A Far Justice (41 page)

“They’ll kill her,” Hank said, remembering the killing lust that had captured the mob on the Bay Bridge. “I don’t see any police.”

“Go get her,” Toby said quietly.

Gus sighed loudly. “Gimme a break, Toby.”

“It’s what we do, Gus,” Toby replied.

For a moment, no one moved. “Let’s go,” Gus ordered. He ran for the elevator with Hank, Jason, and the three security cops right behind him.

Westcot hesitated. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He ran after them and piled into the elevator. Aly and Catherine joined Toby and James at the window to watch and wait.

Far below, the seven men erupted from the building in a tight V formation, and headed straight for the sedan. Jason was on the point as they ripped into the crowd. For a brief moment, a knot of demonstrators stopped them. Jason’s right hand punched at the man in front of him, his fingers curled into a hard karate fist. He drove his knuckles into the man’s Adam Apple, shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs. The man went down and they pushed over his twisting body. A jolt of pure fear shot through the people caught between the charging Americans and Denise. They scrambled to get out of the way, only to be caught between the demonstrators surging forward.

But the Americans couldn’t be stopped. They bulldozed a path, driving whoever couldn’t get out of the way to the ground and stepping on them. They finally reached the car where a snarling woman had Denise by the hair and was throwing her around like a rag doll. Jason kicked at the woman’s left knee and she collapsed, falling over Denise and dragging her head across a broken bottle lying on the ground. The jagged glass cut into her scalp, peeling it away. Gus pushed the prostrate woman aside and carefully laid Denise’s bloody scalp back in place. He scooped her up in his arms, and with one hand pressed against her wound, retraced his steps, heading for safety. A burley, wild-eyed young man made the mistake of trying to cut him off and one of the security cops came at him. The cop feinted and then drove a fist into the man’s sternum, collapsing his lungs. His mouth came open as he tried to breath. But nothing happened. “Someone give him mouth-to-mouth,” Jason shouted. He grabbed the man’s shirt and threw him into the arms of a man and pushed them both back, clearing a path. Then they were in the palace.

“Where’s the infirmary?” Gus yelled at the court’s security guards who closed and barred the door. One pointed down a hall and Gus strode quickly in that direction, leaving a trail of Denise’s blood on the floor. Jason and the three cops were right behind him.

Westcot bent over, his hands on his knees, and breathed deeply. He looked up at Hank. “Damn. This is more fun than owning a football team.”

Gus tried to push through the double doors leading into the infirmary but they were locked. Without a word, Jason stepped around Gus and kicked the doors open. He charged through and quickly found an examination room. “Put her in here,” he told his father. Gus laid Denise on the table. “Keep pressure on her scalp,” Jason said as he rifled through the cabinets, finding the supplies he needed.

Denise was fully conscious, her eyes locked on Gus’ face. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“It’s what we do,” Gus answered. “Not that you would understand.”

Jason pushed Gus aside and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. “Time to stitch you up.” He went to work, quickly cutting away her heavy hair and dosing the wound with Betodine. The smell of the antiseptic filled the small room. He ripped open a suture kit.

“You’ve done this before?” Gus asked.

“I’ve been getting a lot of practice lately,” Jason replied.

“Are you going to use an anesthetic?”

“Hell, no. She needs to remember this. Besides, it will give her something to complain about later.” He quickly tied the first stitch, talking as he worked. “You’ve lost a lot of blood and will probably need a transfusion.” She flinched as Jason stitched her scalp closed and stopped the bleeding.

Denise reached out and touched Gus’s hand. “
Merci
,” she whispered. She was crying, but not from the pain. “I do understand.”

Aly was standing in the doorway. “Gus, you’ve got to go. Now.” She held the door for her future father-in-law and followed him out. Suddenly, Aly turned and gave Denise a contemptuous look. “You owe them.” Without waiting for an answer, she spun around and hurried after Gus, leaving Denise alone.

Winslow James led the way onto the roof where the helicopter was waiting. Aly hugged Gus and wouldn’t let go as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Did Jason tell you?” she asked.

“About you two going with Toby?” Gus replied. She nodded, her cheek cradled against his chest. “I’m so proud of you,” he said. She let go and he turned to Hank. “I don’t know what to say. But thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” the lawyer replied. Then the old Hank was back. “Besides, it beats the hell out of teaching at Berkeley.” They shook hands.

Catherine gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and stepped back as Max Westcot waved at him. “See you in the States.”

“Go!” Toby said. Gus threw him a quick salute and climbed on board the helicopter. James followed him in and a crewman closed the door.

The small group clustered together and watched the helicopter as it headed out to sea. “I’m freezing,” Aly said as Jason pushed Toby towards the elevator. “Before you go back to Africa, will you marry us?”

“I’d be honored,” Toby said. “But shouldn’t your minister do it?”

“You are our minister,” Jason replied. “We want to join you, as soon as I can get out of the Air Force.”

Toby’s eyes were still fixed on the helicopter. “Why?”

“It’s something we have to do,” Jason replied.

Toby understood. “You sound just like your father.”

EPILOGUE

Riverview, Maryland

Clare got out of the car and took in the colonial-style home overlooking
the Potomac River. “It’s lovely,” she said. “I must see the garden.”

“This is where Hank first met Max,” Gus told her. He rang the doorbell. “He says the garden is a thing of beauty.”

Catherine Sutherland opened the door and ushered them into the sunroom with its magnificent views of the Potomac and Mount Vernon. Hank was standing next to the window with Suzanne Westcot while Max occupied the couch, smoking a cigar. “How is the family?” Catherine asked.

“We got a Christmas card from Jason and Aly last week,” Gus replied. “They’ve got problems but they’re still in the Sudan, building a new mission with Toby. Aly’s expecting next month. You won’t believe this, but Denise Du Milan showed up. She’s affiliated with a children’s program sponsored by the EU and wants to help.”

“The woman’s a survivor,” Hank muttered.

“She seems to like Toby,” Gus said.

“Poor Toby,” Catherine murmured.

Westcot humphed. “The good Reverend can take care of himself. I wish he worked for me.”

Clare walked over to Westcot and took his hand. It was the first time they had met, and she bent over, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you for saving my husband.”

“He saved himself,” Westcot told her.

“You’ve done so much for us, I just don’t know what to say.”

“You can always say ‘yes.’”

Clare smiled. “Yes to what?”

“We want Gus to run for the Senate.”

Clare considered it. “Where could we live? Our daughter and her sons live with us, you know.”

“We’re still raising a family,” Gus added.

“You can live here,” Westcot replied. “This place could stand some life.”

“I haven’t got a clue about politics,” Gus admitted.

It was Suzanne’s turn. “But you have great instincts and you’ll be a breath of fresh air.”

Hank waved his hand. “If you need help, I’m a volunteer.”

“Financing the campaign will not be a problem,” Westcot promised.

Hank gave him a studied look. “It’s tempting Max, and an honor. But please forgive me, I know how you work and there would be too many strings attached.”

Westcot thought about it for a moment. “Other than not messing with the oil depletion allowance, there wouldn’t be any.”

“And if I did mess with it?”

Westcot puffed on his cigar and considered his answer. “I wouldn’t be happy, but I could live with it. The offer is still open, think about it.”

“We will,” Gus promised.

“Would you look at that,” Suzanne said, still standing at the window. “It’s broad
daylight and
you can see the moon. I’ve never seen it so big.”

Gus looked at his wife as he slipped back in time. The memories flooded back, and, for a moment, they were young again. “And there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon,” he said, quoting his favorite line from Shakespeare.

Hank disagreed. “Nothing except courage and honor.”

THE END

AFTERWORD

For those who would argue that I have misrepresented the International Criminal Court in
A Far Justice
, I urge them to read the Rome Statute, the treaty creating the ICC, and to review the videos of the ICC in action. While the goals of the ICC, as set forth in the preamble to the Rome Statute, are laudatory, there are several basic objections to the court’s protection of individual rights and liberties, and ultimately, it’s ability to render just decisions.

First, the drafters of the Rome Statute tried to blend the Continental system of accusatory law with the American and English system of adversarial law. This concept was tested in the trial of Slobodan Milosevic before the UN’s International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. Prior to his death in 2006 from a heart attack, Milosevic made a mockery of justice by exploiting the inherent contradictions between the two systems.

Further, the Rome Statute specifically limits the ICC’s jurisdiction to states that are parties to the Statute, and to crimes that were committed after the ICC came into existence in 2002. However, many jurists and supporters of the ICC claim that the concept of universal jurisdiction, which is not embodied in the Rome Statute, extends the court’s jurisdiction to states that are not parties to the court, and that the court can reach back in time to prosecute crimes that were committed before it was created. The possibilities for unchecked and unwarranted prosecutions, motivated by politics or ambition, should be immediately obvious under this reasoning.

Structurally, in the ICC there is no trial by jury, defendants do not have the unqualified right to confront the witnesses against them in court, and there is double jeopardy. Trial by jury, a defendant’s right to confront witnesses in court, and freedom from double jeopardy, are individual rights guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States. While the Rome Statute incorporates an appeals process, the court itself rules on an appeal to its judgments, which, in my view, is an internal review. In short, there is no higher authority to the court’s jurisdiction. It rules and then rules on its own rulings.

Finally, it comes down to a question of sovereignty, the supreme power or authority. As currently written, the Rome Statute is the ultimate legal authority that trumps any national legal system. History holds a hard lesson that without a countervailing check on authority, this is an invitation to injustice.

To say that I find all this troubling is an understatement, and if I have provoked the reader into a closer examination of the ICC, so much the better. But in the end,
A Far Justice
is a story of people first, and how they are caught up in the turmoil of the modern world and doing their best to survive.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing is a lonely business and I am indebted to a small group of people who helped in the making of this book.
A Far Justice
is dedicated to the memory of Janice Hayes Perkinson, a wonderful friend and incomparable Superior Court judge, who explained the world of law in a way I could understand. John Lescroart started me on the journey and encouraged me to delve into the International Criminal Court. As always, William P. Wood was there at critical junctures, offering advice and saving me from many errors, while John Perkinson provided the legal mechanisms for this scenario that are actually coming into play. Three friends helped immeasurably; Don and Judy Person with their sage advice, and Mel Marvel who took a detailed look at the manuscript and provided yeoman labor keeping it all in perspective. Finally, my agent, Peter Rubie, proved again he is a superb editor. To all, many thanks for the help and, as always, the errors are mine.

While the battle of Mutlah Ridge, the “Highway of Death,” that occurred during the Gulf War of 1991, is an historical fact, the version in this story is fictitious. Nothing can detract from the courage of the men who actually engaged the enemy, and their story remains to be told.