Blomkvist’s cheek and temple and the surgical tape over his right eyebrow. Blomkvist thought he discerned the merest hint of a smile in her eyes but could not be sure he had not imagined it. Then Judge Iversen pounded his gavel and called the court to order.
The spectators were allowed to be present in the courtroom for all of thirty minutes. They listened to Ekstrom’s introductory presentation of the case.
Every reporter except Blomkvist was busily taking notes even though by now all of them knew the charges Ekstrom intended to bring. Blomkvist had already written his story.
Ekstrom’s introductory remarks went on for twenty-two minutes. Then it was Giannini’s turn. Her presentation took thirty seconds. Her voice was firm.
“The defence rejects all the charges brought against her except one. My client admits to possession of an illegal weapon, that is, one spray canister of Mace. To all other counts, my client pleads not guilty of criminal intent. We will show that the prosecutor’s assertions are flawed and that my client has been subjected to grievous encroachment of her civil rights. I will demand that my client be acquitted of all charges, that her declaration of incompetence be revoked, and that she be released.”
There was a murmuring from the press gallery. Advokat Giannini’s strategy had at last been revealed. It was obviously not what the reporters had been expecting. Most had speculated that Giannini would in some way exploit her client’s mental illness to her advantage. Blomkvist smiled.
“I see,” Judge Iversen said, making a swift note. He looked at Giannini. “Are you finished?”
“That is my presentation.”
“Does the prosecutor have anything to add?” Judge Iversen said.
It was at this point that Ekstrom requested a private meeting in the judge’s chambers. There he argued that the case hinged upon one vulnerable individual’s mental state and welfare, and that it also involved matters which, if explored before the public in court, could be detrimental to national security.
“I assume that you are referring to what may be termed the Zalachenko affair,” Judge Iversen said.
“That is correct. Alexander Zalachenko came to Sweden as a political refugee and sought asylum from a terrible dictatorship. There are elements in the handling of his situation, personal connections and the like, that are still classified, even though Herr Zalachenko is now deceased. I therefore request that the deliberations be held behind closed doors and that a rule of confidentiality be applied to those sections of the deliberations that are particularly sensitive.”
“I believe I understand your point,” Judge Iversen said, knitting his brows.
“In addition, a large part of the deliberations will deal with the defendant’s guardianship. This touches on matters which in all normal cases become classified almost automatically, and it is out of respect for the defendant that I am requesting a closed court.”
“How does Advokat Giannini respond to the prosecutor’s request?”
“For our part it makes no difference.”
Judge Iversen consulted his assessor and then announced, to the annoyance of the reporters present, that he had accepted the prosecutor’s request. So Blomkvist left the courtroom.
Armansky waited for Blomkvist at the bottom of the stairs in the courthouse. It was sweltering in the July heat and Blomkvist could feel sweat in his armpits. His two bodyguards joined him as he emerged from the courthouse. Both nodded to Armansky and then they busied themselves studying the surroundings.
“It feels strange to be walking around with bodyguards,” Blomkvist said. “What’s all this going to cost?”
“It’s on the firm. I have a personal interest in keeping you alive. But, since you ask, we’ve spent roughly 250,000 kronor on
“Coffee?” Blomkvist said, pointing to the Italian cafe on Bergsgatan.
Blomkvist ordered a
“Closed court,” Armansky said.
“That was expected. And it’s O.K., since it means that we can control the news flow better.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t matter to us, but my opinion of Prosecutor Ekstrom is sinking fast,” Armansky said.
They drank their coffee and contemplated the courthouse in which Salander’s future would be decided.
“Custer’s last stand,” Blomkvist said.
“She’s well prepared,” Armansky said. “And I must say I’m impressed with your sister. When she began planning her strategy I thought it made no sense, but the more I think about it, the more effective it seems.”
“This trial won’t be decided in there,” Blomkvist said. He had been repeating these words like a mantra for several months.
“You’re going to be called as a witness,” Armansky said.
“I know. I’m ready. But it won’t happen before the day after tomorrow. At least that’s what we’re counting on.”
Ekstrom had left his reading glasses at home and had to push his glasses up on to his forehead and squint to be able to read the last-minute handwritten additions to his text. He stroked his blond goatee before once more he readjusted his glasses and surveyed the room.
Salander sat with her back ramrod straight and gave the prosecutor an unfathomable look. Her face and eyes were impassive and she did not appear to be wholly present. It was time for the prosecutor to begin questioning her.
“I would like to remind Froken Salander that she is speaking under oath,” Ekstrom said at last.
Salander did not move a muscle. Prosecutor Ekstrom seemed to be anticipating some sort of response and waited for a few seconds. He looked at her expectantly.
“You are speaking under oath,” he said.
Salander tilted her head very slightly. Giannini was busy reading something in the preliminary investigation protocol and seemed unconcerned by whatever Prosecutor Ekstrom was saying. Ekstrom shuffled his papers. After an uncomfortable silence he cleared his throat.
“Very well then,” Ekstrom said. “Let us proceed directly to the events at the late Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin outside Stallarholmen on April 6 of this year, which was the starting point of my presentation of the case this morning. We shall attempt to bring clarity to how it happened that you drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin.”
Ekstrom gave Salander a challenging look. Still she did not move a muscle. The prosecutor suddenly seemed resigned. He threw up his hands and looked pleadingly at the judge. Judge Iversen seemed wary. He glanced at Giannini who was still engrossed in some papers, apparently unaware of her surroundings.
Judge Iversen cleared his throat. He looked at Salander. “Are we to interpret your silence to mean that you don’t want to answer any questions?” he asked.
Salander turned her head and met Judge Iversen’s eyes.
“I will gladly answer questions,” she said.
Judge Iversen nodded.
“Then perhaps you can answer the question,” Ekstrom put in.
Salander looked at Ekstrom and said nothing.
“Could you please answer the question?” Judge Iversen urged her.
Salander looked back at the judge and raised her eyebrows. Her voice was clear and distinct.
“Which question? Until now that man there” – she nodded towards Ekstrom – “has made a number of unverified statements. I haven’t yet heard a question.”
Giannini looked up. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand with an interested expression.
Ekstrom lost his train of thought for few seconds.
“Could you please repeat the question?” Judge Iversen said.
“I asked whether… you drove down to Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin in Stallarholmen with the intention of shooting Carl-Magnus Lundin.”
