A Far Justice (11 page)

Hank laid his percom on her desk. “Wonderful hospitality,” he said. The receptionist opened the massive double doors to Bouchard’s inner sanctum and ushered them in.

The man waiting for them was an overweight bureaucrat who fancied himself an intellectual and was impressed with his importance as a judge. As a young man, he was considered handsome, but forty years, 125 pounds, and a choleric disposition had changed him into a cantankerous old man who could not understand why people avoided him. Although Bouchard was fluent in English, he spoke in French. “Madame Prosecutor, please translate my instructions. I have called you both here to make clear what I expect.”

Denise translated his words. “Professor Sutherland is very knowledgeable about court procedures and protocols, and I would prefer we speak in English.” Hank arched an eyebrow, surprised that she was standing up to Bouchard.

Bouchard pointed at Hank and continued in French. “You are, above all else, a member of the court and have an obligation to justice that transcends your duties to the accused. Therefore, there will be none of the courtroom tricks you Americans are so fond of.” He waited while Denise translated. “I am instituting what you call a gag order. You will not speak to the press, any individual, or appear on TV until a judgment has been achieved. Further, there will be none of your Perry Mason surprises in my court. All evidence and witnesses will be properly presented well in advance. I expect all substantive questions to be presented in writing before raised in open session.”

Hank listened as Denise explained Bouchard’s rules. “Substantive?”

Bouchard drummed his fingers on his desk, obviously irritated at Hank’s questioning of anything he might say. “Questions with substance, meaning they are essential or fundamental.” The beat increased. “This is exactly what I will not tolerate in open session. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your Honor. I fully understand.”

“That is all,” Bouchard said. “You are excused.”

Denise led the way outside and waited while Hank retrieved his percom. “I don’t like him either,” she confided. “Perhaps we should discuss ways to resolve any conflicts?”

“Sounds like collaborating with the enemy.”

Denise gave him a look he could not decipher. “As officers of the court, we are not enemies and must work together.”

“Perhaps it would be better if only our staffs conferred at this point.”

“Of course.” She turned and walked away.

He ambled across the fly bridge and paused at mid span, taking in the view. The forecourt seven floors below him was still crowded with demonstrators who had taken up permanent residence. He spoke in a low voice. “Okay, Cassandra, what’s going on with Du Milan?”

He gazed at the misty horizon on the North Sea as he listened. “We monitored a phone call between Madam Du Milan and her husband, Chrestien. He wants her to establish a more personal relationship to curb your uncivilized tendencies.”

“
Moi
? Uncivilized?”

“Yes, you, Monsieur Barbarian. They’ve seen how you exploit the media and want to rein you in. By the way, pressure is building in the United States for the President to free Colonel Tyler.”

“I don’t think the President is quite ready to invade The Hague. What’s the story with Natividad Gomez and General Davis Armiston as witnesses?”

“Gomez is the one who gave them Colonel Tyler’s personnel records. They need her to establish the source, and the validity of the files. Armiston can testify that Colonel Tyler was there and did fly the mission.”

“So Gomez is a spy. ”

“More of an exploited lover. As for Armiston, he needs the publicity to make a run for the presidency.”

“Why would any sane person want that job?” Hank muttered. “Anything on Person yet.”

“Nothing about the statement he made. The bad news is that the missionary society financing the mission is strongly pacifist. Our profilers say we’re dealing with an unknown quantity.”

“I need to talk to the Reverend.”

“Hold on,” Cassandra replied, “I’ll see what I can do.” She made small talk. “What did you think of Bouchard?”

“You guys don’t miss much, do you? He lived up to expectations.”

“Sorry, Hank. I can’t get through to the Sudan. All normal lines are down, the satellite channels are blocked, and there’s strong interference on the radios. It might be jamming. The supply line to the mission has been cut, and it appears to be surrounded by the Sudanese Army and Islamic militias.”

“What does your legal team think about Person testifying?”

“They don’t recommend it.”

The images on the screen smoothly transitioned as the assistant prosecutor recapped his Power Point briefing on one Henry Michael Sutherland. The final image zoomed in on Hank sitting at a table in his hotel’s sidewalk café as he read that morning’s edition of the London Times. It was a subtle way of saying their information was current. He ended with the traditional, “Are there any questions I can answer, Madam Prosecutor?” Denise smiled graciously and shook her head. He handed her the thick confidential dossier. “Many of the details are fascinating,” he said. “My colleagues say he has a suppressed Rambo complex, but I think that is a gross simplification of a very complex and intelligent man. He has an aggressive trait that is contained and focused by the scholarly and mild side of his personality.”

“So which is the real Sutherland?” she asked.

“It depends on the situation, Madam Prosecutor. As I mentioned earlier, he did challenge a mob and save a demonstrator from being thrown over the side of the Oakland Bay Bridge. He clubbed one man with a baseball bat rather unmercifully.” He suspected that would get her attention and it did.

“I would like to compare photos of Tyler and Sutherland.” The assistant typed in a command and the computer responded. The large screen split and images of Gus and Hank appeared. “Leave it on,” she said, dismissing him.

“Do not underestimate this man, Madam Prosecutor.” He bowed and left her alone, pleased that she had allowed him the last word.

Denise thumbed through the dossier. She leaned forward in her chair and studied the photographs of Gus and Hank. Thanks to the large, high-definition screen, they were almost life-sized. The lean and rugged, good looking Gus was a total contrast to the pleasant and buoyant Hank. There was no doubt that half the women following the trial would be attracted to Gus. Fortunately, the senior president of the ICC had assured her that the three judges hearing the case would all be men, which she could play to her advantage.

She worked her way through the thick document, occasionally looking up at the screen. She finished and sank back in her chair, the still opened dossier on her lap, her eyes locked on the screen. She let her emotions run free. There was no doubt that Gus was very appealing.

The Dutch were well known for their frugality when it came to heating and Gus wondered why his cell was so warm so late in the evening. Rather than complain, he opened the door for cross-ventilation, stripped down to his shorts, and got comfortable on his narrow bunk. He turned on his nightlight to read, taking advantage of the few short evening hours before the lights went out. But he couldn’t focus on the words as he slipped back into the past.

It was a short drive from the Officer’s Club to their quarters in family housing. Clare sat quietly but he knew something was bothering her. He cast back, trying to remember anything from the promotion party all the new captains had thrown that evening. He could only think of one thing. Clare hit him on arm. Hard. “What was that all about?”

he asked. Her voice was matter-of-fact. “She was throwing herself at you.” He shook his head. “Who? I must’ve missed that.” He braced himself for the answer. “Miss Tits, that’s who. Captain what’s-his-name’s date. And you didn’t miss it. In fact, you were rather enjoying it.” He heard that certain tone in her voice and relaxed. “Give me a break. They’re engaged and she was just buttering up the boss.” He waited for her answer. “Well, she certainly wanted to do more than spread a little butter, especially if she got you alone.” Gus sighed, fully knowing what was coming. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” Clare released her seatbelt and cuddled against him. “Then I better teach you so you’ll be prepared when it happens.” This was a variation he hadn’t seen before. “You know I’m a slow learner.” Her hand played with the buttons on his shirt. “We’ll work at it until you get it right.”

“May I come in?” Therese Derwent said, breaking his reverie. She was standing in the doorway and holding two books in the crook of her arm. She had changed in her office for an evening out and was gorgeous.

Hank swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. “Please.” He motioned to one of the two chairs in his cell. She placed the books down on the table and shrugged off her coat. Her simple dress shimmered in the light but what interested him was the identification card dangling from a thin black lanyard around her neck. It was the first time he had seen one in the prison.

“I thought you might find these interesting reading,” she said. “One is the history of the court and the other a critique of the doctrine of universal jurisdiction by Alex Melwin.”

Gus came even more alert at the mention of Melwin. “Thanks,” he said, wondering why the psychiatrist had picked late Friday evening to drop them off.

“Today was not a good beginning,” she said, “and I’m afraid you might have misunderstood. Language is always a barrier but we are worried about you. I was hoping we might talk again. Perhaps Monday?”

He made a show of considering it. He gave a little nod. “It’s my wife, you know.”

“I know,” she said. She stood up. “I must go.”

He hurried over to help her with her coat. “Hold on for a second. I’ll walk with you.” He pulled on a pair of warm-up pants and a T-shirt. He slipped into his sandals and followed her into the corridor. “I can’t really complain about the way I’m treated here,” he told her. “Still, I get so damned depressed.”

“We see our prisons as places of rehabilitation, not punishment. We can work on the depression.” They reached the end of his cellblock where the gate was closed, sealing the inmates in for the night. She slid her identification card through the electronic lock. The gate slid back and he saw the guard in the glassed-in control booth on the other side. He was stretched out on a bunk watching TV and the lights were down low. The guard never looked up or checked the TV monitors. “This is as far as you can go at night,” she told him.

They shook hands and, again, the warmth of her touch surprised him. “Thanks for the books. I’ll read them over the weekend.” He watched her as she walked down the corridor and through the next gate. He ambled back to his cell, deep in thought.

NINE

The Hague

Gus stepped out of the cubicle shower after his routine Monday morning
exercise, dried off, and carefully examined his beard, thankful there was very little gray. But was it too long? He strongly suspected the psychiatrist keyed on small behavioral traits. So how would she react to a three-day growth of beard? Would she see it as a sign of growing depression, perhaps vulnerability, or find it attractive as Europeans often did, or a little of all three? What if she sees right through it? he thought. He quickly shaved and pulled on a clean pair of warm-up pants and a loose sweatshirt. He slipped on his running shoes and checked the mirror. For better or worse, he was going for the clean athletic look.

He walked down the corridor, carefully checking for the identification cards he had seen Friday night. The guards were only wearing their normal badges and the gates were all open. He made the connection.
Gates close and ID cards come out. So the cards are also access control keys they only use at night.
He needed to work on it. The door to Derwent’s office was open and he wandered in. She smiled. “Right on time.” He closed the door and she motioned him to the easy chairs in the far corner. They sat down and she bent forward. He caught a slight fragrance of expensive perfume. “Tea? How was your weekend?”

“Thanks for the books. I’m not a lawyer but I’m thankful we didn’t join the ICC.”

“Please explain.”

For a moment, he considered faking an answer.
Go for the truth.
“Based on what I read, I’m a war criminal.”

“Is that true?” she asked.

He deliberately fidgeted. “The way I read the Rome Statute creating the court, if a fighter jock like me wastes a single civilian in combat, he’s committed murder.”

“You disagree with that?”

“Of course I do. We don’t go out there to deliberately kill civilians.”

“But it does happen,” she said. “Shouldn’t someone be held accountable?”

“That’s why we have the UCMJ – the Universal Code of Military Justice – for when it happens deliberately. Look at William Calley and the Mai Lai massacre in Vietnam. We court-martialed him.”

She leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. “I think you’re feeling persecuted and have convinced yourself that you’re a scapegoat for political reasons.”

“Are you suggesting it’s anything else?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, “How are you handling the tension?”

“I could handle this if my wife was okay.” He rose and paced the floor. “We were married right after I graduated from the Air Force Academy in 1982.” He stopped and looked at her.
But you know all that, don’t you?
“Since then …well … Clare’s my life.” He stared at the window. “I remember when Michelle was born, she’s our oldest, and when I first saw her Clare was nursing her in bed. I just stood there, not able to take my eyes off them.” He pulled into himself, remembering. Then, “Now Clare’s dying and I’m not there.” He whirled on her. “I’m not a war criminal.”

Her voice was barely audible. “I know that.”

He came up short, surprised by the tears in her eyes. He sat back down, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, head bent low. “I’m having trouble sleeping at night. This place seems to moan at me.”

“But it is very quiet at night,” she said. “Not like your prisons.”

“It’s still a prison and I’m here, looking out, caged in.” He fell silent for a moment to let his anguish show. “Do you know what it’s like to takeoff on a cruddy overcast day like this and punch through a cloud deck?” He stared at his hands; his voice low and charged with memory as he took her with him. “Suddenly, you break out on top of the clouds and all the grays, browns, and muck of the earth are all behind you. I can’t remember how many times I leveled off and skimmed the tops of the clouds. The sky hangs over you like a crystal crown. Then you snap roll and the world spins, yours for the sorting out. You brush the top of the clouds and then you’re pulling on the stick, climbing like a homesick angel, and reaching for the sky. For a few brief moments, all the trivial problems of this silly world are behind you.”

Derwent’s eyes glowed with understanding. “It must be like riding the whirlwind.”

Gus looked at her. “Hell, I don’t know how to explain it except you’re truly free.” He paused for effect. “All I know now is that I can’t sleep at night.”

She jotted down a note in her folder. “You surprised me today, Gus. I expected you to be needing a shave and perhaps come on to me.” He gave her his lopsided fighter pilot grin and she closed the folder before standing up. The session was over. “I can help with your sleeping problem.”

They shook hands and Gus ambled back to his cell.
There may be something here.

Amsterdam

Late that same afternoon, a tour boat nosed out of a narrow canal and turned into the much larger Amstel River. The tour guide pointed to the luxury hotel. “The Amstel Intercontinental. Its restaurant, La Rive, is one of the best in the world.”

Hank scanned the hotel’s terrace that overlooked the river as they approached and worked to hide his nervousness. The boat nudged against the hotel dock and Hank stepped ashore. He scanned the dock area, wondering if he was recognized. He climbed the stairs to the terrace where a dark-suited young woman was waiting.

“This way, Professor Sutherland,” the young woman said, leading him to a side entrance.

“Why all the secrecy?” he asked.

“Because Mr. Westcot prefers it.”

Hank grew even more worried. It was the second time Westcot had summoned him and he didn’t like being on the financier’s radarscope. Hank followed her to a service elevator and they rode in silence to the top floor of the hotel. The elevator door opened onto a luxurious suite. She stayed behind and the door closed, leaving him alone.

“Over here, Hank,” Westcot said. The financier was seated in an overstuffed wing chair by the fireplace smoking a cigar. He stood and they shook hands. Westcot pointed him to a seat and paced the floor. “How’s it going?”

“They announced the presiding judge, Gaston Bouchard.”

Westcot humphed. “Met him once. A pompous ass. He possesses the perspective of a horse – a very intelligent horse, but still a horse. How’s Cassandra working out?”

“She’s been a wonderful help. I couldn’t do it without her.”

“Excellent. We’ve backed her up with a top-notch legal team. Use them.” More pacing. “The President tried to get the court to release Gus but it isn’t going to happen.” He shook his head. “The idiots got the bit in their teeth and are out of control.”

“What the hell is going on?” Hank asked. “I feel like the proverbial mushroom here; totally in the dark and fed bullshit.”

Westcot decided to level with him. “It’s pure power politics and the French are into it up to their eyeballs. They’ve managed to link the trial to what’s going on in the UN. It’s a chance for them to make political hay by prosecuting an American for war crimes before the ICC. Some crap about universal jurisdiction.”

The lawyer in Hank keyed on the anger lurking behind Westcot’s words when he mentioned the French. “The court is trying to extend its authority over non-member nations. Gus’s trial is a waypoint in that process.”

“That is not going to happen,” Westcot predicted. “But they’ve got the President walking a tightrope, keeping the hawks in Congress under control while not pissing off said European allies, who happen to adore the court.”

“So Gus gets hung out to dry,” Hank said.

“Exactly,” Westcot replied. “It also gives the French an opportunity to play kissy-face with the Chinese and strike a deal that could make them the economic powerhouse of Europe.”

The anger was back and Hank suspected Westcot was involved because a deal between the Chinese and the French would cost the financier mega dollars. Had he known, the actual figure would have astounded him. “What the French are doing goes against the EU.”

Westcot snorted. “Indeed it does. It will piss off the rest of Europe something mightily when they figure it out.”

“Is it take-off-the-gloves time?”

“When the time is right,” Westcot replied. “Right now, it would take the UN option off the table in regards to China. The President’s options at this point are very limited, which leaves Gus swinging in the wind.”

Hank thought for a moment. “Maybe not. I think I can win this one.” Westcot’s head snapped up. “But I need some help. They’ve called General Davis Armiston as a witness and I’ll need to discredit him if he takes the stand. Also, I need to find Gus’s old wing commander when he was in Saudi Arabia at Al Kharj.”

Westcot puffed on his cigar and billowed smoke. “Armiston is a worthless piece of shit and wants the White House. He’ll do whatever it takes to win it.” He allowed a tight smile that frightened the lawyer. Like so many things, it had all came together for the financier in a rush. Now it was only a matter of playing it out. “Call Henri Scullanois, the French foreign minister, as a witness. Scullanois dealt with Armiston when he was SACEUR. No love lost there. Use Scullanois to discredit Armiston.”

“And?” Hank asked, knowing there was more.

Westcot didn’t answer. Instead, “As for Cannon, I can’t help you there.”

Hank had not mentioned Cannon’s name and hoped his face did not betray what he was thinking.

“Well,” Westcot said, fully aware that he had made a faux pas by naming Cannon and that damage control was in order, “how about dinner? La Rive is an experience not to be missed.”

“Do we want to be seen together in public?” Hank asked.

“Good point,” Westcot conceded. He reached for the phone, “Well, if we can’t go to La Rive, La Rive will come to us.” He gave Hank a knowing look, still playing damage control. “Perhaps some companionship for later this evening?”

“Can I take a rain check?” Hank asked. It was time to get out of Dodge without burning a very important bridge. “I really have to get back to The Hague.”

The Hague

They had warned him and Gus knew the news was bad. “Dad,” Jason said, “you need to talk to Michelle.” He handed Gus his cell phone, his eyes full of worry. Aly stood in the open door to the cell, her worry matching Jason’s. But for some reason, she felt better with Gus involved.

Gus nodded and took the phone. “We can’t run away from it,” he said. His jaw tightened as he hit the speed dial to call his daughter. He waited for the connection. “Damn, I should be there.”

Michelle’s pretty face came on the screen. There were tears in her eyes. “Thank God. I was afraid they wouldn’t let you call.”

“Jason and Aly told me. How bad is she?”

“The doctors said they can make her comfortable, that’s all. Is there any chance you can come home?”

“None at all. The bastards here have a lot to answer for.”

“There’s something else,” Michelle told him. “Max Westcot called and offered to transfer Mom to the Mayo Clinic. He said he’d cover all expenses. Mom’s doctors are all behind it.”

“I hate relying on the charity of others,” Gus said.

Behind him Jason said, “Max Westcot has got more money than a herd of horses have hair. Make that a huge herd of horses. It won’t even show on his radar screen.”

Michelle heard him. “It is the Mayo, Dad.”

“But that would mean leaving her alone in a strange hospital,” Gus said.

“Me and the boys will be there,” Michelle promised.

Gus made the decision. “Okay, do it.”

“I think it’s the best thing to do,” Michelle said.

They said good-by and Gus ended the call. “It shouldn’t end this way,” he said to no one. The lights in the ceiling and corridor blinked. “Lights-out in fifteen minutes,” he told them. Aly kissed him on the cheek and she and Jason disappeared out the still open door. He stood in the doorway and watched them go through the gate at the end of the corridor as Therese Derwent passed them. He retreated back into the cell and sat on the bunk to wait for the psychiatrist.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Certainly,” he replied.

Derwent walked over to the built-in buffet and drew a cup of water before sitting next to him on the bunk. She handed him a small aluminum foil packet. “Take this. It will help you sleep.” He ripped it open and popped the capsule into his mouth. She handed him the cup and placed two fingers on his throat. “You must swallow,” she said. He gulped and she smiled. “Lie down.” She moved out of the way while he stretched out. He deliberately faked sleepiness but Derwent didn’t leave.
Too much personal attention,
he thought.
Need to work on it.
He relaxed and breathed deeply.

Derwent sat on the edge of the bunk and touched his wrist to be sure he was asleep. She monitored his pulse for a moment. “Clare is most fortunate to have you,” she murmured. She sat there until the lights blinked the last time before rising. She closed the door behind her.

“I’m the lucky one,” he said to no one. He fell asleep.