by Anne Holt
Something had happened to Judge Bugge. His slack, ill-tempered face had suddenly become alert and attentive. His little eyes gleamed as he sat leaning forward marginally, his head canted to one side. It was possible to discern a malicious smile on his wet lips.
“I work for the police,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said curtly. “We are of the opinion that continued custody is required.”
Karen Borg sighed theatrically, looking at the judge for help. “Your Honor,” she complained. “Can I have some assistance in persuading this witness to answer the questions I ask?”
“It seems to me that the Chief Inspector is answering rather well,” Judge Bugge said tartly. “There might possibly be something wrong with the questions the defense counsel is asking. Continue.”
“Your Honor,” Annmari Skar said, sounding discouraged. “Ms. Borg is questioning the Chief Inspector on the subject of an assessment it is up to me as the Police Prosecutor to answer for. This is quite simply not on!”
Silence descended. There was only the faint susurration from the ventilation system and the sound of sheets of paper being turned over on the table in front of Karen Borg.
“Are you aware that Halvorsrud is suffering from bleeding stomach ulcers?” Karen Borg asked in the end.
“Yes.”
Silence again.
“Are you aware that his daughter has been admitted to a psychiatric ward as a result of her father’s imprisonment?”
“Your Honor!” Annmari Skar flung out her arms and rolled her eyes. Judge Bugge thrust a pencil into his mouth and chewed vigorously, but did not utter a word.
Hanne shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, and folded her arms. “I know his daughter is ill. I don’t know the cause. You’ve told me she is missing her father, but I haven’t personally spoken to a doctor. I presume it hasn’t been exactly easy for a sixteen-year-old to cope with her mother’s murder, either.”
“But if I tell you that a doctor’s statement exists, linking Thea’s serious condition directly to the fact of her father’s imprisonment, how would you then assess the proportionality of continuing to keep him in custody?”
“That is fortunately not up to me to decide. It is the task of the court.”
“But if I ask you for your personal opinion?”
Hanne Wilhelmsen was finally aware that Billy T. had turned to face her, and she could make out a smile below his red moustache. She saw him place a hand on Annmari Skar’s arm; he knew now that Hanne would pull through.
“That’s hardly of interest to the court,” Hanne said slowly, gazing at Judge Bugge. “I assume I’m here in my capacity as a police chief inspector. Not as a private citizen.”
Karen Borg sighed histrionically, throwing out her hand in a gesture of resignation. “I give up,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
Cheating and skullduggery, Hanne thought, turning to leave the witness box.
She was stopped by Annmari Skar.
“I have a couple of questions for the Chief Inspector myself,” she said to the judge. “It won’t take long.”
When he nodded, it seemed as if the Police Prosecutor hesitated. She took a deep breath and jiggled her pencil between her fingers for a moment or two before withdrawing a sheet of paper from the sheaf of documents, studying it carefully and finally saying, “Last Saturday, Chief Inspector Wilhelmsen … is it true that the accused was on the brink of making a confession?”
Hanne felt hot. They had agreed to leave this. Halvorsrud’s desire to bargain his way to a temporary release was a desperate attempt to be allowed to see his daughter. Annmari Skar had given her word. For the time being, the matter should be forgotten. The special report Hanne had felt duty-bound to write was comprehensive and innocuous and had not even been officially recorded yet.
“I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that,” she replied in an undertone.
“As strongly?”
“I would certainly not call it a confession.”
“But is it not the case …” Annmari Skar leaned forward, waving the document as if it might contain an unqualified admission of guilt. “… that the accused asked to speak to you late on Saturday evening with the intention of confessing? And that you actually had a meeting with him and Ms. Borg in your office?”
Billy T. had been restless in his chair. Now he grabbed a ballpoint pen and scribbled a message on the notepad. He pushed it in front of the Police Prosecutor. She read it swiftly and turned halfway toward him as she whispered sharply, “It was Karen Borg who started this.”
Then she waved the special report again, and went on. “Was he lying, perhaps? Did he not want to confess?”
Hanne Wilhelmsen swallowed. Her throat was stinging and her ears buzzed. Again she felt the numbness that came with being trapped. She was hog-tied. She was not in control. Her fingertips prickled, and she realized she was scrutinizing them without giving an answer. She caught a glimpse of her old father, that distant male figure who, when Hanne was little, had entertained his eldest children after dinner with extracts from Supreme Court reports and since then had never forgiven Hanne for not studying law. She saw his eyes behind the fine layer of steam rising from his coffee cup: blue, steely and brimming with disappointment at the young girl sitting with her feet up on the settee who did not want to listen. Hanne studied her fingers, contemplating that she would soon be forty and had hardly spent a single minute of the last twenty years thinking about the first twenty.
“He was desperate,” she said in the end, straightening up. “He wanted to investigate possible alternatives to custody. In no way did he confess. He was checking the lie of the land, you might say. As I understood him, he was simply proposing a hypothesis. If he confessed, would he then be eligible for release on bail? Something of that nature.”
“THAT’S ENOUGH NOW!!!” The note written in large block capitals was smacked down on the bench in front of Annmari Skar. Billy T. grabbed her by the arm and squeezed tightly.
It worked.
“Thank you,” Annmari Skar said, sending the judge a rigid smile.
Hanne Wilhelmsen lifted her jacket from the row of wrought-iron hooks and exited the courtroom. As she heard the door slam behind her, she did not know whom she despised more: Karen Borg, Annmari Skar or just lawyers in general.
Billy T. was similarly rattled.
He had believed it was Hanne who had been disloyal. But it was Karen. In league with a police prosecutor who had suddenly turned on him only an hour ago. He was trembling, and he felt sick.
Lawyers were a waste of space. He had always known that. Usually he laughed at them, these gowned, snotty-nosed, self-important and omniscient knights at the court of Lady Justice. They could never control themselves. As soon as they got a whiff of something resembling a setback, they pounced. Rather than lose face. Whatever the cost. Get even. Fire away. Show off.
And now it had harmed Hanne.
With the best will in the world, Billy T. could not see what had been gained by Hanne’s testimony. Not for either side. Nothing gained, but nothing lost either. For anyone.
Except Hanne. He was feeling fucking awful.
He clasped his hands, mainly to keep them occupied. When Annmari Skar had asked him to be her advisory assistant and help her with the bulky bundle of documents, he had naturally agreed.
“Never again,” he muttered under his breath.
The legal summing-up contained little that was new, and nothing of surprise to anyone.
“The court finds there are reasonable grounds to suspect Sigurd Harald Halvorsrud of contravention of the Criminal Code paragraph 233, sub-section 2, as stated in the charge.”
Judge Bugge dictated slowly, and the court reporter’s fingers responded rhythmically on the keyboard. The judge was keeping pace with a screen set into the table before him, and continued. “The court refers to police documents 2-2 to 2-9, in which it is stated that the accused was arrested at his residence where his wife Doris Flo Halvorsrud was killed by her head bein
g severed from her body, or by a blow to the back of her head. It has been ascertained that the fingerprints of the accused were left on the sword it is assumed was used to commit the crime. Furthermore, the court lays some – though not conclusive – weight on the finding that the accused did not alert the police immediately after the crime had taken place. The court also finds reason to point out that the accused and deceased’s three children were away at the time of the murder, an absence that in all probability, at least in the case of two of the children in question, had been initiated by the accused.”
Annmari Skar leaned back discreetly in her chair. Billy T. heard a faint sigh. She had won. He looked across at Halvorsrud, who had been sitting unmoved ever since he had been questioned.
“The court nevertheless wishes to emphasize that it does not find the case against the accused particularly convincing,” Judge Bugge continued. “In particular, the court places considerable weight on the inability of the police to pinpoint an adequate motive. With reference to police documents …” He paused temporarily to leaf through his papers. “… 7-1 to 7-7, in which a number of disconnected facts emerge purporting to support a theory that the accused had allowed himself to be paid for unlawful acts in the course of discharging his duties as Chief Public Prosecutor. The court wishes to observe that these facts are barely coherent enough for any significance to be attached to them. The court points especially to the police having until now been unable to find anything irregular in the accused’s finances, apart from the hundred thousand kroner found in the medicine cabinet in the basement of the house belonging to the accused and the deceased. The accused denies any knowledge of this money, and his fingerprints have not been found on the banknotes. The presence of his fingerprints on the bag containing the money could be accounted for by a chance occurrence and is not accorded any significance by the court.”
Annmari Skar began to waggle her foot. She cast a glance at Billy T. as two thin lines became etched on her face.
“The court further points out that no irregularities were discovered in the cases of the four people referred to on the computer disks found with the above mentioned sum of money. The court is surprised that the police have not conducted a more comprehensive investigation into this point. It has only been submitted to the court that … No, strike that last sentence.”
Judge Bugge poked his finger into his ear and scratched vigorously. The court reporter complied, and the judge pressed on. “The court is only aware of the existence of interviews with each of the people who, according to the police’s theory, are thought to have paid the accused to have their cases dropped. All the persons involved deny any dealings with the accused beyond what would naturally happen in such cases. The police have not as yet given the court grounds to doubt the assertions of the witnesses. Furthermore, the court does not find any reason to attach particular significance to the statement by the witness of Turkish origin that he was telephoned by the accused last autumn with an offer of assistance in getting a criminal case shelved. The court does not call the witness’ reliability into question, but cannot see that a well-educated, experienced lawyer would have given his own name when making such an approach. The court cannot discount the possibility that others may have been motivated to discredit the accused by making the phone call. As far as the police allegations that the deceased’s computer had been …” Searching for the right word, he smacked his lips loudly. “… manipulated by the accused, the court considers this to be sheer speculation.”
Judge Bugge coughed noisily and grabbed a plastic cup filled with water. He drained it in one gulp, cleared his throat again, and continued, while intently following the words that appeared on the screen only seconds after he had spoken them.
“The court notes that the police are also unable to dismiss the idea that the accused may be telling the truth when he claims that a certain Ståle Salvesen was responsible for the murder of his wife. The court would be pleased to have this claim investigated further, especially since Ståle Salvesen’s body has still not been found.”
Billy T. noticed Halvorsrud’s hand covering his eyes. His shoulders were quivering slightly, as though he was weeping. Karen Borg looked tense and made constant rabbit-like movements with her nose that made Billy T. crack a smile despite the court’s gross criticism of the work undertaken by the police.
“At least he finds reasonable grounds for suspicion,” Annmari Skar whispered. “Thank God for that.”
“Don’t be so hasty with your thanks,” Billy T. muttered.
“The court seriously doubts there is any danger of contamination of evidence if the accused is now released from custody,” Judge Bugge continued in a hoarse, monotonous voice. “Particular emphasis is placed on the investigation that still remains to be conducted into the allegations of corruption. As far as the technical circumstances surrounding the actual killing are concerned, the court presumes that all evidence has now been secured against influence or manipulation.”
“Yes,” Annmari Skar mouthed, before placing her lips against Billy T.’s ear to whisper, “We’ve got him!”
Billy T. pulled away.
“The conditions for the continuation of custody in accordance with Criminal Code paragraph 171 are therefore fulfilled. However …” For the first time, the judge looked up from his screen. He let his eyes dart from Karen Borg to Annmari Skar, before letting them settle on Halvorsrud, who was still shielding his face with his right hand.
“Delete ‘however’,” Judge Bugge said. “Write: the accused has presented a subsidiary petition with reference to Criminal Code paragraph 184, sub-section 5, cf. paragraph 174. The court makes the following comments. It is established that the accused’s daughter, Thea Flo Halvorsrud, d.o.b. 10.02.83, is seriously ill. According to the medical certificate signed by the Chief Psychiatric Consultant at Ullevål Hospital, Professor Øystein Glück, on 22.03.99, it is evident that Thea has not eaten for almost three weeks. She has this week suffered psychotic collapse, and is now receiving involuntary treatment. The illness is believed to have been provoked by the trauma of her mother’s death and her father’s imprisonment. Professor Glück emphasizes that the best thing for the child would undoubtedly be …” The judge tapped the screen with a stubby finger. “Underline ‘undoubtedly’.” He swallowed and smacked his lips, before continuing. “… to be reunited with her father. Otherwise there is grave risk to the girl’s psychological and physical health.”
Halvorsrud had raised his head. Now he was staring at the judge with his mouth half open. He had placed his hands flat on the table in front of him. Billy T. could see that the little finger on his left hand was vibrating on the desk pad.
“The accused has pleaded the case that his own physical condition also justifies release conditional on a duty to report at regular intervals or some other alternative to custody. The court cannot conclude that the accused’s stomach ulcers, at least partly caused by his imprisonment, place the accused in a situation different from anyone else who has to tolerate being held in custody. The court bases this on the fact that the accused is receiving appropriate medical treatment while held on remand. However, the concern for the accused’s daughter is so considerable that this, in addition to the other circumstances of the case, indicates a justification for release. Following this the court does not see any reason to go into any further detail with regard to the police’s subsidiary reference to Criminal Code paragraph 172.”
“What?” Annmari Skar ran her right hand through her hair and pinched her neck with the left. She stared at Billy T. for a second or two before closing her mouth with a snap.
Judge Bugge sneeringly disregarded her outburst, and continued while making a move to tidy the sheaf of papers facing him. “The alternatives to imprisonment according to Criminal Code paragraph 188 are considered satisfactory. Conclusion: Sigurd Harald Halvorsrud is released, with the condition that he report on a daily basis to the nearest police station. The police are also requested to seize the accused
’s passport. Ms. Skar?”
Judge Bugge smiled at the Police Prosecutor. His smile was as absurd as the remainder of his figure: a contraction at the corner of his mouth exposed his canines and made his tiny eyes disappear completely under the rolls of fat on his forehead.
“The police wish to appeal,” Annmari Skar said firmly. “We also request that the release be delayed.”
The judge’s smile vanished. He remained seated as if frozen to the spot, with his hands full of papers and his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the Police Prosecutor.
“Do you know, madam,” he said suddenly, as the silence became conspicuous. “I do not believe I’m in the mood to grant that. If you had been listening while I dictated the verdict, you would have understood that the accused’s daughter is in an extremely grave condition. The appeal will presumably be dealt with by the Appeal Court this coming Monday. I would prefer that young Miss Halvorsrud has the weekend at home with her father. Will a written application be submitted?”
“I …” Annmari Skar was a competent prosecutor. Unlike most police officers who studied for a law degree at her age, she had passed her final examination with flying colors. She was thorough and quick-witted. Never before had she been denied a request for delayed implementation. She had not even heard of such a thing happening before. Delayed implementation was strictly routine: if the police did not get their petition for custody approved, the accused always remained in custody until the Appeal Court had given its verdict.
However at this very moment, on this Friday afternoon at the end of March, as the time was approaching half past two, Annmari Skar could not for the life of her remember what provisions she might use to support her plea. Could she appeal the decision on delayed implementation?
She leafed frantically through the codex, her hands trembling; the flimsy paper tore when she arrived at the Criminal Code. She felt a lump in her throat, and her breathing became labored. Her fingers raced up and down the pages, but the print was tiny and malevolent; she found nothing.
