finds that the prosecution was unable to prove the alleged act. The charges will therefore be dropped.
TO APPEAL, see attached information (DV 400).
An appeal should be made to Svea Court of Appeals and be submitted to the District Court no later than three weeks from today.
On behalf of the District Court
Tor Hjalmarsson
9
Mrado in the serene suburb—like a penguin in the jungle. Didn’t fit in. Wrong habitat. Wrong climate. Wrong size. Attracted stares. A relief that Radovan invited him over to his house relatively seldom.
He couldn’t find a parking spot. The risk of not making it on time was increasing. He drove in circles. Kept his eyes peeled. Maybe someone was on their way to their car to drive off. Improvised with streets. Like a rookie. No structure. No success.
He was busy worrying about other stuff.
No open legal spot to park his Mercedes SL 500. Finally, he parked the car too close to a pedestrian crossing. Ticket bait. Whatever. It was leased. Parking tickets would go to the leasing company.
Mrado walked up to Radovan’s house.
The house: a long one-story, almost four thousand square feet. White walls and a flat roof with black panels. Door and window frames in dark wood. Well-groomed garden during the summer. Fuchsias, perennials, rhododendrons. Now on their way to the inevitable fall brown. The property was surrounded by a wooden fence about five feet tall. Roses grew along the inner periphery. It looked peaceful, boring, and harmless from the outside. Mrado knew that it was heavily guarded from the inside.
“
Dobre dosao,
come on in, Mrado.”
Stefanovic, Rado’s jack-of-all-trades, opened the door. Led Mrado through the house.
Radovan was seated in a leather armchair in the library. Dapper as always. Dark blue blazer. Light-colored corduroys. Well coiffed. The furrows/scars on his face spelled out the word
respect.
Dark wallpaper. Tall as well as short bookcases along the walls. On the walls, above the shelves: framed maps, paintings, and religious icons. Europe and the Balkans. Lovely Donau. The Battle of Kosovo Polje. The Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. History’s heroes. Portraits of Karayorye. The Holy Sava. Most of all—maps of Serbia-Montenegro.
Stefanovic left them alone.
Radovan, in Serbian: “Welcome.”
“The pleasure is all mine. We don’t see each other that often.” Mrado remained standing.
“Have a seat, for Christ’s sake. No, we don’t see each other that often. I guess that’s for the best. But we talk on the phone.”
“Of course. As often as you like.”
“Mrado, let’s skip the pleasantries. You know me—I express myself plainly. No frills. That doesn’t mean it’s personal. I think you know how I feel about what happened at Kvarnen.”
“I think I do.”
“A total clusterfuck. Shit like that just can’t happen. I trust you, and you’ve made a fool of yourself. Now the whole situation’s hysterical. Do you understand what the hell you’ve done? The blowback could be war.”
“I’m incredibly sorry, Rado. I misjudged the situation. I take full responsibility for what happened.”
In Mrado’s head: The whole shit show was really Patrik’s fault. But there’s no point in blaming others. If you’re in charge, you’re responsible.
Radovan said, “Well, you fuckin’ better. Anything else would be crazy. You know our situation. That skinhead you used, Patrik, was convicted of aggravated assault. He can’t call or write when he wants. No information goes in or out. We don’t know shit about what he’s saying about us in there. You can’t trust just anyone. For your sake, you better hope the fucker’s no canary. For our sake, too.”
“I think it’s cool.”
“You’ve done good all these years. And now this? Why didn’t you stop that unprofessional skin faggot? The police can crack that guy easier than an egg in a frying pan. What’s more? Hells Angels, Bandidos, Boman, or someone else can flip their shit. The relations
TO APPEAL, see attached information (DV 400).
An appeal should be made to Svea Court of Appeals and be submitted to the District Court no later than three weeks from today.
On behalf of the District Court
Tor Hjalmarsson
9
Mrado in the serene suburb—like a penguin in the jungle. Didn’t fit in. Wrong habitat. Wrong climate. Wrong size. Attracted stares. A relief that Radovan invited him over to his house relatively seldom.
He couldn’t find a parking spot. The risk of not making it on time was increasing. He drove in circles. Kept his eyes peeled. Maybe someone was on their way to their car to drive off. Improvised with streets. Like a rookie. No structure. No success.
He was busy worrying about other stuff.
No open legal spot to park his Mercedes SL 500. Finally, he parked the car too close to a pedestrian crossing. Ticket bait. Whatever. It was leased. Parking tickets would go to the leasing company.
Mrado walked up to Radovan’s house.
The house: a long one-story, almost four thousand square feet. White walls and a flat roof with black panels. Door and window frames in dark wood. Well-groomed garden during the summer. Fuchsias, perennials, rhododendrons. Now on their way to the inevitable fall brown. The property was surrounded by a wooden fence about five feet tall. Roses grew along the inner periphery. It looked peaceful, boring, and harmless from the outside. Mrado knew that it was heavily guarded from the inside.
“
Dobre dosao,
come on in, Mrado.”
Stefanovic, Rado’s jack-of-all-trades, opened the door. Led Mrado through the house.
Radovan was seated in a leather armchair in the library. Dapper as always. Dark blue blazer. Light-colored corduroys. Well coiffed. The furrows/scars on his face spelled out the word
respect.
Dark wallpaper. Tall as well as short bookcases along the walls. On the walls, above the shelves: framed maps, paintings, and religious icons. Europe and the Balkans. Lovely Donau. The Battle of Kosovo Polje. The Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. History’s heroes. Portraits of Karayorye. The Holy Sava. Most of all—maps of Serbia-Montenegro.
Stefanovic left them alone.
Radovan, in Serbian: “Welcome.”
“The pleasure is all mine. We don’t see each other that often.” Mrado remained standing.
“Have a seat, for Christ’s sake. No, we don’t see each other that often. I guess that’s for the best. But we talk on the phone.”
“Of course. As often as you like.”
“Mrado, let’s skip the pleasantries. You know me—I express myself plainly. No frills. That doesn’t mean it’s personal. I think you know how I feel about what happened at Kvarnen.”
“I think I do.”
“A total clusterfuck. Shit like that just can’t happen. I trust you, and you’ve made a fool of yourself. Now the whole situation’s hysterical. Do you understand what the hell you’ve done? The blowback could be war.”
“I’m incredibly sorry, Rado. I misjudged the situation. I take full responsibility for what happened.”
In Mrado’s head: The whole shit show was really Patrik’s fault. But there’s no point in blaming others. If you’re in charge, you’re responsible.
Radovan said, “Well, you fuckin’ better. Anything else would be crazy. You know our situation. That skinhead you used, Patrik, was convicted of aggravated assault. He can’t call or write when he wants. No information goes in or out. We don’t know shit about what he’s saying about us in there. You can’t trust just anyone. For your sake, you better hope the fucker’s no canary. For our sake, too.”
“I think it’s cool.”
“You’ve done good all these years. And now this? Why didn’t you stop that unprofessional skin faggot? The police can crack that guy easier than an egg in a frying pan. What’s more? Hells Angels, Bandidos, Boman, or someone else can flip their shit. The relations
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