The Girl Who Wasn't There (13 page)

‘To save the child. It would be torture for a good end,’ said the officer.

‘Torture for a good end?’ said Biegler. ‘Then it is simply a kind of extra harsh interrogation with a noble aim in mind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps under medical supervision?’

‘I can envisage that, yes,’ said the police officer.

‘Long after torture was abolished in this country, the Nazis reintroduced it. They too thought up a special expression for it. Do you know what it was?’

‘No.’

‘They called it “aggravated methods of interrogation”. Sounds almost as nice as “torture for a good end”, don’t you think? But let’s return to our example. By what means will you come to your decision?’

‘Which decision?’ asked the police officer.

‘You have to decide whom to torture,’ said Biegler.

‘I told you already: the child is innocent, the abductor is guilty,’ said the officer.

‘So you would torture anyone who’s guilty?’

‘No, only in extreme circumstances, of course,’ said the officer.

‘Imagine the abductor tells you, “Yes, I did kidnap the girl. But she is in a nice house, she has plenty of food and warmth, she has enough books to read and games to play.” Then what? Do you torture the abductor in those circumstances?’

‘I… I…’

‘I mean,’ said Biegler, ‘where do you draw the line? When may you torture someone? Only when a girl of ten has been abducted? Or maybe when the victim is a homeless man of fifty, a social near-outcast? You’d do it if the President of the Federal Republic was abducted? But if it’s a man known to be a rapist, you’d rather not? Who, in your world, decides when torture may be inflicted? You yourself? As a kind of judge, public prosecutor, counsel for the defence and executioner all rolled into one?’

‘That’s enough,’ said Public Prosecutor Landau.

‘I protest,’ said Biegler. ‘This is the second time. If you want the court to forbid me to speak, apply in due form. We’re conducting a trial for murder, not taking part in a talk show when anyone can say what he likes. At the moment I have the right to speak, and you should keep silent.’ He got control of himself again, and said more quietly, ‘Let’s please try to understand the witness.’

‘I’ll allow defence counsel’s question,’ said the presiding judge. ‘I’m interested myself.’

The policeman considered briefly. Then he said, ‘I’m not a qualified lawyer.’

‘This isn’t a question of legal qualifications,’ said Biegler.

‘I’d ask a specialist, for instance an investigating magistrate,’ said the police officer.

‘That’s always a good answer. But then why, in our present case, didn’t you ask an investigating magistrate whether torture was justified?’

‘It would have taken much too long,’ he said.

‘Nonsense. You could have made a decision like that within ten minutes,’ said Biegler. ‘I can tell you why you didn’t ask an investigating magistrate: you knew what the answer would be. The idea would have been thrown out at once. No, you wanted to make the decision all by yourself. You wanted to judge the defendant.’

The police officer flushed red. He said in a loud voice, ‘Oh, did I? It’s all very well for you to sit here in a warm courtroom, talking about constitutional rights. But in the police we’re on the sharp end. We’re there to protect your life and the lives of your family. You call us in when things look dangerous, and then we’re supposed to deal with it. But in here you have the nerve to compare me with the Nazis. Think again: suppose I could have saved that young woman’s life?’ He stared at Biegler, his mouth hanging open.

This is a good man, thought Biegler. He’s doing everything wrong, but I would indeed entrust my family to him. Biegler waited. It was quiet in the courtroom; even the on-duty policeman had stopped tipping his chair back and forth. Then he said, softly, ‘I’m a lawyer, I don’t answer questions, I ask them. That’s the way the rules of the courtroom have it. But I can make an exception, if the court will allow me.’

The presiding judge nodded.

‘If you’d saved the young woman you would have been a hero,’ said Biegler.

‘A hero?’ The police officer sounded shaken.

Biegler went on, his voice lower now. ‘Yes, a tragic hero. You’ve set yourself against our legal system and all that I believe in. You’ve transgressed a man’s constitutional rights, something that no one can either acquire or lose, but the torture you inflict makes a human being a mere object, there only for you to get something out of him. So if it was all up to me, you’d have to be severely punished for what you did. I’d withdraw your pension and dismiss you from the police force. But I would admire you for sacrificing your future to save the young woman’s life. For you, the consequences would certainly be terrible. Heroes are admired, but they perish.’

‘And how else would I get a confession? What’s the best method of interrogation?’ The policeman had lowered his voice too, and was looking at the witness’s desk in front of him.

‘Courtesy,’ said Biegler. ‘Ask anyone who’s been a prisoner of war. He’ll never talk about physical torment, he’ll describe the isolation, the sense of abandonment. He wants someone to talk to him as a human being.’

‘And suppose I don’t get any answers?’ asked the police officer.

‘Then you don’t,’ said Biegler.

The police officer raised his head and looked at Biegler. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘All the same, I’d do it again.’

The courtroom was growing noisy once more. Many questions are better never asked, thought Biegler.

The officer put his hand to the neck of his shirt and loosened his tie. Biegler saw that his shirt collar was damp with sweat.

‘Are there any more questions for the witness? No? Then you are discharged. Thank you very much.’

The police officer got to his feet, shaking his head, and left the courtroom.

‘Well,’ said the presiding judge, ‘now we must consider the matter of the inadmissibility of the confession. We shall need time for that. We will meet here again at nine a.m. on Thursday. Those most closely concerned in the trial have already been informed. The trial is adjourned.’

‘Thank you,’ said Eschburg to Biegler, when they were alone.

‘It’s not over yet. Next time the presiding judge will ask you whether you want to make a statement. We’d better discuss that in the remand prison this afternoon. But above all we must ask your sister to come here now,’ said Biegler.

‘No,’ said Eschburg, shaking his head. He gave Biegler a folded note. ‘Will you go to this address? You’ll be given an envelope. Look at everything in it, and then please come back to me. There’s the only statement I’m going to make at this trial. We don’t need my sister.’

Biegler took the note and unfolded it. ‘This is the address of a notary,’ he said.

Eschburg nodded.

‘Another job for your errand boy?’ asked Biegler.

Eschburg smiled.

‘Don’t go too far, Eschburg,’ said Biegler. He left the courtroom. In the corridor, he answered the journalists’ questions. But all the time he was thinking of the note in his pocket.

Leaving the courthouse, Biegler went straight to the address that Eschburg had given him. The notary greeted him in friendly tones; they knew each other from their student days. He gave Biegler a large sealed envelope and wished him luck.

Still in the street, Biegler tore the envelope open at once. It contained only a USB stick and a document. He took a taxi to his chambers and put the memory stick in his laptop. Half an hour later Biegler’s secretary came into his office. She saw him sitting at his open laptop – and smiling, not at all like his usual self.

Biegler asked his secretary to go out, buy a large television set and have it sent to the courthouse. He phoned the presiding judge and explained that Eschburg needed the screen for the statement he would be making in court. After some discussion, the presiding judge agreed to allow it and asked Biegler to inform Public Prosecutor Landau.

Biegler went to the courthouse, bought two coffees from the vending machine, and made his way to Public Prosecutor Landau’s office.

‘I’ve brought us two plastic mugs of coffee,’ he said.

‘Sounds delicious,’ she said.

‘You can leave out the sarcasm,’ Biegler replied. He sat down on her visitor’s chair, slopping coffee from the mug on the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll come out,’ she said. ‘Plain water will do it.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘Just don’t rub it into the fabric.’

They sat in silence. Biegler knew what was coming now, and felt uncomfortable about it.

‘I was impressed by your questioning of the police officer,’ said Landau.

‘No need for that,’ said Biegler.

‘No, really, I made a mistake,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have left him alone with your client.’ She spoke quietly.

‘That’s all right. I’ve had a word with the presiding judge. After what the officer said, the court will assume that your memo is correct, so the presiding judge won’t call you as a witness.’

‘Thank you,’ said Landau. She seemed relieved. ‘Good – and what is your client going to say when the trial resumes?’

‘Let it come as a surprise,’ said Biegler.

‘You make a theatrical production out of everything,’ said Landau.

‘To some extent you may even be right. But that’s because every trial is theatrical, don’t you think?’ said Biegler. ‘We re-enact the crime with words, petitions, witnesses, evidence. Our forefathers thought that if we did so, evil would lose its power over us. It wasn’t such a stupid idea.’

‘I still think Eschburg killed the woman,’ said Landau. ‘There can’t be any other explanation.’

‘There’s always another explanation,’ said Biegler.

‘You’re fooling yourself, Herr Biegler.’

‘Am I? And if I am, why not?’ replied Biegler.

‘Why not? Because of course it’s never good to fool yourself.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Biegler. ‘When I go to bed I pretend I’m asleep until I really do fall asleep.’

Landau laughed. ‘But seriously, Herr Biegler: aren’t you at all afraid?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Biegler.

‘Suppose your client’s confession is the truth? Suppose the police officer was right after all?’

‘He messed it up. The rest of the evidence isn’t enough on its own,’ said Biegler. ‘It’s as simple as that. End of story.’

‘How can you be so cold?’ asked Landau.

‘Is that what you really think?’ said Biegler.

‘Yes, I do.’

Biegler closed his eyes. ‘It’s not about whether or not I’m cold, or about the criminals with whom we concern ourselves every day here. It’s only about you and me and the judges doing our job properly. If you still don’t understand that then you’re in the wrong job.’

Landau flushed red, and did not reply.

‘Eschburg will explain himself when the trial resumes,’ said Biegler. ‘He needs a television set for that, so we’ve bought a flat-screen TV to be installed in the courtroom. The presiding judge has agreed. I just wanted to let you know.’ He got to his feet.

He shook hands with her; he had not meant to sound so abrupt. ‘You know, with every new case I think that this time, for once, I may do everything right. But it never works. See you tomorrow, then.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Landau.

He went down the wide staircase to the exit. The policeman on duty greeted him and wished him a nice evening. Biegler wished him the same. He saw his own blurred reflection in the glass panes of the old doors: a man who was rather too stout, carrying a briefcase and wearing a hat.

He took a taxi to Savignyplatz, went into his favourite café, ordered a double espresso to take outside and sat down where he could smoke. He put his briefcase on his knees. A photographic exhibition was announced on the advertising pillar near the café:
Twentieth-Century European Photography
. The poster showed a naked woman against a dark background. Biegler closed his eyes.

Suddenly he said, out loud, ‘I’m an idiot.’ In fact he said it
too
loud; other customers turned to look at him.

He searched for his mobile phone and called his secretary. ‘You once showed me how your computer can translate things as well,’ he said. He had to wait a moment for his secretary to bring up the page. ‘Please would you see if the Ukrainian word
Finks
means anything in German.’ He could hear her typing it in.

‘No, there’s nothing.’

‘Try
Senja Finks
.’

‘Still nothing.’

‘I always knew the Internet was useless. Stay on the line, please,’ said Biegler. Wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he took his notebook out of his coat pocket, opened it and scribbled in pencil. ‘Try typing just the initial of the first name and then the surname. Try it like that, SFINKS.’ Biegler spelled out the name.

‘Oh, here we are – a hit. The translation is
Sphinx
. Wait a moment, here’s the definition: “the Sphinx is a woman with the body of a winged lion who devours everyone who cannot solve her riddle”.’

‘I know who she is,’ said Biegler, and hung up.

He finished his coffee, got to his feet and paid. Out on the pavement he hummed Oscar Peterson’s ‘On a Clear Day’. Then he stopped abruptly and set his briefcase down on the ground. He moved his legs, turned his toes, held his arms at an angle and performed four or five steps of the twist. Konrad Biegler was dancing.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the presiding judge. ‘This session of the 14th Criminal Court of the regional court is resumed. We will continue with the trial.’ The presiding judge looked in turn at Eschburg, Biegler and Landau.

‘Has any more been discovered about the defendant’s half-sister?’ he asked.

Public Prosecutor Landau cleared her throat. ‘I have a report here from the criminal investigation department in Freiburg. According to the civil register, the defendant’s mother was married twice. There was only one child of her first marriage, the defendant himself. Her second marriage was childless. Today the defendant’s mother is paraplegic – she had a riding accident four years ago.’

‘Then the defendant’s half-sister is his father’s child,’ said the presiding judge.

‘Yes,’ said Landau.

‘And?’ asked the presiding judge.

‘We haven’t been able to find out any more,’ said Landau.

‘Do we have any other evidence so far unknown to us?’ asked the presiding judge.

Landau shook her head.

‘Or any other trails to be investigated?’ asked the presiding judge.

‘No, we have no more leads.’

‘Herr Biegler? Do you have anything to say?’ asked the presiding judge.

Biegler shook his own head in turn.

‘Then I will announce the following as the decision of the court: no use can be made of the defendant’s confession.’

There was uproar on the spectators’ benches. One man shouted, ‘Murderer!’ The presiding judge had him removed from the courtroom. Then he read out the reasons for the court’s decision. The investigating police officer’s conduct was understandable in human terms, he said, but the code of criminal procedure recognized only one consequence of his offence: the defendant’s confession could not be used, and Eschburg was now in the position of someone who had never confessed to a crime. The decision was a long document; the judges had written it with the appeal court in mind, and wanted to make their case watertight. When the presiding judge had finished, he looked at Eschburg.

‘Have you understood our decision?’ asked the presiding judge. ‘Is there anything you want to discuss with your defence counsel?’

‘I understood it all,’ said Eschburg.

‘Good. Then I will also inform you that you do not have to make any statement here. Your earlier confession will not be taken into account. If you remain silent, that silence cannot be used against you either. Do you understand?’

‘I do,’ said Eschburg.

The presiding judge turned to the court reporter. ‘Please make a note that the defendant was informed of this in a qualified
sense.’ He turned to Biegler. ‘If I have understood you correctly, your client would like to make a statement today.’

Biegler nodded.

‘Go ahead,’ said the presiding judge.

Eschburg stood up.

‘You can remain seated,’ said the presiding judge.

‘Thank you, I’d rather stand.’ Eschburg adjusted the microphone in front of him. Then he took a sheet of paper out of the inner pocket of his jacket and began to read aloud from it.

‘In 1770, Baron Wolfgang von Kempelen demonstrated a remarkable machine to the Empress of Austria. It consisted of a wooden figure the size of a man sitting at a chessboard. Under the board there was a chest containing a mechanism of cogwheels, rollers, pulleys, slides and cylinders. The wooden figure was dressed as a Turk. Guests to the show could challenge the chess-playing Turk to a match. Before any game, the baron wound up the machine with a key. Then the mechanical Turk moved the pieces on the board with his wooden arm. He won almost every game. The baron travelled all over Europe with him. The mechanical Turk became famous: the automaton played against the greatest masters of the time. Scientists tried to understand his mechanism. Books were written about him, memorandums, newspaper articles, lectures. No one could understand how he functioned. Even Napoleon and Benjamin Franklin lost to him. Edgar Allan Poe wrote about him, and so, at a later date, did a president of West Germany. The automaton fell victim to a fire in a Philadelphia museum in 1854.’

Eschburg paused for a moment. He sipped a little water. The judges and the public prosecutor were looking at him. Total silence reigned in the courtroom. Biegler was leaning back with his hands folded over his paunch and his eyes closed.

‘Of course, the mechanical Turk was only a trick. No mechanism of the time could really have played chess. There was a man wedged in the chest with the mechanical apparatus, and he played the games. However, the special feature was not the Turk who played chess; the unusual thing about it all was Wolfgang von Kempelen himself. He was not a fraud, but a gifted scientist, an educated man and a high-ranking civil servant. He was in charge of Austrian salt production in the Banat area, he wrote plays and draughted engravings of landscapes. Later he invented an early typewriter for the blind, and an apparatus that could speak entire sentences. Whenever new theories about the functioning of the mechanical Turk were propounded, Kempelen would frankly say that it was based on deception. But that was not what people wanted to hear.’

Eschburg placed his sheet of paper on the table. He gazed straight at his judges, and then sat down again.

Biegler handed the text to the presiding judge.

‘Is that your explanation?’ the presiding judge asked Eschburg. His voice was a little hoarse.

‘Yes,’ said Eschburg.

‘And this is your signature?’

Eschburg nodded.

‘Then we will add the explanation to the records of the trial.’ The presiding judge gave the sheet of paper to the court reporter. Then he turned to Eschburg. ‘I haven’t discussed what I am about to say with anyone in this court. All the same, I would like you to know that I don’t understand. You have been accused of murder, you spent over four months in remand prison, and now you tell us something about a
chess-playing automaton
?’

‘I did say earlier that my client won’t answer questions,’ remarked Biegler, without changing his attitude or opening his eyes. ‘Maybe it would help if you thought a little about the explanation.’

Landau appeared furious. ‘That is not a useful comment on the charge of murder.’

‘Oh, yes, it is,’ said Biegler, and he opened his eyes. ‘If I may add a little detail: in German, we have the expression
to be Turked,
meaning to be deceived or taken in, and it derives from von Kempelen’s chess-playing automaton.’

The presiding judge raised his hand and looked at Eschburg again. ‘You have an experienced defence counsel, Herr von Eschburg. I’m sure you have discussed this with him. All the same, I don’t understand what you are saying.’ He waited for a moment. Eschburg did not react. The presiding judge shrugged and turned to Biegler. ‘So that’s it: no questions to the defendant?’

‘That’s it,’ said Biegler.

‘Are there any other statements or explanations?’ asked the presiding judge.

‘Yes,’ said Biegler. He leaned forward. ‘The second part of the explanation is a video. With the permission of the court, we will show it now.’

The two policemen on duty drew the yellow curtains in the courtroom, plunging it into semi-darkness. Using a remote control, Biegler switched on the large screen. The television set was so far behind the judges’ bench that everyone in the courtroom could see it.

It was a computer-animated film. The mechanical Turk appeared on the screen. He was moving his arm as he played against an invisible opponent. Now the Turk was playing faster and faster, sweeping the chessmen off the board. In the end the only pieces left were the black king, two black rooks and a white pawn. Those pieces now appeared on the screen in close-up. The black king and the two rooks were wearing judges’ robes. They looked down at the white pawn. The pawn bowed and then became fluid, turning into a white substance that ran over the chessboard and trickled down into the automaton.

A door under the mechanical Turk opened. A naked young woman climbed out from between the cylinders and cogwheels in the chest; she was the same colour as the fluid that had been the pawn. She stood with her back to the camera and slowly turned round. Hundreds of small black crosses were drawn on her skin. The camera zoomed in on her face. It was the face of Eschburg’s half-sister.

To left and right, two more faces emerged from the darkness: the faces of Eschburg and Sofia. All three faces were the same size and shown in the same light. A scalpel appeared, cutting out the parts of the images showing Sofia’s eyes and Eschburg’s nose. Both parts were moved to fit above the half-sister’s face; only her mouth remained the same. A large eraser smoothed out the joins. The new face was made up of the faces of Sofia, Eschburg and his sister – and everyone in the courtroom recognized it. It was the photograph that had been found everywhere in Eschburg’s studio when it was searched – the woman the police had been looking for.

The woman with the new face turned and went over to the mechanical Turk. She had a gun in her hand. She aimed it at the figure’s head. The camera followed the shot cartridge; the head exploded into thousands of tiny balls. They were dark green and formed into a line of text:

After that, the television set turned itself off.

There was commotion on the spectators’ benches. Some of the journalists were hurrying out to call their editorial offices. The police officers on duty opened the curtains again. The presiding judge tried several times to restore peace and quiet in the courtroom, and then told one of the officers to make a note of the names of those responsible for the disturbance.

When it was finally calm again, Biegler stood up. ‘Your honour,’ he addressed the presiding judge, ‘at the same time as that film was being shown in this courtroom it also went out on all available video platforms on the Internet. However, I can also give you two documents. The first is an investigation of the DNA of Eschburg’s half-sister. It is established beyond any doubt, and was certified by a notary present at the investigation a year ago at a medical laboratory in Austria. The DNA of the blood and scales of skin found in the course of police inquiries is identical with the half-sister’s DNA.

‘The second document comes from a police station at Elgin in Scotland. At my request, Eschburg’s half-sister went to the police there yesterday, taking all her documentation with her. She is studying at a boarding school in the vicinity. The police sent me a photograph of her yesterday, which I also add for the record. She is the woman with the crosses on her skin whom you have seen on the video. But above all, she is undoubtedly alive and well.

‘To put it another way, your honour and ladies and gentlemen on the judges’ bench: you found no body because there was no body. The woman who disappeared never existed. Von Eschburg has been accused of the murder of an installation.’

After this further explanation, there was so much noise that the presiding judge had to adjourn the trial for the day. It was some time before the spectators had left the courtroom.

‘That was the strangest day I’ve ever spent in court,’ said Biegler when he was alone with Eschburg. ‘But surely it was coincidence that the police officer wanted to torture you, wasn’t it?’

‘Of course; I couldn’t plan that ahead,’ said Eschburg. ‘But I knew you’d be able to make something of it.’

‘But why did you stage it at all? It could have gone wrong,’ said Biegler. ‘Why go to such lengths? For your sister? For art? For the truth?’

Eschburg looked at him. ‘At the end of Titian’s life his eyesight was getting worse and worse. He painted his last pictures with his fingers.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Biegler.

‘He couldn’t bear to have anything between him and the pictures any longer. Titian was painting with himself,’ said Eschburg. He sounded exhausted; his cheeks were hollow.

Biegler shook his head. ‘I hope I’ll understand it some time, but at the moment I’m too tired.’ He took his coat from the row of hooks and put it on.

‘I have one more question, Herr Biegler, a question that a woman once asked me. After all this, can you tell me the answer? What is guilt?’

Biegler looked at the judges’ bench. He thought of all the trials he had seen in this courtroom, of the murderers, drug dealers and lost souls he had encountered. ‘The police officer here will take you to your cell,’ he said. ‘You can pack your things there. Sofia will meet you at the exit from the prison. Be nice to her; she really is a good woman.’

When Biegler left the courtroom the journalists outside almost knocked him down. They were all shouting questions at once. A woman in a trouser suit was standing behind them, leaning against the wall. Biegler could see the pale scar on her forehead. She nodded to him calmly. The woman looked exactly as Eschburg had always described Senja Finks. Biegler was going towards her, but the journalists wouldn’t let him through, and by the time he did get to the place where he had seen her, she had disappeared. Biegler shrugged his shoulders. Guilt, he thought, guilt is mankind.

Two weeks later, Sebastian von Eschburg was officially pronounced not guilty of murder.