‘confess.’ I would say she acknowledges that she did paint each of the words.”
The interviewer is put off by the response. “Really? What’s the difference?”
Catherine realizes her answer is terrible. She is not in a court explaining the technical difference, she is on a television news program shown to millions of ordinary folks who will now think she has given a slippery answer. It’s a graphic reminder why she doesn’t like TV interviews. “I concede the difference is slight and a bit technical,” Catherine says, “but a confession connotes accepting the charges and admitting your guilt. Britta is not guilty of defamation. As you know, she maintains that the statements are all true.”
“Well, whether they are or they’re not, I guess that remains to be seen,” the reporter says with a glint in her eye, “but as far as guilt is concerned, your client has confessed to spraying the walls in violation of municipal law. Wouldn’t you call that a confession?”
“Yes, I suppose I would.”
“You suppose?”
Who is this woman, and what is her agenda? Catherine thinks. This is certainly a pointed interview. “You are right; she has confessed to the misdemeanor of spray-painting on a wall. I was concentrating on the larger issues.”
“Do you or Mrs. Stein have any idea who is behind these acts of intimidation? We learned that the police, on the basis of a tip, went out to an address earlier today only to find a boarded-up building. Do you know what that was about?”
“Not really,” Catherine responds, and thinks, Well, so much for Mr. Rivers and the blink-of-an-eye that he’ll flip on Sparks.
“Surely you don’t accuse Mr. Henryks of personally placing the phone calls, throwing a painted brick or splashing paint, do you?”
Catherine says, “I have no idea who is committing these acts,” and immediately regrets the answer.
With a small snort, the reporter says, “So it might be ninety-five-year-old Ole Henryks dashing over to your office in the middle of the day, heaving a heavy brick through the plate glass window and taking off down the street? Could it be?”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Me too. Let me ask one more question. I note from the court records that you were given thirty days to provide the court with specific details about Mr. Henryks’s so-called collaboration. Am I right?”
“That and others.” Another bad response. When will this be over?
“Oh, when you say others, I assume you mean Nazi agent, betrayer, informer, traitor?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, by my count, it seems that you only have sixteen days left before the pleading must be submitted to the court. Surely, you’re already prepared to come forward with the required statement of facts. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Mrs. Stein’s pleading was all prepared and ready for filing right now. Do you suppose we could get a little preview? Could you tell our listeners and, more importantly Mr. Henryks, some of the factual support you will submit to show that Mrs. Stein’s accusatory statements are true?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
The reporter’s lips curl into an O, and she projects an expression of surprise. “I’m a bit confused. You’re not prepared to come forward with the evidence right now, or your pleading is not yet prepared for filing, or you’re just not going to give us a preview? Or, perhaps, they’re not true.”
“They are true, and the pleading will be filed in accordance with the court order.”
The reporter leans forward. “Does she really have the evidence, Ms. Lockhart? Can she prove her case?”
Catherine puts on a confident smile. “She is a defendant; it is Mr. Henryks’s burden to prove his case.” Another terrible answer, she thinks. But what can I say? Oh well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. I might as well finish strong. “I will say this in answer to your question: Mrs. Stein will file her affirmative defense on the appointed date, and you and Mr. Sparks and Mr. Henryks and everyone else may rest assured that it will contain overwhelming factual support for each and every statement made by Mrs. Stein.” Catherine stands and unclips her microphone.
“Well, thank you, Catherine Lockhart, for your time, we’ll all look forward to seeing Mrs. Stein’s pleading. This is Jane Turner reporting for NBC News.”
Why in the hell did you do this, Catherine says to herself as she leaves the building. What made you think this was a good idea?