| FROM PART 1 (THE ADMISSIONS OFFICE OPENING) |
| I had never imagined that the Danish “San Quentin” would have an admissions office — yet here I was, waiting for my meeting. My name, Eric, would be called soon enough as if I were back in school. The reason I was here was serious enough, though. The Court had consisted of six judges, which is normal practice. Their judgment was that I was guilty – not because any proof of money laundering etc. had been found, but because I had accidentally stepped into a hornet’s nest. The judges didn’t accept my perspective of being misjudged, because they saw me as a hornet, not the bee I truly was. My thoughts drifted further back. In my dreams, I had unconsciously negotiated something called “The Equilibrist’s Curve”. It was a way of foreseeing how a sequence of events would end without knowing or even understanding each of the steps involved. * The room I was seated in felt strangely curated, almost proud of itself. On a large bolt on the wall hung a Rolex clock — a white dial, Roman numerals, no seconds hand, a gold bezel, and green wall mounts. I remembered this timekeeper from the Wimbledon tournaments. It reminded me of the Rolex Explorer watch on my wrist – an automatic timekeeper cannot be manipulated the way a digital clock can. The sunlight from the large panorama windows was reflected in the black polished floor. Neat, expensive furniture from the golden age of Danish design lined the walls. One chair I recognized immediately: “The Chair” by Danish designer Hans J. Wegner. It looked as if the place had been furnished fifty years ago and then forgotten — only for the furniture to appreciate wildly in value. |
| FROM PART 2: (CARL’S GARDEN SCENE) |
| However, the Copenhagen Police Headquarters was also where the officer Carl had his daily dealings among the wasps of the police force. Carl was well known for his earlier accomplishments in the Special Unit and was highly regarded. I had seen Carl testify in court, where he had dragged me into this mess without presenting any further proof. The poor social worker had no idea that by contacting the Police Legal Officer, she was walking straight into a beehive — and Carl was one of the queen bees. Fortunately for her, all of this unfolded at a level beneath another queen bee, the Chief Prosecutor, who therefore would not intervene. For Carl, however, it was exactly the right level to intervene — and to avoid having to sting. And so, the social worker had set the Police Legal officer in motion when Carl was sitting at home in his garden. His phone rang while he was taking a sip of the brown ale. It tasted as an ambitious beer should: Mildly bitter, sweet with notes of caramel, yet strong. He glanced at the label. It read “Carl Jacobsen.” “We have a lot in common, old boy,” Carl muttered to himself. Carl: “Hello? Carl speaking.” Police Legal: “I’m calling about the fraud case connected to the ‘Umbrella’ complex – the one involving Eric, where you stepped in for Tom.” Carl: “Yes? What about it?” |