Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

by Liza Marklund

  "What did it feel like to be practically accused of being a murderer in the newspaper?" the reporter asked cautiously.

  The man sighed. "It's impossible to describe the feeling. What can you say? To read that you've… No, it's beyond comprehension." There was a catch in his voice.

  "Have you considered suing the paper?"

  Another catch. "No, everybody knows it's pointless. Giants like that can put up any amount of money to crush a person. I'd never win a case against the press. Besides, it would bring back too many memories."

  The studio reporter returned, now with another reporter in the studio who seemed to play the part of some kind of expert.

  "This is a problem, isn't it?" the studio reporter said.

  "It certainly is," the commentator said in a concerned voice. "A young man is branded a murderer by a summer temp who's put on her Sunday best to do a piece of investigative journalism, and a lie is established as truth. Justice will rarely be done in a case like this. It would cost an enormous sum of money to pursue a libel case against a newspaper. However, we'd like to point out to anybody who feels used or abused by the media that you can receive legal aid to get at journalists who tell lies."

  "Could this be something for Joachim to think about?"

  "Yes, it could. One just has to hope he has the energy to take the matter to court. It would be very interesting to see what would be the outcome of a case like this."

  The studio reporter rustled his papers. "But why would a young journalist do a thing like this?"

  "One explanation might be that she would stop at nothing to get a permanent job with a tabloid. Kvällspressen lives off its newsstand circulation. The juicier the front page, the more copies they sell and the more money they make. Unfortunately, the reporters that stoop to this kind of work can benefit financially from their sordid activities."

  "So the more salacious the front page, the higher the salary for the reporter?"

  "Yes, you could say that."

  "But do you think it's that simple, that she's sold herself to the highest bidder?"

  "No, regrettably, the underlying motives may be even more dubious."

  "And what might they be, do you think?"

  The commentator cleared his throat. "The fact is, that there are up to ten thousand lobbyists in Stockholm. And these lobbyists are only after one thing: to get the decision makers and the media to do their employers' bidding. They influence the media by 'planting' news. You dupe or buy a journalist with a planted piece of news and the reporter becomes your tool."

  "Do you think that has happened in this case?"

  "Yes, I'm absolutely convinced it has," the commentator said authoritatively. "It's obvious to someone with any kind of knowledge of this trade that Annika Bengtzon's pieces about Christer Lundgren constitute a case of planting."

  "How do you know?" the studio reporter asked, sounding impressed.

  "I'd like to play you a tape that proves my case. It's a clip from this morning outside Rosenbad," the commentator said triumphantly.

  The voice of the prime minister filled the air: "Naturally, I feel for Christer at a time like this. This kind of unwarranted media attention is always a trial. But I assure you, for the government- and the party- this business is of no consequence whatever. I suppose you've all seen Kvällspressen today. They've realized why the police have been interviewing Christer. He happens to have an overnight apartment next to Kronoberg Park. Even cabinet ministers have to have somewhere to live."

  Back in the studio. "There we heard it plainly," the commentator said. "The prime minister refers directly to the statements in a newspaper, clearly wanting other media to follow suit."

  "What exactly is the responsibility of the government in a case like this?"

  "Well, they should obviously be censured for taking advantage of such a young and inexperienced journalist. It is unfortunately a lot easier to manipulate the summer freelancers."

  The studio reporter took over again. "We tried to get hold of the editor in chief to offer him the chance to comment on our report, but were told that he wasn't available…"

  Annika got up and walked toward the ladies' room; the floor under her feet was rolling. It got worse when she entered the corridor behind the newsroom. She had to support herself against the wall. I'm going to break, she thought. I can't do it. I won't make it. I'll throw up right here on the floor.

  She made it to the bathroom and threw up in the disabled toilet, causing a blockage in the drain when she tried to flush it. She looked at her face in the mirror and was surprised to find that she was still in one piece, that she looked the same. She was still breathing and her heart was still working.

  I can never show my face again, she thought. I'm disgraced. I'll never get another job. They won't even want me back at Katrineholms-Kuriren; I'm going to get fired. She couldn't think if what they had said had any validity. She had been skewered on national radio.

  She started to cry.

  Christ, where am I going to live? If I can't pay the rent, then where do I go?

  She sank down on the floor, sobbing into her skirt.

  Lyckebo, she thought suddenly and stopped crying. I'll move to Grandma's. No one will find me there. Grandma will move into her apartment in Hälleforsnäs in October and I could just stay in the cottage.

  She blew her nose on some toilet paper and wiped away the tears.

  Yes- of course that's what she'd do! Grandma had promised to stand by her; she wouldn't let her down. And Annika was a union member, so she'd get unemployment benefits at least for a year and then she could see. She could go abroad, a lot of people before her had done that. Pick oranges in Israel or grapes in France- or New Zealand?

  She got to her feet. There were lots of alternatives.

  "You can do it," she said out loud.

  She'd made up her mind. Never again was she going to set foot in a newspaper office, especially not this one. She would take her bag and box up her notes and leave journalism behind her forever. Determined, she opened the door.

  The feeling of being out on a rough sea wouldn't quite go away. She stayed close to the wall so she wouldn't fall over.

  Once she reached Berit's desk she quickly gathered her things and put them in her bag.

  "There you are! Could you come into my office for a moment?"

  She recognized the voice of the new deputy editor, Anders Schyman.

  Surprised, she turned around. "Who, me?"

  "Yes, I'm in the fish tank with the hideous curtains over there. Come on in when you've got a minute."

  "I can come right now."

  She felt the furtive glances of the newsroom as she walked over to the boss's office. One thing I know for sure, she thought- it can't get any worse.

  It wasn't a nice office. The tired curtains really were hideous and the air was dank and stale.

  "What's that god-awful smell? Haven't you emptied the ashtray?"

  "I don't smoke. It's the couch. Don't sit on it, the smell gets into your clothes."

  She remained standing in the middle of the floor while he sat on his desk.

  "I've called Studio 69," he said. "I never heard the likes of such a personal attack, and we didn't even get a chance to respond. I've already faxed a complaint to the Broadcast Commission. The editor in chief may be away, but I've been here all day. Did they call you?"

  She didn't answer, just shook her head.

  "I know that so-called commentator. He worked for a while on my current affairs program, but I had to get rid of him. His behavior really was beyond the pale. He was forever conspiring and dissing people until the office nearly fell apart. Fortunately, he wasn't on staff but was freelancing, so once I'd decided, I could ask him to leave."

  Annika stared at the floor.

  "And on the subject of planting," Schyman said, pulling out a fax from the mess that had already accumulated on his desk, "we've received an anonymous tip that the leader of one of the other parties in Parliament has been int
erviewed by the police in connection with the Josefin case."

  He held out the fax to Annika, who looked at it, stunned. "Where was it sent from?"

  "My question, exactly. Do you see the caller ID in the corner? That's the phone number of the Social Democrats' public relations office."

  "That's so cheap."

  "Isn't it? Brazen too. They don't even care we'd know right away who sent it."

  They fell silent.

  Then Annika steeled herself. "Nobody planted anything with me."

  Anders Schyman looked at her attentively, waiting for her to continue.

  "I haven't discussed my coverage with anyone, except a little with Berit and Anne Snapphane."

  "With the news editors?"

  Annika shook her head. "Not much," she said quietly.

  "So you've handled this all on your own?"

  He sounded a bit skeptical; Annika felt a bit edgy.

  "Well, almost," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. "I can't blame anyone else."

  "Oh, no," Schyman hastened to say, "that's not what I meant. I think your coverage has been okay, good, even. The only thing you missed out on was the strip joint. You knew about that, didn't you?"

  She nodded.

  "We should have run that sooner. But to do what the Rival and Studio 69 have done, practically making the girl out to be a prostitute, that's a hell of a lot worse. How did you find out about the minister's overnight apartment?"

  Annika heaved a sigh. "I had coffee with his neighbor."

  "Great!" Schyman said enthusiastically. "And what really happened with those youngsters in Täby?"

  There was a quick gleam in Annika's eyes. "That is just too much. They called us themselves and invited us to the youth center. They also told us about the rally in the park, or whatever that was."

  "Things got a bit out of hand there, I heard."

  Annika dropped her bag on the floor and threw up her hands in a gesture of exasperation. It felt good to be talking about this at last.

  "They're in mourning so you can't have a serious conversation with them. We're supposed to feel sorry for them but not to go near them in any way. You're not allowed to breathe a word about anything in this country that's the least bit unpleasant or controversial. We think that death and violence and suffering will go away if we just bury them and never discuss them. That's wrong! It's getting worse every day! Those kids were crazy, they would have set fire to us!"

  "I don't think they would have gone that far." Annika was worked up and Schyman thought he should try to calm her down.

  "Yes, they would. You weren't there," Annika shouted. "Those pathetic social workers took control of the grieving process. 'Crisis management team'- my ass! All they've done is to work the kids into a frenzy. I bet most of them hadn't so much as spoken to Josefin! What are they doing joining in an orgy of grief for a whole goddamn week? They were in some kind of a trance, Schyman, they didn't know what they were doing. They made us into Evil. As though we were to blame. They offered us up as scapegoats. Don't tell me I'm exaggerating!" Her face was blotchy from agitation and anger, her breathing sharp and hard.

  The deputy editor eyed her with interest. "I think you may be right."

  "Of course I'm right, for fuck's sake." Annika was holding nothing back because that's exactly how much she had to lose.

  He smiled. "It's a good thing you don't swear like that in your copy."

  "Of course I don't."

  Anders Schyman started laughing.

  Annika took a step forward. "It's no laughing matter. It's serious. Those youngsters at the cemetery were like a lynch mob. I can't say for sure they would have harmed us, but they gave us a fucking good scare. We should report them to the police, really. Pettersson's car got badly banged up, not that you can tell with that wreck, but still. We should make it clear that people can't behave like that, even if they are grieving."

  "There are crisis management teams that do a fantastic job," the deputy editor said gravely.

  Annika didn't respond and the man watched her for a while in silence.

  "You've been working quite a lot lately, haven't you?"

  She immediately was on the defensive. "I'm not overreacting because I'm overworked," she snapped.

  The deputy editor got to his feet. "That's not what I meant. Are you on your regular shift now?"

  She cast down her eyes. "No, I'm on next on Saturday."

  "Take the weekend off. Go away and take a rest, you could do with some peace and quiet after what just happened."

  She turned around and left the room without saying a word.

  On her way out from the newsroom she heard Jansson cheering out loud, "Holy smokes, are we putting out a great newspaper or what! 'The Speaker admits, "I was in charge of IB." ' We've got a comment from the prime minister on the murder suspicions, and the Ninja Barbies have been arrested, of which we have the exclusive pictures!"

  Annika quickly stepped into the elevator.

  ***

  Not until she was standing outside her apartment block did she remember she didn't have any keys. She needed a key to open the door from the street as there was no code lock. She almost began to cry again.

  "Fuck!" she said, and pulled at the door in exasperation. To her surprise, the door opened. A small piece of light-green cardboard fell to the ground. Annika bent down to pick it up. She recognized the pattern; it came from the box of a Clinique moisturizer she had.

  Patricia, Annika thought. She knew I wouldn't be able to get in so she put the piece of paper in the lock.

  She walked up the stairs, a short journey that felt interminable. Taped to the front door was an envelope; the keys jangled inside when she took it off.

  Thank you so much for everything. Here are your keys, I've made copies. I'm at the club and will be back early tomorrow morning.

  P.S. I've done some shopping, I hope you don't mind.

  Annika opened the door. She was met by the fresh smell of floor cleaner. The voile curtains flew dramatically in the draft. She shut the door and the curtains sank back down. She wandered slowly through the rooms, looking around.

  Patricia had cleaned the whole apartment, except for Annika's room, which was as messy as ever. The fridge was full of fresh cheeses, olives, hummus, and strawberries, and on the counter were plums, grapes, and avocados.

  I'll never be able to eat all this before it goes bad, Annika thought. Then she remembered there were two of them now.

  She opened the door to the maid's room a crack. Patricia's mattress lay in a corner, neatly made with flowery bedclothes. Next to it was a carryall with clothes and, on a hanger on the wall, Josefin's pink suit.

  I want to stay here, Annika thought. I don't want to go back to my old apartment. Neither do I want to spend the rest of my life in Grandma's cottage at Lyckebo.

  That night she dreamed for the first time about the three men from the radio program Studio 69: the studio reporter, the field reporter, and the commentator. Silent, faceless, and dressed in black, they were standing at her bedside. She could feel their malice like a cramp in her stomach.

  "How can you say it was my fault?" she cried out.

  The men drew nearer.

  "I've thought it through! Maybe I did the wrong thing, but at least I tried!"

  The men tried to shoot her. Their weapons thundered inside her head.

  "I'm not Josefin! No!"

  All together they leaned over her, and when she felt their icy cold breaths, she was woken up by her own scream.

  The room was pitch-dark. The rain was pouring down outside. The rolls of thunder and flashes of lightning were almost simultaneous. The bedroom window was banging in the wind and the room was quite cold.

  She struggled to her feet to close the window; it was hard to push it against the wind. In the silence after the rain outside, she felt the trickle down her leg. Her period had started. The bag with sanitary napkins was empty, but she had a few loose ones in her handbag.

  While t
he storm went by, she lay crying in her bed for a long time, curled up in a little ball.

  Eighteen Years, Six Months, and Fourteen Days

  H e feels deeply offended and my protests seem so feeble. I know he's right. No one could ever love me the way he does. There is nothing he would hesitate to do for me, and yet I care more about the outside world than I do about him.

  My despair grows, my imperfection blossoms: poisonous, ice-cold, blue. It's so demoralizing, never to be up to standard. I want to watch TV when he wants to make love, and he twists my arm out of joint. The big void gets the upper hand, black and wet, shapeless, impenetrable. He says I let him down, and I can't find a way out.

  We have to work together, find the way back to our heaven. Love is eternal, fundamental. I will never doubt it. But who says it should be easy? If perfection were universal, then why should anyone strive for it?

  I can't give up now.

  We are the most important thing

  ever to happen

  to each other.

  Friday 3 August

  Anders Schyman got soaked running the short distance to his car. It was teeming down, avenging all the boiling-hot days in one single cloudburst. Squeezed in behind the steering wheel, the deputy editor swore as he tried to wrestle out of his jacket. His shirt was soaked through on his back and shoulders.

  "It'll dry off," he said to himself.

  His breath had already misted up the windows, so he put the defroster on full blast.

  His wife was waving from the kitchen window. He wiped the side window, blew her a kiss, and started his journey into town. He could hardly see a thing, even though the windshield wipers were on full speed. He had to wipe the inside of the windshield constantly to see anything at all.

  Traffic was flowing reasonably well on Saltsjöbads Way, but once he was past Nacka, it came to a standstill. An accident on Värmdö Way had caused a five-mile backup. Schyman groaned out loud. Exhaust fumes rose like a fog into the rain. In the end he turned the engine off and let the defroster recycle the air.