Having people uncover the cracks in him.
Tørrissen once asked him about vulnerability. ‘Do you have a vulnerable side?’ the psychiatrist had asked. ‘Not being loved,’ Breivik answered. ‘That must be every person’s greatest fear, not being loved.’
Now he hoped for one thing. That his mother would not appear in the witness box. She had been called to give evidence, but she had asked to be excused. She was his Achilles heel, he had told the psychiatrists. She was the only one who could disconcert him now, bring the whole thing down. That was why he had not agreed to any prison visits from her before the trial. Up to now, everything had gone as he wanted it. The eyes of the whole world were on him.
The public prosecutors and public advocates returned to their places after the handshakes. He sat down.
He sits down.
It was nine o’clock.
The judges come in.
The court rose; the two public prosecutors, the defence lawyers, the public advocates, the public, the press, everybody rose, except for one: the defendant.
He remains in his seat. He smiles.
That is to say, he tried to conceal a smile. He sat with his legs planted wide apart. Everyone could see that he was not in shackles beneath the desk. He shifted round in the comfortable chair, which had a good, broad back. He looked round, settled himself into the chair. His eyes scanned the rows of seats. Suddenly his lips curved into yet another smile. He had seen someone he knew. Kristian, his former friend and partner, was in the front row. What was he doing here?
Well, the tabloid Verdens Gang had invited him to use one of their places so he could tell their readers afterwards what it was like to see his former friend again. Both of them averted their eyes.
‘The court is in session!’
There was a quick rap of the gavel on the bench. The head judge, Wenche Elizabeth Arntzen, made an authoritative figure. She was an experienced judge, around fifty years of age. She had short, greying hair, clear blue eyes and a thin mouth. At the neck of her robe was a hint of a lace blouse.
The accused wanted to set the agenda from the start, and spoke immediately.
‘I do not recognise the Norwegian court or law because your mandate has come from parties that support multiculturalism.’
He cleared his throat. The judge looked straight at him and was about to say something when he continued.
‘I am also aware that you are a friend of Gro Harlem Brundtland’s sister.’
His voice was high-pitched.
The judge asked if that meant he wished to raise a concrete objection to her participation in the proceedings. The defence team shook their heads. Not as far as they knew.
No, he did not want that. He simply wanted to make a point.
Wenche Arntzen set out the procedural rules for the trial. She was rapid and concise. There was no time to lose here. She asked the accused to stand and confirm his full name and date of birth.
‘Anders Behring Breivik, born 13th of February, 1979.’
He appeared meek now, and spoke in little more than a mumble.
When the judge came to his profession, she said, ‘Well, you are not working.’
Breivik protested.
‘I am a writer and I work from prison,’ he said.
He was instructed to sit down.
Then the charges were to be read out by the female half of the prosecution duo, the blonde and elegant Inga Bejer Engh.
‘Please go ahead,’ said Arntzen.
Bejer Engh got to her feet. She appeared calm. In a clear voice she began to read out the charges: that he stood accused under the terrorism paragraph, §147a of the Norwegian Penal Code.
The Oslo public prosecution hereby judges that Anders Behring Breivik, in accordance with §39 or the Penal Code… should be transferred for mandatory psychiatric health care… for committing while in a psychotic state an act otherwise punishable by law.
In other words, the prosecution agreed with the first psychiatric report, which took the view that Breivik was sick and could be treated.
The charges continued. An act of terrorism, read Bejer Engh. An explosion. Loss of human life. Premeditated killings. Under severely aggravated circumstances.
The bomb detonated at 15.25:22 with violent explosive force and resulting pressure wave, intentionally putting a large number of people in the buildings of the government quarter or at street level in direct mortal danger, and caused massive material destruction… in the explosion he killed the following eight people…
The prosecutor read rhythmically, even expressively. All the syllables were to be enunciated, all the names were to be heard. There were no hesitations; she had practised these names. These names meant something. These people had lived. They were the most important people in this court case. They were the ones it was all about.
He was at the entrance to the Tower Block, near the van, and died instantly of massive injuries caused by the pressure wave and the impact of splinters/objects.
She was at the entrance to the Tower Block, near the van, and died instantly of massive injuries caused by the pressure wave and the impact of splinters/objects.
There was only a pronoun to distinguish between the accounts of the two lawyers’ fates. They were there, precisely there, in the worst place imaginable, when the bomb exploded. They were born in 1979 and 1977.
The public prosecutor took a sip of water. The glass beside her was continually emptied and refilled. Apart from a stifled sob after some of the names, the room was silent. Nobody cried openly. The bereaved put their hands over their mouths so as not to make a noise. They lowered their heads so as not to be seen.
The public prosecutor came to Utøya.
He was in front of the café building.
He was at the campsite.
He was in the small hall.
She was in the main hall.
She was on Lovers’ Path.
He was in the wood east of the schoolhouse.
She was at Stoltenberget.
She was at Bolsjevika.
He was at the pumping station.
She was on the shoreline at the southern tip.
He was found at a depth of six metres.
He ran away and fell down a cliff.
All sixty-nine killed on Utøya were part of the charge.
In addition to the killings enumerated above, he attempted to kill a number of other people but was not successful in his intentions, said the prosecutor.
A reporter from a Swedish news agency murmured, almost to himself, on hearing for the first time where the bullets had entered: The back of the head, they were shot in the back of the head. The elderly man wrote it down in his report. At intervals of just a few seconds he sent new lines to his desk in Stockholm, where they corrected his typos, edited the text if it was too explicit, and swiftly sent it out to subscribers, TV stations and local papers all over Sweden. The man added a phrase after his first, They were shot in the back of the head. He tapped at his keys and sent some words of explanation to the subscribers – as they fled. They were shot in the back of the head, as they fled.