A Far Justice (8 page)

Gus banged his hand on the table, finally understanding.
You delayed the interview until all the players coordinated the spin.

A quick smile played at the corners of Hank’s mouth. “Thank you for the excellent dinner while we waited. One of the pleasant surprises I’ve discovered is that Dutch cuisine is truly world class.”

De Rijn took the compliment graciously and keyed off it. “It was the least we could do. As you have also probably discovered, we Dutch are much more attuned to world events than Americans.”

“Now that’s a true statement if I ever heard one,” Hank conceded. “Everyone over here seems to know about the International Criminal Court and the arrest of Colonel Tyler. Personally, I think it’s a matter of geography. In the United States, we’re just too spread out and too far away to feel physically involved. Distance does lessen the impact.”

Gus’s laugh filled his cell. Hank had taken the issue away from de Rijn.
That’s not the answer you wanted, was it?

“Perhaps,” de Rijn continued, “we could start by asking why Americans are so hostile to the court?”

Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer,
Gus thought.

“It’s not a question of hostility,” Hank replied, “but of a fundamental conflict that goes to the very heart of the International Criminal Court. Our constitution guarantees every US citizen the right to a trial by an impartial jury of his peers. There is no trial by jury under the ICC.”

Gus read the expression on de Rijn’s face.
You didn’t like that answer either, did you?

The door of his cell swung open and a guard he had never seen before, a hulking brute of a man, rushed in. He turned off the TV, quickly disconnected it, and jerked it off the shelf. “It is not allowed,” he said with a heavy guttural accent. “The prosecutor’s orders.” He walked out, kicking the door shut. This time, Hank heard the lock click shut. The lights went out.

So why are they turning up the pressure?
Gus wondered. He stretched out on his narrow bunk, folded his hands behind his head, and thought about it.

Denise tried to relax into her office chair, as her elegant OMAS pen twiddled in her fingers like a miniature baton. But nothing helped as she focused on the TV screen that retracted into the center of her black-lacquered desk. The TV camera zoomed in on de Rijn as he made a show of consulting his notes. She raged to herself as her anger broke over the seawall that contained it. Less than an hour ago, de Rijn’s producer had assured her they would crucify Tyler in the court of Dutch public opinion. But that wasn’t happening, and Sutherland had captured the interview.

De Rijn looked into the camera. “Professor Sutherland, you have gone on record as saying the court is the logical outgrowth of the Nuremberg Trial at the end of World War II.”

“I never used the word ‘logical.’ While the ICC is seen as an outgrowth of Nuremberg, the comparison does not hold up under close scrutiny.”

“Nonsense. Of course it does.”

Hank shook his head. “Nuremberg was held after the unconditional surrender of Germany to the Allied Powers. The trial was convened by the Allied Powers who, because of Germany’s unconditional surrender, were the sovereign authority in Germany, and held jurisdiction. The defendants were Germans, and the trial was held in the heart of Germany for crimes committed in Germany or German occupied lands. No one has ever explained how we got from that situation to the International Criminal Court.”

De Rijn dropped that line of questioning. “Is that your only objection to the court?”

“The court claims that it has jurisdiction over states that are not parties to the Statute of Rome,” Hank replied.

De Rijn smiled, now on firmer ground. “It’s called the doctrine of universal jurisdiction. The civilized world believes it is an idea whose time has come.”

“Yet the Statute of Rome specifically limits the jurisdiction of the court to states that are parties to the statute.”

De Rijn smiled patronizingly. “Nonsense.”

“This is a matter of public record,” Hank said. “The jurisdiction of the court is clearly stated in the preamble and Article Four of the Statute. The court simply does not have jurisdiction over Colonel Tyler. He is a citizen of the United States and is not subject to the court’s jurisdiction.”

“But he is also a citizen of Panama, which is a signatory to the Rome Statute establishing the court.”

“Not exactly,” Hank replied. “Colonel Tyler can apply for Panamanian citizenship based on the location of his birth. But he has never done so. In fact, his parents filed a notification of his birth as a native United States citizen with both the State Department and the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Therefore, by both international and United States law, he is a citizen of the United States, which has not waived jurisdiction to the court in this matter.”

Denise gripped the OMAS tightly in her hand. “Monsieur Sutherland,” she murmured to the TV, “the world has changed and the court can interpret international law as it applies in this situation.” She hoped it was a true statement but her Gallic sense of logic warned her it was not. She tapped the pen lightly on her desk.

De Rijn looked into the camera and said, “Professor Sutherland, why did Mijnheer Melwin remove you from the defense team?” Denise’s eyes narrowed and the pen’s tattoo picked up a beat. Hank touched his right ear as if he were adjusting a hearing aid.

“I can only speculate at this point,” Hank said. “I was on the defense team at the request of Colonel Tyler. But I was proving to be a deep embarrassment for Mr. Melwin.”

“That is a very serious charge,” de Rijn said, “that demands an explanation.”

“This is not the time or place to discuss Mr. Melwin. Let’s say he is not suitable for the defense and leave it at that.”

Denise gripped the pen and squeezed until her fingers turned numb. She dropped the pen and hit the phone’s speed dial to call her husband.

“You are, of course, referring to Melwin’s sexual proclivities,” de Rijn said.

Hank looked shocked. “It’s rumored that he has a drinking problem, but this is the first I’ve heard of that.”

“You’ve never heard of the Anabella Haus?”

“The name means nothing to me.”

“The Anabella Haus,” de Rijn said, “is a bordello a few minutes walk from the court that is frequented by Mijnheer Melwin, usually on a Monday night.”

“Well,” Hank replied, “as it is Monday, that is certainly convenient.”

Denise heard the phone ring but there was no answer. She hung up, frustrated. On the TV, de Rijn struggled to suppress a smile. He finally managed a condescending look. “You appear to be very upset with the court.”

The camera focused on Hank and his face filled the screen. “I’m upset about many things. The court is making too many decisions in secret, and I keep asking to see the evidence. But so far, the prosecutor has not turned over a single item to Colonel Tyler’s defense team. I suspect that a competent lawyer will shred whatever she has. And why the rush to judgment?”

De Rijn’s head jerked up. “Are you suggesting the court is rushing Tyler’s trial knowing the United States will not react for fear of losing Europe’s support in the United Nations in its feeble attempts to punish the Chinese?”

“Wow. That’s saying a lot in a single sentence. But those are your conclusions, not mine. By the way, his proper title is Colonel Tyler. Further, the United States is not trying to ‘punish’ the Chinese but trying to keep them from invading Taiwan.”

Denise hit the speed dial to call Chrestien on his cell phone, raging with frustration. He answered on the sixth ring. “Are you watching Sutherland’s interview on Dutch TV?” she asked.

Chrestien’s voice was heavy and labored. “Of course.”

“Who are you with?”

“No one.”

She knew he was lying. “Sutherland is making us look like a Star Chamber! He’s done everything but say it.”

“Stop worrying,” Chrestien replied. “I’ll take care of Sutherland.” He broke the connection.

The paparazzi were the first to arrive outside the Anabella Haus. Within minutes, seventeen men and women were milling about, searching for the most advantageous camera angle. Two TV camera crews arrived next and parked their vans on the opposite side of the street. Roof-mounted digital TV cameras on telescopic standards extended like all-seeing eyes, and zoomed onto the front door. A Dutch TV crew was the last to arrive and couldn’t find a place to park. Frustrated, they drove around to the back. They all settled down, sensing a story about to break.

Three hours later, a weather front moved in off the North Sea and pelted the throng with rain and a blustery wind. One of the more enterprising members of the BBC TV crew decided a reconnaissance run was in order, and biting the bullet for the good of his assembled brethren, took up a collection to avail himself of the services inside. He was back within forty-five minutes and announced that Alex Melwin was indeed there and refused to come out. “The girls seem to like him,” the Brit said, earning a fifteen second sound bite on European TV.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one’s viewpoint, it immediately went on the air and the proprietress of the Anabella Haus, who was glued to the TV, panicked. She promptly ordered Melwin to vacate the premises. He refused but her ‘social director’ had the muscle to enforce her wishes. He escorted the hapless lawyer to the rear door and ejected him into the driving rain. Melwin ran for his car, chased by a TV cameraman and three paparazzi.

The pursuit team had grown to nine when Melwin reached his BMW. He scrambled inside, and locked the doors as he twisted the ignition key. The engine over revved as it came to life. Melwin slammed the car into gear. The car rocketed out into the street and skidded on the wet brick surface. In his panic, Melwin kept his foot buried on the accelerator and cranked the steering wheel the wrong way. The car did exactly what it was told to do and went into a spin, carving what was later described as “perfect whifferdills down the street” before it crashed into the two parked TV vans.

Fortunately, no own was hurt as Melwin had the presence of mind to fasten his seat belt, and as paparazzi are experts in making death-defying leaps to safety. Unfortunately, Melwin was trapped in the crushed car and it took over an hour to extract him with the Jaws of Life, all of which was recorded on TV along with a most revealing interview of the proprietress of Anabella Haus.

Later, Melwin would claim he was the victim of a slow news day. But based on the ratings, it was a very good day for the morning news.

SIX

Near Utrecht, the Netherlands

“The traffic is heavy for a Tuesday morning,” Aly said as she turned onto
the autoweg taking them past Utrecht and leading to The Hague. As usual, the bumper-to-bumper traffic was moving at over ninety MPH on the Dutch freeway.

Hank took a deep breath and tried not to think what would happen if a driver made even the slightest error. “I appreciate the ride. But I could have taken the train.”

“Why?” she asked. “Besides, how often do I get someone to read an English newspaper to me?” She made a quick lane change. “What else does it say?”

Gus’s trial was turning into a three-ring circus and even the London Times was giving it front-page coverage. “It keeps getting better and better,” Hank said. “Listen to this. ‘Mr. Melwin maintains he was interviewing a prospective witness at the house of prostitution on Monday night. However, he refused to comment on the proprietress’s statement that he is a regular patron with very special needs.’”

“Well, that explains it. He had to be sure the witness doesn’t blow it.” She gave Hank a hopeful look. “I hope that’s a joke in English.” Hank laughed, liking her more and more. “He must think we’re turnips,” she said. “He should resign and let you defend Gus.”

“He’ll probably resign but I seriously doubt the court will let me defend Gus.”

Aly made another quick lane change, this time cutting off a huge Volvo truck. The truck driver leaned on his horn. “We’re being followed,” she told him. “Third car back, a blue Mercedes.”

Hank fought the urge to turn and look. He checked the side view mirror and found the car. “Are you sure?”

“Fairly sure,” she answered. She made another lane change and barely made the next interchange. The Mercedes shot past, not able to turn with her. “I’m probably paranoid. But nothing has been the same since Gus was arrested.” She slowed to make the sharp bend leading onto the next autoweg.

“Things will never be the same,” he predicted. “Life’s like that when something this big hits you.”

“Hold on!” Aly shouted. A sharp jolt and loud bang sent the car skidding sideways. Hank was vaguely aware of a silver car careening along beside them. The cars collided again, rolling Aly’s car into the merging traffic. A bus clipped the rear of her car causing them to spin as they rolled. The shoulder harness on Hank’s seatbelt broke and his head banged off the dashboard, knocking him out. But Aly was still very conscious. She reached out and grabbed Hank’s shirt. By any standard, she was a strong young woman, and she held on with a death grip, pinning him back in his seat, and keeping him from further injury.

The car flipped off the road, bounced into the air, and came to rest right side up in a narrow canal. Dirty, fertilizer-rich water cascaded through the shattered window on Hank’s side of the car. A rush of adrenaline coursed through Aly but she never panicked. She released her seatbelt and then reached across to free his. With one hand, she held Hank’s chin above the rising water while gripping the door handle on her side of the car. She waited. Less than two inches of air was trapped against the roof when the water pressure equalized enough for Aly to shove the door open. She pulled Hank out after her and immediately broke the surface. The car was barely submerged and she heaved the still unconscious Hank onto the roof. She scrambled onto the hood, and, lying on the windshield, gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He coughed and sputtered. Then he rolled over and threw up.

The Hague

Gus stretched out on his bunk and folded his hands behind his head, tuning out the usual afternoon hubbub outside his cell. He closed his eyes and let the memory take him back.

“Mom, Dad,” Michelle said, “we need to talk.” Gus heard the worry in her voice and nodded. He gave Clare ‘the look.’ Michelle was in her sophomore year in college and they hadn’t been in her circle of confidents for quite awhile. “Problems in school?” Gus asked. Michelle shook her head and he saw the tears in her eyes. “I’m pregnant,” she blurted. A long silence captured them. “Kevin,” Gus said, naming her boyfriend from Berkeley. Michelle nodded. “Are you getting married?” Clare asked. Michelle shook her head. “He wants to go into politics after his father,” she replied. “Do you want to keep the child?” Clare asked. Michelle nodded. “We’ve got plenty of room here,” Gus told her.

A knock at the cell door drew Gus back to the moment. A much-chastened Melwin was standing there. “What do you want?” Gus demanded.

“Only a moment of your time,” Melwin said. “I’m resigning from the court.”

“Bully for you.”

“I’ve withdrawn the letter of rescission to the registrar and restored Professor Sutherland as an advisor to your defense counsel. I’ve also recommended that he be certified to appear before the court.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

Melwin’s voice shook. “My life is under threat. Colonel Tyler, please tell your people that I’ve acted properly in this matter.”

“I don’t know who the hell ‘my people’ are. But I certainly know who my enemies are and you made that list.” He unleashed the anger and frustration that had been building like a cancer and threatening to consume him. “I’ve done nothing wrong, which seems to mean nothing to you or this fucking monstrosity you call justice.” He took a deep breath and reined in his emotions.

“Please, Colonel Tyler, I’m not your enemy.” He motioned at the still opened cell door and a guard carried in a small TV set. “All your privileges have been restored.”

“Why?”

“The Dutch are very sensitive to criticism,” Melwin explained, “and they are being blitzed by the press, all thanks to Sutherland.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Gus replied.

“You don’t understand our system of justice.”

Gus’s anger was back. “If this is your idea of justice, then I pity you.”

Melwin backed towards the door, anxious to escape. “Professor Sutherland should be out of hospital tomorrow morning. He’ll bring you up to date.”

“Hank is in the hospital?”

“He was in an auto accident,” Melwin replied. Gus fixed him with a cold stare. Melwin panicked, certain that Gus was going to hit him. He darted out of the cell.

Utrecht

Aly was waiting for Hank when he checked out of the hospital the next morning. They walked in silence to a car where Jason Tyler was waiting. Other than a few words of greeting, they were silent until they were well clear of the hospital. “The court’s registrar certified you as qualified to appear before the court,” Aly said. “Dad was officially notified this morning and he appointed you as lead counsel. So I guess you’re in – finally.”

Jason handed Hank his percom. “I don’t think it was damaged.”

Hank fitted the earpiece and opened the lid to turn it on. Cassandra was waiting for him. “Are you okay?” she asked. Hank nodded in answer. He would tell her later that he only suffered a slight concussion. “That’s a relief. I realize you can’t talk now but we are fairly certain it was a genuine accident. We can’t be absolutely sure, so to be safe, use my watchdog feature. If there is a threat out there, we should be able to pick it up.”

“Will do,” he told her.

“Say again,” Jason said.

“Just talking to my computer to be sure it still works,” Hank replied. “Aly, I’ll need an assistant. How are your office skills?”

“I studied office management in high school. But I’m rusty.”

“Excellent. Jason, can you take some leave and help?”

“Can do.”

“Good,” Hank said. “Let’s go to work.”

Cassandra was back. “You’re being followed.” Hank twisted around but only saw a line of trucks behind them.

The Hague

Denise stood at her office window and looked down on the milling throng of reporters, cameramen, and the curious crowding into the forecourt of the Palace of International Criminal Justice. Her knuckles turned white as she clenched the phone to her left ear. “I can’t control it, Chrestien. Melwin has resigned, and the registrar certified Sutherland this morning. He’s now the counsel for the defense.”

“Don’t worry about Sutherland,” her husband said. “We are making excellent progress with the Chinese. We only need to maintain the crisis in the United Nations until the first of the year. Just let events unfold.”

“The court is coming under heavy public pressure and Relieu is worried about the accusations that this is a rush to justice.”

“Two can play Sutherland’s game. Release the photos of Mutlah Ridge that I sent you.”

“But they’re so terrible, so gruesome.”

Chrestien took a deep breath, a sure sign that he was irritated with her. “Which is exactly why they haven’t been released before. Point to them and claim that justice has been denied too long.” He mouthed a few words of support and broke the connection.

She sat down and dropped the phone in her lap. She tried to relax and let the wonderful chair do its magic but a niggling suspicion that she had made a mistake kept eating at her. The more she thought, the more certain she became that she had to delay the trial, appease the media, develop the case against Tyler, and most of all, get a sense of Hank Sutherland. She made a note to have the assistant prosecutor compile a dossier on Sutherland. She considered the man an idiot, but he should be able to do that. The intercom buzzed and she picked up the phone. Sutherland was waiting in the outer office with his staff. “He has a staff?” she wondered aloud. “Send them in.”

Denise bisected Aly the moment she entered the office and dismissed her as being too heavy, too plain, and too Dutch. There was no doubt that the huge man was Gus’s son with the same rangy good looks and ambling gait. Instinctively, she sensed that Hank was going on the attack. She buzzed for the assistant prosecutor and his deputy, feeling the need for reinforcements. “What may I do for you?” she asked. The two men who served as her assistant prosecutors entered unannounced and stood against the rear wall. “Do you need a delay to prepare?” She glanced at her deputies who both nodded. They obviously shared her doubts.

“Not at this time,” Hank replied. “But we do need to see the evidence and your witness list. I also need Melwin’s files.”

Denise’s niggling suspicions mushroomed into panic. Why wasn’t he demanding time to prepare, and insisting the court follow its normal process with months of built-in delay? Her need to read his dossier grew more intense. “We will deliver everything we have to your offices.” Her two deputies made notes and looked very uncomfortable.

“Unfortunately,” Hank said, “I don’t have an office.”

“The registrar will make space available for you,” the assistant prosecutor said.

Denise gave the man a withering look. “But the rent is quite high,” she added. “Five thousand dollars a day.” She ignored the shocked look on her deputies’ faces.

“Is Visa a problem?” Hank asked.

“Speak to the registrar,” Denise replied icily. “The prosecutor does not deal with financial matters.”

Jason carried in two file boxes and sat them down on the big conference table in their new offices. “Melwin’s files,” he said. “There are two more outside.”

Hank peeled off the file index taped to the top box and studied it for a moment. “Interesting.” He opened the first box and rifled through it. “Where’s Aly?”

“She’s badgering the prosecutor’s staff about the evidence and witness list as we speak.”

Hank allowed a tight smile. “I image they’re enjoying that.” He pulled a folder out of the box and sat down. “Security around here is nonexistent. Can you fix it?”

“No problemo. I’ll have the place swept for bugs, and get a couple of office safes. Anything else?”

Hank nodded. “I need to see everything the Air Force has on Gus – his personnel file, his records from the Academy, training records, medical file, Officer Efficiency Reports, you name it.”

“You got it,” Jason promised. He gave Hank a worried look. “We’ve only got a month. Is that enough time?”

Hank thought for a moment. “Normally, no. But this case will not be tried in the courtroom. It’s all politics and the media is the judge and the public the jury.”

“So Dad’s already convicted.”

“Far from it. Send Aly in the moment she gets back.” Hank kicked back, propped his feet on the table, and started to read. After a few moments, he sat up and opened a second file. “Melwin,” he murmured, “you are full of surprises.”

Hank was standing over the table and arranging Melwin’s files when Aly stormed into his office. “They gave us twelve boxes of evidence.” She slammed a thick folder down on the table. “This is their witness list! There’s over two thousand names on it.”

“It’s a game lawyers play to swamp the opposition with misleads and needless work.” Aly grumped a few words in Dutch and left. Hank picked up the prosecution’s witness list and read the first name. “Interesting,” he mumbled to himself. “The Secretary General of the United Nations. Two can play at that. Cassandra, are there any former members of Saddam Hussein’s regime living in Europe?”

“There’s Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf, the minister of information better known as Baghdad Bob, five in all.”