The Method Read online

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Your Honour,’ says Mia.

  Sophie hears Rosentreter whisper soothingly to his client. She almost feels sorry for him. He is an upright, unassuming man, not in the least equipped to deal with a recalcitrant character like Mia Holl.

  ‘What I have here is an appeal against the sentence I imposed,’ says Sophie, waving a sheet of paper in the air. ‘Signed by you.’

  Mia looks uncertainly at Rosentreter, who pokes her gently in the ribs.

  ‘Yes, Your Honour,’ she says.

  ‘The penalty imposed for your infractions was extremely lenient.’ Hearing the hysteria in her voice, Sophie clears her throat and makes an effort to be professional. ‘It was an olive branch.’

  ‘Practically an acquittal,’ chimes in Barker.

  ‘Indeed.’ Sophie aims a mocking nod in Barker’s direction. ‘Frau Holl, the sentence was supposed to get you back on track. Is that clear?’

  ‘I suppose so, Your Honour,’ says Mia like a puppet whose jaw is worked by strings.

  ‘Enough!’ screeches Sophie, and this time she takes satisfaction in using her gavel. ‘I’m rejecting your appeal. And the penalty will be raised to fifty days’ wages. As for your abuse of toxic substances—’

  ‘But …’ says Mia, who has been listening to the judge’s pronouncements with increasing amazement, ‘but I am back on track. I submitted the missing data on sleep and nutrition to the relevant authorities. You’ve seen my medical and hygiene tests. The bacteria levels in my apartment are within the prescribed range. I’ll make up my exercise deficit within the next few days, and—’

  ‘I’m not falling for this again, Frau Holl. Perhaps you could explain why you’re appealing against a sentence that my superiors deemed unconscionably lax?’

  ‘Objection, Your Honour,’ says Rosentreter. ‘The defendant can’t be held responsible for the judge’s professional reputation.’

  ‘But—’ says Mia.

  ‘Objection upheld. I hereby terminate my examination of Frau Holl at the request of her lawyer. It brings the matter to a mercifully swift conclusion.’

  ‘Kind of you to do my job,’ says Barker.

  ‘No one asked you to comment,’ says Sophie sharply. Turning back to Rosentreter, she says, ‘The next infraction: abuse of toxic substances. Your plea?’

  ‘Guilty,’ says Rosentreter.

  ‘But I don’t see why …’ says Mia.

  ‘You smoked a cigarette, didn’t you?’ says Rosentreter softly. ‘You admitted to it last week.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Mia, ‘but I thought you said—’

  ‘You were adamant you wanted to deal with it yourself – I told you there was only one possible way of avoiding official intervention.’ The counsel for the defence looks apologetically at Sophie. ‘Frau Holl is appealing against the bringing of the charge. We refer Your Honour to the Health Code, Article 28. We’re seeking an exemption.’

  ‘An exemption!’ Barker slaps his hand against his desk in amusement. ‘Honestly, Rosentreter, couldn’t you talk her out of it?’

  The colour has vanished from Sophie’s ruddy cheeks. Sophie doesn’t like herself when she loses her cool. Anger is an unhealthy emotion that runs counter to her natural disposition. Knowing this only adds to her fury.

  ‘The defendant is apparently of the opinion that her actions are beyond the jurisdiction of this court,’ she says coldly. ‘She also seems to think that the judge is incapable of assessing her personal situation, whereas the judge in question has bent over backwards on her account.’

  Mia’s mouth is half open. Right now, the arrangement of her features says nothing about her need for harmony; she simply looks out of her depth. She also looks stupid – stupid in an obstinate way. She looks from one to the other like a dog that can’t quite remember which of them is her master. At last she gestures towards Rosentreter. ‘My lawyer told me …’

  ‘My client needs peace and quiet,’ says Rosentreter, picking a sheet of paper from his desk. ‘She wants time to reflect. She thinks the interference of the authorities will be detrimental to her recovery.’

  ‘Your Honour!’ Barker leans across his desk. ‘Surely it’s time for the defendant’s comments to be recorded in her file?’

  ‘Agreed.’ Sophie turns on her digital recorder and places it on the desk. ‘Herr Rosentreter, on what grounds is your client seeking exemption?’

  As soon as Rosentreter starts speaking, his words flash up on the screen. ‘Frau Holl has been placed in an exceptional situation by the system: to wit, her brother was taken from her through the implementation of the Method. She would like to deal with the fallout from the aforementioned incident without the intervention of the Method and its associated institutions, hence the application for exemption in accordance with Article 28.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asks Sophie, leaning over her lectern. ‘Do you believe your brother died through the implementation of the Method?’

  ‘Causally speaking, yes,’ says Mia. ‘But it doesn’t mean I …’

  ‘It doesn’t mean you can cut yourself off from the Method and its public institutions – absolutely right, Frau Holl. Your lawyer will have explained that Article 28 was designed to rectify miscarriages of justice and not—’

  ‘Your Honour,’ cuts in Barker’s whiny voice, ‘the judge is under no obligation to remedy the failings of the defence.’

  Sophie erupts. ‘I’ve had enough of your fault-finding,’ she bellows. ‘This isn’t a university canteen, where you can show off. Official caution in accordance with Article 12 – otherwise known as contempt of court.’

  The gavel comes down hard on the desk. Sophie lays it aside in disgust.

  ‘The defendant’s application for exemption is rejected,’ she says, barely keeping her composure. ‘I won’t have my courtroom treated like a circus. The defendant is found guilty of abusing toxic substances and is sentenced to a two-year suspended term. I trust the penalty meets with the prosecution’s approval.’

  ‘In every respect,’ says Barker through gritted teeth.

  ‘Excellent. Incidentally, I’d like to remind Frau Holl that Method Defence is automatically informed of any attempt to apply for an exemption through recourse to Article 28. The court is now closed.’

  Which Side Are You On?

  ‘THERE WAS A line from a song in the good old days,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘Which side are you on? You should adopt it as your anthem.’

  It is probably somewhere approaching midday, maybe a little later, although at this point the hour is of little interest to those in the room. There is a springtime warmth to the day. The door to the roof garden is open, admitting balmy air. The self-satisfied buzzing of a bee can be heard from the flowerpots. Rosentreter watches from the doorway as the insect flits between the artificial petals, which exude a synthetic aroma known as ‘primrose’.

  Is Mia’s lawyer in the apartment by invitation? Not really: Mia’s lawyer is in her apartment because he walked her home. They were on their way out of the courthouse when Mia stopped on the steps and stared at her surroundings, as if seeing the city with new eyes. And while she stared, she talked to herself: she had slowed down, she said, to a tenth of her usual speed, and that was the reason why the days were passing ten times faster, cyclists were going ten times faster, and people were talking at ten times their usual speed, so that she, Mia, could no longer make sense of anything. The brain, she said, was just a muscle, like any other. Rosentreter stepped in before she drew attention to herself by sitting on the stairs. He looked up her address in his file and walked her home.

  Right now Mia is forcing down a couple of brightly coloured pills. Her eyes are closed. Modern medicine provides an answer to every existential problem; any remaining uncertainty can be clarified by only one man – Rosentreter. His lanky frame is slightly stooped, as if he were trying to make himself shorter. He runs his hand through his floppy hair for the hundredth time.

  ‘Happy now?’ asks Mia.


  ‘I’ve been admiring the view.’ Rosentreter scatters a few loose hairs and turns to face Mia.

  ‘I’m not interested in the view,’ she says. ‘I want to know if you like playing the torturer.’

  ‘Interesting you should mention torture. It may surprise you to learn that the introduction of torture was a milestone in the development of the modern criminal trial.’

  ‘Who does he take me for?’ says Mia to the ideal inamorata. ‘He’s as bad as the rest.’

  ‘I like him better than the other one,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘There’s something about his eyes – like a small boy in a toyshop.’

  ‘This man,’ says Mia loudly, pointing at Rosentreter, ‘sabotaged my case.’

  ‘I know the business with torture sounds absurd,’ says Rosentreter, raising a hand to his chin as if he were giving a seminar on legal history, ‘but it’s absolutely true. It followed the abolition of trial by ordeal – judicium Dei. Thereafter man, not God, was supposed to sit in judgement over humankind. But how could ordinary humans without divine knowledge be relied upon to divine the truth? Confession was the only reliable indicator of guilt. Sadly, defendants couldn’t be counted upon to confess, so the system came up with a means of …’ Rosentreter smiles to himself ‘… probing their conscience.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ says Mia, ‘I’d like to get back to the workings of my case. That’s enough of a torture for me.’

  ‘The use of torture was a casualty of humanism,’ says Rosentreter, unabashed. ‘It left us with a problem, though. We’re still not really comfortable with punishing people who protest their innocence to the last.’

  ‘We don’t know each other,’ says Mia, taking a step towards him. ‘I have no idea who you are. Or whose cause you’re hoping to serve by putting on this pantomime.’

  ‘I’m the counsel for the defence, and you’re the defendant. If we follow the rules of semantics, that makes me the counsel for your defence.’

  ‘You promised to get me out of this mess,’ says Mia. She jabs her finger at him in a prosecutorial fashion. ‘And now, thanks to you, I’m in an even bigger hole. Perhaps you can offer me some advice, Herr Rosentreter. Can I sue you for what you’ve done?’

  ‘Of course. If you’re clever about it, you could have me disbarred for this morning’s performance.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ says Mia sarcastically. ‘In that case, I instruct you to sue yourself.’

  ‘You may wish to consider where your interests lie – and how you intend to defend them.’

  ‘Exactly what I’ve been saying,’ exclaims the ideal inamorata. ‘Which side are you on?’

  ‘Your brother was charged with sexually motivated homicide and sentenced to indefinite vita minima. Do you think he did it?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to discuss it with you.’

  ‘You think he was innocent, don’t you?’ Rosentreter closes the patio door. ‘You think he was innocent because you knew him. Him, in other words: his soul, his heart, his spirit. None of which play any role in human interaction, according to the Method.’

  Mia clutches her head, a battleground between her ragged nerves and the numbing effect of the pills. ‘Why does everyone on the planet see me as their political confessor?’

  ‘Because,’ the ideal inamorata says simply, ‘your time has come.’ She flings out her arms dramatically, just as Moritz would have done. ‘Warning, you are entering the real world. Small pieces represent a choking hazard.’

  ‘I wish you’d shut up,’ snaps Mia.

  ‘Good,’ says Rosentreter, satisfied. ‘It’s OK to get angry. After what happened this morning, we’re closer than you think.’

  ‘And what did happen exactly?’

  ‘It was a playground scrap.’ Rosentreter holds up his hands. ‘Small children throwing sand in each other’s eyes. It’s time to throw down the gauntlet to the professionals. We’re taking this further.’

  ‘We?’ exclaims Mia.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m giving up. Or rather: I gave up long ago. Let me say again: no! I can’t give up because there isn’t and never has been anything I want to achieve.’

  ‘You can’t give up; that’s precisely the problem, Frau Holl. Don’t you understand what they were threatening you with this morning? Method Defence. They want you branded as a security threat.’

  ‘That is entirely your fault.’

  ‘We’re not going to let them get away with it!’ Rosentreter is waving his hands excitedly. ‘What sort of a system kills a man and withholds the right for his sister to grieve on her own?’

  ‘Are you speaking as a lawyer?’

  ‘As a human being, Frau Holl.’

  ‘Grow up, Rosentreter. Looking for the human condition is like knocking at a door when you know no one’s home. You wait for a bit, peer inside and call out: Is anyone there? Then you go.’

  ‘The Method killed the human and left a mask in his place,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘You’re an exception, dear heart. You’re human and I love you for it.’

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ says Mia. ‘You do nothing but lounge around all day, safe in the knowledge that you don’t have a blood group! No one wants to collect your data or monitor your exercise! You don’t even have an immune system.’

  ‘Frau Holl,’ Rosentreter says soothingly, ‘stop talking to your shoes. Look at me, talk to me. The Method is committed to serving humanity – Article 1 of the Code. At the next hearing, the court is going to reflect on some matters of principle.’

  ‘Your eyes,’ says Mia.

  ‘What about them?’ Rosentreter raises a hand to his face.

  ‘They’re shining.’

  ‘It’s the sunlight.’

  ‘This isn’t a defence.’ She glares at him. ‘This is a crusade.’

  ‘Maybe a crusade is what’s necessary.’

  ‘For whom?’ she demands.

  ‘For everyone.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you again,’ says Mia sharply. ‘Who are you? A lunatic? A PRI activist with black robes and a briefcase? Or just a little sadist who thinks it’s funny to jump up and down on the wreckage of my life?’

  Rosentreter clears his throat. ‘I’m unhappy,’ he says.

  ‘Get him to explain,’ says the ideal inamorata.

  ‘You’d better explain,’ says Mia.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ says Rosentreter.

  ‘You can turn my life into a combat zone,’ says Mia, starting to shout. ‘You can cart me to the coliseum on the back of your legal strategies and unleash me on the opposition like an untamed beast. But I’ve got a right to know why.’

  ‘OK,’ says the lawyer, and he sits down next to the ideal inamorata on the couch.

  Inadmissible

  MIA SITS DOWN at her desk and holds her head in her hands, as if her neck were no longer able to take the strain. There is silence for a few moments. Halfway round the world, the Amazon is emptying into the Atlantic at a rate of two hundred million litres per second. You can practically feel it in Mia’s living room. Rosentreter is biting his nails, although nail biting is prohibited because of the dangers of infection.

  ‘We don’t see each other very often,’ he says at last. ‘We’re in a long-distance relationship, but without the relationship. Distance is all we have. It’s like playing battleships inside our heads without a pen or paper.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ says Mia.

  ‘Who would?’ says Rosentreter sympathetically. ‘After all, individuals with non-complementary immune systems can’t fall in love – it’s scientifically proven. I’m MHC class 1, B11, which makes me a match for A2, A4 and A6. Then along comes the love of my life, a woman like cold water on burnt skin. Major histocompatibility complex B13. We didn’t even apply for an exemption: we wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ says Mia again. ‘You’re up in arms about a trivial MHC discrepancy, is that it?’

  ‘It’s n
ot trivial,’ says the ideal inamorata.

  ‘Your love is inadmissible!’ says Mia, raising her voice. ‘Is that the extent of your personal tragedy, the motivation for your crusade?’

  ‘If you want to put it like that: yes.’

  ‘A temporary misalignment of the individual’s wishes with the common will,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘That’s what Kramer would call it.’

  ‘When are you going to wake up?’ says Mia, her voice still raised. ‘In the olden days, a princess would marry the king and share a bed with the privy counsellor; it’s been happening for centuries!’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ says Rosentreter. ‘This isn’t about sex; I love this woman! I want us to be together; I don’t want to hide our relationship. I want children.’

  ‘It’s the same old story! The peasant girl and the lord of the manor, the nun and the gardener, brothers and sisters, the schoolgirl and her teacher, the grown man and his best friend: they all loved each other. And these days thousands of people love the wrong immune system. Everyone wants to be happy, and sometimes the rules won’t allow it. It’s the same as it ever was. It’s normal, Rosentreter, normal!’

  ‘According to the Method, inadmissible love is a capital offence. If we were to express our love physically, we’d be punished in the same way as people who spread disease.’

  ‘You think you’ve got a problem? You don’t know the first thing about suffering, Rosentreter. You think you can change a situation that’s been going on for hundreds of years? You, of all people!’

  ‘It’s a ridiculous situation!’

  ‘It’s more ridiculous to think you can fight it. You’re an arrogant fool, Rosentreter. Indulge your illicit passion, but do it discreetly – like everyone else! No one wants to hear about it. The world isn’t interested in your personal affairs.’

  ‘Frau Holl, if you don’t mind, I’m going to step outside the lawyer–client relationship for a moment. I’m Lutz, by the way.’

  Mia looks at him doubtfully. At last she extends a hand. ‘Mia,’ she says.