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Then he realized that Salander was in costume. Usually her style was sloppy and rather tasteless. Blomkvist had assumed that she was not really interested in fashion, but that she tried instead to accentuate her own individuality. Salander always seemed to mark her private space as hostile territory, and he had thought of the rivets in her leather jacket as a defence mechanism, like the quills of a hedgehog. To everyone around her it was as good a signal as any: Don’t try to touch me – it will hurt.
But here in the district court she had exaggerated her style to the point of parody.
It was no accident, it was part of Gia
If Salander had come in with her hair smoothed down and wearing a twin-set and pearls and sensible shoes, she would have came across as a con artist trying to sell a story to the court. It was a question of credibility. She had come as herself and no-one else. Way over the top – for clarity. She was not pretending to be someone she was not. Her message to the court was that she had no reason to be ashamed or to put on a show. If the court had a problem with her appearance, it was no concern of hers. The state had accused her of a multitude of things, and the prosecutor had dragged her into court. With her very appearance she had already indicated that she intended to brush aside the prosecutor’s accusations as nonsense.
She moved with confidence and sat down next to her lawyer. She surveyed the spectators. There was no curiosity in her gaze. She seemed instead defiantly to be observing and registering those who had already convicted her in the press.
It was the first time Blomkvist had seen her since she lay like a bloody rag doll on the bench in that kitchen in Gosseberga, and a year and a half or more since he had last seen her under normal circumstances. If the term “normal circumstances” could ever be used in co
The spectators were allowed to be present in the courtroom for all of thirty minutes. They listened to Ekström’s introductory presentation of the case.
Every reporter except Blomkvist was busily taking notes even though by now all of them knew the charges Ekström intended to bring. Blomkvist had already written his story.
Ekström’s introductory remarks went on for twenty-two minutes. Then it was Gia
“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 Gia
“I see,” Judge Iversen said, making a swift note. He looked at Gia
“That is my presentation.”
“Does the prosecutor have anything to add?” Judge Iversen said.
It was at this point that Ekström 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 co
“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 Gia
“For our part it makes no difference.”
Judge Iversen consulted his assessor and then a
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 pro bono work in the past few months.”
“Coffee?” Blomkvist said, pointing to the Italian café on Bergsgatan.
Blomkvist ordered a latte and Armansky a double espresso with a teaspoon of milk. They sat in the shade on the pavement outside. The bodyguards sat at the next table drinking Cokes.
“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 Ekström 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 pla
“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.”
Ekström 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 Fröken Salander that she is speaking under oath,” Ekström said at last.
Salander did not move a muscle. Prosecutor Ekström 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.