The Method by Juli Zeh Read Free Book Online Page A

to find what he is looking for.
    ‘Fifty days’ wages,’ he says at last.
    ‘Twenty,’ rules Sophie. ‘The hearing is closed.’
    Once the two black-robed mannequins have left the room, Mia is alone in the dock. In the public gallery behind her, the private counsel gets to his feet, steps forward and waits for Mia to turn round.
    ‘Rosentreter,’ he says. ‘I’m your new lawyer.’

Nice Guy
     
    HE IS CLEARLY a nice guy. A little on the tall side and his fringe is a fraction too long: hardly a moment goes by without him pushing it away from his face. In fact, his fingers are constantly occupied, examining the contours of objects around him, checking his clothes are sitting properly, disappearing into his trouser pockets and emerging an instant later to clap an acquaintance on the shoulder – but his palm never touches the shoulder. Rosentreter’s fingers are like a commando unit from the prophylactic health service, always on the go. At present they are engaged in a tactile examination of the tabletop, hence his stooped posture, which could otherwise be attributed to stomach cramps.
    ‘I’m honoured,’ he says. ‘Truly honoured.’
    ‘What’s so honourable about a case like this?’ Mia averts her gaze so as not to stare at his belt buckle. Rosentreter takes a step to the left, two steps to the right and decides to sit down. He manoeuvres the chair so he is facing the dock, where Mia is seated.
    ‘First of all, my heartfelt condolences, Frau Holl. The last few months must have been hellish; you’ve coped admirably well.’
    ‘If there were anything admirable about my coping, neither of us would be here.’
    ‘Which,’ Rosentreter says brightly, ‘would be a shame.’ He stops smiling when he notices that Mia, for good reason, doesn’t share his point of view.
    ‘All of this,’ he says, starting afresh and indicating the courtroom with an expansive sweep of the hand, ‘is just procedure.
Procedere
. A bureaucratic process set in motion by a particular type of action. It’s like pressing a button. You mustn’t take it personally.’
    Mia watches as he unpacks his briefcase in search of a contract that will invest him with the authority to act in her defence. The hint of a smile crosses her face as he drops a sheath of pens.
    ‘What did I tell you?’ says Rosentreter, straightening up. His cheeks are bright red. ‘The court system can’t be that bad; not if people like me are allowed to work here. I knew your brother, by the way.’
    Mia, about to sign her name, pauses.
    ‘Really? Another pen-pusher in the army of mannequins—’
    ‘I work for my clients!’ Rosentreter’s hands are flapping like startled birds. ‘I’m the
private
counsel! It’s my job to read the Method Defence bulletin for this jurisdiction every month. What more can I say?’
    For a while he looks straight at Mia, as though he genuinely wants her to tell him what to say. He blinks a few times; his fringe is in his eyes.
    Under normal circumstances, Mia would find him unbearable. He is precisely the sort of supposedly lovable clown who drives her up the wall. A man like Rosentreter keeps family photos in his wallet and shows them around in the supermarket queue. He is the sort of person who turns up late because he stops to help panicking strangers who are desperate not to turn up late. When asked about the meaning of life, he will make some crack about an ancient film. This is his idea of humour. To be honest, Mia only likes people with sharp minds and a willingness to put their intellect to the most effective use. She divides humanity into two categories: professional and unprofessional. Rosentreter very definitely belongs to the latter category. No amount of crying, screaming and waking in a cold sweat could be more revealing of Mia’s present state than the fact that, despite everything, she is glad of his company. She feels herself relaxing with every breath.
    ‘I never met Moritz in person,’ says Rosentreter