The Sonderberg Case (11 page)

“How did you know he was the defendant’s uncle?”

“The defendant told me.”

“How did it come up?”

“He requested two rooms. One for himself, one for his uncle.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He made a good impression on me. Friendly. Cultured. Good manners.”

“And the uncle?”

“Impatient. Withdrawn. He let his nephew do the talking. He kept his mouth shut.”

“You showed them their rooms?”

“Only the uncle’s. The nephew wanted to be sure he liked it. For his own, he just took the keys.”

“When did they arrive?”

“I told the inspectors: May twenty-eighth.”

“In the morning or in the afternoon?”

“In the early afternoon. They were hungry. I told them to hurry because the restaurant would be closing.”

“Did they go there?”

“Not right away. They went to freshen up first.”

“Did they come downstairs together?”

“No. The nephew … excuse me, the defendant came downstairs in about five minutes, his uncle a bit later.”

“Did you chat with the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

“About the weather, of course. That’s the subject that all our guests are interested in. Without exception.”

“Did you ask him where he was from?”

“I already knew. From New York. Manhattan.”

“How did you know?”

“I read his form, of course!”

“And his uncle’s, too?”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

“That he lived in Germany.”

Methodically, the prosecutor guides his witness to the conclusions he wants to reach.

“For how long had they intended to stay at the hotel?”

“The room was booked for a week. That’s our rule. You can’t book for shorter stays.”

“And how long did they stay? The entire week?”

“No. Only three days.”

“And then?”

“Then what?”

“When did you see them for the last time?”

“Together? On the thirty-first. In the morning. They went for a walk in the mountains. I told them to be careful. There are dangerous spots. You can slip and fall into the ravine.”

“How did they respond?”

“The nephew … excuse me, the defendant thanked me.”

“And then?”

“They probably didn’t take my advice. Next thing you know, the uncle is dead.”

“Could you please repeat what you just said?”

“All of it?”

“Just the last sentence, concerning the defendant.”

“Well, the uncle is dead.”

“Murdered.”

“Yes, murdered.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s what you just said.”

“Did you see the defendant again?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“On the same day. A few hours later. He came to get his luggage.”

“You must have been surprised.”

“At the time I thought his uncle had probably decided to continue his walk on his own. They had taken sleeping bags and food with them. I had a feeling they planned to spend the night in the mountains. Students sometimes do that.”

“And the defendant didn’t talk to you?”

“He went straight up to his room. He looked calm.”

“Though his uncle was already dead.”

“I didn’t know that yet.”

“But he did,” the prosecutor shouted. “His behavior didn’t surprise you?”

Michael Redford, the lawyer for the defense, stands up and objects. “Your Honor, the prosecutor is out of bounds! He is soliciting the witness and dictating her remarks …”

The judge rules in his favor. The prosecutor has to take back his question.

“Very well. So, the defendant came back alone. Did he talk about his walk?”

“No. He just asked me for the bill. He added that he had to shorten his stay and return to Manhattan.”

“He didn’t explain why?”

“No. He paid with his credit card, got a taxi, and left.”

“Did you notice anything strange about his behavior?”

“He seemed in a hurry to leave.”

“Was he less courteous? Nervous? Anxious? Troubled?”

“Just as polite as before. But eager to leave.”

“That’s what you thought at the time. But now, knowing the charges brought against the defendant, does anything come to your mind? A detail? An unusual move on his part? A sign? A comment that could suddenly have another meaning?”

Aware of the importance of the question, the receptionist reflected for a long time before saying, “I thought he looked sad.”

“Sad? What do you mean, sad?”

“Sad and disoriented. Like a lost child far away from home.”

“It’s normal for a man who has just committed a despicable crime to feel sad—is that what you’re trying to imply?”

“No. What I mean is when I found out about all this, all the charges against him, I remembered that he looked like a child filled with great sadness. Crushed by an obscure sadness, you could say.”

“Well, I maintain that’s exactly what a well-educated
young man, from a good family, feels when he’s discovered he’s a murderer.”

Satisfied with his conclusion, the prosecutor turns to the jury and says, “I have no more questions for this witness.”

He walks back to his seat and whispers a few words to his assistant, sitting to his left. She nods her head and smiles while the judge turns to the defense.

“And what about you, sir? Do you wish to cross-examine the prosecution’s witness?”

“Yes, I would, Your Honor. With the court’s permission I’d like to …”

“Not now,” the judge interrupts him. “After lunch.”

During this entire scene, Yedidyah kept watching the defendant, who never betrayed any emotion. Did the young German appreciate the way he had been portrayed by the receptionist from the Mountain Hotel? Was he annoyed by the prosecutor’s accusations, as though the magistrate were speaking not about him, Werner, but about someone who had usurped his identity and taken over his entire person? But how could such role substitution be imagined? It is conceivable only in an actor. How would I have done it? Yedidyah wondered. Napoleon, when incarnated onstage, uses the actor just as the actor uses the emperor. Could Descartes be wrong? The “I” who thinks is not necessarily the “I” who is. And then who is Werner Sonderberg? Where
is he right now, now that his life hangs in the balance? To what distant place, or dark region, do his thoughts lead him?

After all, though this courtroom has become the center of the world for everyone assembled in it, Werner Sonderberg, the defendant, would have a perfect right to turn his back on us, as an expression of his disdain or despair, while outside, far away, life follows its unchanging course. Storms in Chicago. Fires in Arizona. Car accidents and holdups. Deadly conflicts in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, as though they had been programmed since the world’s creation.

Guilty or innocent? Is Werner Sonderberg playing with words when he says he is “not guilty but not innocent”? What does he mean? That he’s innocent but also a bit guilty? Can a person be both at the same time? How could reason accept such a thing? Could God not exist? Could it be that the angel of death no longer exists? Can he die? In the theater, who could incarnate him to make him visible? A clown maybe? Or an object? How could a director, no matter how brilliant, be able to present him in a way that would arouse in the public the terminal anguish and desperate appeal to a faith that refuses to be extinguished?

Yedidyah was saying to himself that he would have liked to interview the defendant. It suddenly seemed urgent and essential to meet him. Just as he used to make a point of questioning the character he was playing when he was
studying dramatic art, he was convinced that, in order to do a good job describing the trial, he had to speak to the person who, more than anyone else, held the key to the truth. But the rules are rigid. No one can talk to the defendant while the trial is in progress, except his defense attorney.

A rush visit to the editorial offices. Kathy offered him her cheese sandwich.

“As an hors d’oeuvre,” she said with a malicious wink.

“Thank you. But I prefer it at the end of the meal.”

“One day, you’ll be entitled to both. But first, drop by to see Paul Adler. He’s waiting for you.”

The editor in chief, in shirtsleeves, was on the phone. He hung up as soon as he saw Yedidyah.

“So,” he said, laughing, “you’re not too mad at me yet for the burden I placed on your frail shoulders?”

“And what about you, you’re not too mad at me for having accepted?”

“Up to now, you’ve been doing well.”

The two friends joked for a few minutes, then Paul became his usual serious self. “This trial has already lasted a week. Do you think it will go on much longer?”

“At the beginning, the experts said it would last about five days or so. Hard to say for certain when the curtain will come down.”

“But the fellow … is he convincing? Where does he
belong according to you? In a Greek tragedy or a Shakespearean drama?”

“Hard to say. Is he guilty of what he’s accused of? I have no idea. Is he innocent? I mean, did he play no part in his uncle’s tragic death? I have no opinion. In fact, I’m completely in the dark.”

“Meanwhile, I notice how influenced you are by theater. Like certain playwrights, you don’t like to use the word ‘crime.’ You talk about passion and fate. But the court has to judge the intent and criminal act of a man who, up to now, has limited himself to making an odd statement. To put it plainly: How long will this little game of ‘guilty and not guilty’ last?”

“There’s no way of knowing. We’re now at the end of the first week. For the time being, things are going badly for the defendant. What can you expect? The jury see things in simple terms: the two men left the hotel together and only one returned.”

“And how’s the fellow going to explain that?”

“If he knows the answer, he’s keeping it to himself. I have the feeling that something is stopping him from defending himself.”

“What? Can’t he come out and say he had a moment of madness, an uncontrollable impulse, had slept badly, eaten badly, had too much to drink, or something? That the old man had tried to seduce his fiancée?”

“I don’t see him saying that. It’s not his style.”

“So what’s his style?”

“I have no idea.”

Paul stopped to think for a moment, then blurted out, “The man seems more and more interesting. We should find out more about him.”

“I did think I should meet him, interview him. Not easy. Is it even possible? Is it allowed? What about asking a specialist? Your usual legal reporter, for example?”

Paul asked Kathy to call him. She replied that he was out of the office. On vacation. Impossible to contact.

“Contact Sonderberg’s lawyers,” Paul concluded. “Tell them an interview with their client could help him.” Can they make an exception?

Yedidyah promised to explore the possibility.

When the hearing resumed, the judge reminded Elisabeth Whitecomb that she was still testifying under oath. She seemed a bit nervous. Or worried. Maybe she was afraid of the defense lawyer’s cross-examination. Yet Michael Redford was not aggressive. In his own way, give or take a few fine points, he asked her questions to which she had already replied. Had she noticed any tension between the young traveler and his uncle? No, she said. Hadn’t Werner been concerned about his older companion’s well-being? No. Had she been informed, perhaps by a cleaning lady, that the two men had quarreled? No. Other innocuous questions
followed, leading to the same negative responses. Then, to come full circle, the attorney asked her, “How many times did you see Werner Sonderberg at the hotel?”

“Several times. When he went to the restaurant or went out for a walk, he stopped and chatted a bit.”

“What did he like to talk about?”

“About the weather. The news. The beauty of the mountains.”

“What was your impression of him?”

“Attentive. Courteous. Friendly.”

And the cross-examination finished with a final exchange.

“When the young German checked out of the hotel, did it occur to you that he might have killed his uncle?”

“No. At that point, no one knew that the old man was dead.”

“Did you think he was capable of committing a murder?

“No,” she replied after hesitating.

“Why no?”

“Why yes?”

She paused and then added, “Where I sit, at the reception desk, I greet a lot of people, men and women, Americans and foreigners. Giving them the once-over is a work tool.”

“Thank you, Ms. Whitecomb, that will be all,” said the lawyer, taking his seat again.

The judge was about to dismiss the witness when the prosecutor stood up.

“Your Honor, may I submit one last question to the witness?” The judge nodded yes.

He turned to Elisabeth Whitecomb.

“Of all the guests, men and women, whom you observed in your hotel, did you ever have one who was later charged with murder?”

“No,” the reception desk attendant replied. “I don’t think so.”

The prosecutor sat down after gesturing with his hand in the jury’s direction: for him, things were clear.

“Don’t forget, the reader doesn’t just want to watch the event, he wants to take part in it,” Paul often said to me. Fine with me.

Late afternoon. I go back to the office and write up my account of the hearing. I’m not satisfied with it. Yes, I summarize the speeches of the prosecution and the defense. I describe the defendant’s behavior, the ambience in the hallways, the impassive attitude of the jury, the reaction of the public. But I feel that something is missing: I’m unable to convey the feeling that an entire life hangs in the balance, with all its mysteries, and a future of infinite possibilities. One carefully weighed sentence, or one word amiss, and life can tip down on the good or bad side. A feeling of frustration comes over me as I reread what I wrote. If an actor—me?—were to read my words onstage, I’m sure the audience would start to wriggle in their seats and cough gently to hide their impatience.

Should I put an end to this experiment, ask Paul Adler to release me? I don’t dare disappoint him. Should I pass the burden on to Charles Stone, head of the city desk, and let
him find someone to take my place? That would be the easy way out. As my grandfather used to say, it isn’t for us to begin; the beginning is the Creator’s privilege. But it is incumbent on us to begin anew. So, Grandfather, if that’s what you want, I won’t stop midway.