Read Online Guilt by Ferdinand von Schirach - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ferdinand von Schirach
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She wouldn’t always get away with it, she knew that. Her husband would say that was in the nature of things. He always uttered remarks like that. He was right. When the detective stopped her, she immediately confessed, right there on the street. People passing by stopped to stare at her, a child pointed and said, “That woman stole things.” The detective was holdingher tight by the arm. He took her to his office and wrote up a report for the police: name, address, identity card number, sequence of events, value of goods 12.99 euros, check the relevant box “admitted: yes/no.” He was wearing a checked shirt and smelled of sweat. She was the woman with the Louis Vuitton handbag and the Gucci wallet, credit cards, and 845.36 euros in cash. He showed her where to sign. She read the sheet and wondered for a moment if she could correct his spelling mistakes, the way she did with her children. He said she would get something from the police in the mail, and grinned at her. The remains of a sausage roll were lying on the table. She thought of her husband, and imagined the trial, with the judge questioning her. The detective took her out through a side door.
The police asked her to make a written statement. She came to my office with it. It didn’t take long to settle. It was the first time, the value of the goods was minimal, she had no previous convictions. The DA stopped the proceedings. No one in the family learned of it.
Things settled down, the way everything in her life had always settled down.
Snow
The old man stood in the kitchen and smoked. It was August, the day was warm, and he’d opened the window wide. He looked at the ashtray: a naked mermaid with a green fishtail and underneath, in script, “Welcome to the Reeperbahn.” He didn’t know where he’d got it. The color on the girl had faded and the “R” of Reeperbahn had disappeared. The drops of water splashed into the metal sink, slow and hard. It calmed him. He would remain at the window, smoking and doing nothing.
The special task force had assembled in front of the building. The policemen were wearing uniforms that looked too big, and black helmets; they carried transparent shields. They were brought in when things got too difficult for the others, and armed resistance was anticipated. They were hard men with a hard code. Their task force had also suffered deaths and injuries, and the adrenaline was building up in them too. They had their orders: “Drug den, suspects thought to be armed, arrest.” They were now standing silently by the garbage cans in the courtyard and waiting both on the staircase and in front of the apartment. It was too hot under their helmets and their riot masks. They werewaiting for the word from the leader of the task force; everyone was eager to hear it now. At some point he would yell “Go, go, go” and then they’d do what they had been trained to do.
The old man at the window thought about Hassan and his friends. They had the key to his apartment and when they came during the night they made up the little packages in his kitchen, “stretching,” they called it, two-thirds heroin, one-third Lidocaine. They compressed it into rectangular lumps with a jack. Each lump weighed a kilo. Hassan paid the old man a thousand euros every month, and he did it punctually.
Of course it was too much for one and a half rooms in the back of a building, fourth floor, too dark. But they wanted the old man’s apartment; nothing served them better as their “bunker,” as they called it. The kitchen was big enough and that was all they needed. The old man slept in the room and when they came he switched on the television so that he didn’t have to listen to them. The only thing was, he couldn’t cook any more: the kitchen was crammed with plastic wrappers, precision balances, spatulas, and rolls of adhesive tape. The worst thing was the white dust that settled in a film on everything. Hassan had explained the risk to the old
The police asked her to make a written statement. She came to my office with it. It didn’t take long to settle. It was the first time, the value of the goods was minimal, she had no previous convictions. The DA stopped the proceedings. No one in the family learned of it.
Things settled down, the way everything in her life had always settled down.
Snow
The old man stood in the kitchen and smoked. It was August, the day was warm, and he’d opened the window wide. He looked at the ashtray: a naked mermaid with a green fishtail and underneath, in script, “Welcome to the Reeperbahn.” He didn’t know where he’d got it. The color on the girl had faded and the “R” of Reeperbahn had disappeared. The drops of water splashed into the metal sink, slow and hard. It calmed him. He would remain at the window, smoking and doing nothing.
The special task force had assembled in front of the building. The policemen were wearing uniforms that looked too big, and black helmets; they carried transparent shields. They were brought in when things got too difficult for the others, and armed resistance was anticipated. They were hard men with a hard code. Their task force had also suffered deaths and injuries, and the adrenaline was building up in them too. They had their orders: “Drug den, suspects thought to be armed, arrest.” They were now standing silently by the garbage cans in the courtyard and waiting both on the staircase and in front of the apartment. It was too hot under their helmets and their riot masks. They werewaiting for the word from the leader of the task force; everyone was eager to hear it now. At some point he would yell “Go, go, go” and then they’d do what they had been trained to do.
The old man at the window thought about Hassan and his friends. They had the key to his apartment and when they came during the night they made up the little packages in his kitchen, “stretching,” they called it, two-thirds heroin, one-third Lidocaine. They compressed it into rectangular lumps with a jack. Each lump weighed a kilo. Hassan paid the old man a thousand euros every month, and he did it punctually.
Of course it was too much for one and a half rooms in the back of a building, fourth floor, too dark. But they wanted the old man’s apartment; nothing served them better as their “bunker,” as they called it. The kitchen was big enough and that was all they needed. The old man slept in the room and when they came he switched on the television so that he didn’t have to listen to them. The only thing was, he couldn’t cook any more: the kitchen was crammed with plastic wrappers, precision balances, spatulas, and rolls of adhesive tape. The worst thing was the white dust that settled in a film on everything. Hassan had explained the risk to the old
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