The Accused (50 page)

“Colonel Marlowe—indeed, the Solicitor General's Office of the United States in its amicus brief—argues that the BATCOM unit was there because of the U.S. war on terrorism. The office of the esteemed prosecutor seems to agree that was the putative reason, but argues that the occurrence itself at Chacmool clearly exceeded any tactical or military advantage that might have justified the killing of four innocent human beings. Thus, those are the undisputed positions of all of the parties here. That is the framework of this case. That is also, we regret to add, the dilemma facing this tribunal.”

As Korlov concluded his remarks, he folded his hands in front of him, and the two other judges—one on each side—stared directly ahead.

“The dilemma is simply this—the actions of the United States government, and Colonel Caleb Marlowe in particular, show a disregard for the human rights of Mexican citizens—indeed, show a disrespect for the sovereignty of Mexico.”

It was at that point Will considered rising to object. The court had not even heard the closing arguments from counsel, and it appeared to
be issuing its decision of guilt. However, something told the attorney he should hold his peace.

He was glad he did.

“Nevertheless,” the judge intoned, glancing over at the bank of interpreters behind the glass wall along the side of the courtroom, and then looking back, directly at Will Chambers, “it is the decision of this tribunal—”

But before he could continue, Judge Ponti reached over and grasped his arm. The two began arguing vigorously. It looked like Ponti was making a last-ditch effort to redirect the tribunal's decision. Korlov was shaking his head. The French judge's hands were now frantically jabbing the air. The Russian judge argued back. Judge Brucker of Germany, expressionless, was leaning into the discussion, but listening only.

Ponti raised his voice one more time, but Korlov had reached his limit. He slammed the palms of both hands down on the bench. And then he raised his voice and gave his final response to his associate—one that could be heard throughout the room and needed no interpreting.

“Nyet!” he said forcefully.

Then he turned back to the courtroom and continued reading the decision.

“The defense motion for acquittal…that motion must be granted.”

Will, Redgrove, Jacki, and Marlowe all simultaneously jumped up from their seats. The professor thrust his hand into that of his colleague's and whispered, “Well done, well done!” Will was momentarily numb.

Judge Korloff hammered his gavel to quiet the defense bench and then continued. “There is an ambiguity within an element of the war-crimes offense that is the subject of this case. It is not entirely clear that the episode here, issuing as it does from America's self-proclaimed ‘war on terrorism' qualified as a form of ‘international armed conflict' within the language or the intent of Article 8, Section 2(b)(iv) of the War Crimes Code. Because this is a criminal case, we must err, under the well-known doctrine of lenity, on the side of disfavoring a conviction based on a criminal code of uncertain interpretation. This case is dismissed. The accused is hereby ordered discharged from custody.”

From somewhere Will heard a gasp—he was not sure where. But before he could wrap his thoughts around the immensity of what he had just heard, Les Forges dashed to the podium, her arms outstretched.

“Your Honors, I strenuously object. We do have a right of appeal under ICC procedure. Before I can make a decision on an appeal, I would respectfully request that the accused be detained in custody, rather than released.”

Will was halfway to the podium to counter her argument when Judge Korlov signaled for him to sit down.

“The request is denied, Madame Prosecutor. You may make the decision to appeal if you wish, but the accused is released.”

Francine Les Forges was stunned—she stood for a moment with her eyes wide open and unblinking. Then she cocked her jaw and tossed her head ever so slightly—like a teenage socialite who suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, found herself without a date for the ball.

She was too immersed in the agony of her own defeat to notice Atavar Strinsky, who was seated at the counsel table struggling not to smile.

Not that it would have made any difference if Strinsky had broken into a grin. He had been out interviewing anyway and had already secured a new position—with a large law firm in Belgium specializing in EU trade law. In a few weeks he would give notice to his superior and the personnel administrator at the ICC.

And so all three judges rose to their feet, and at a quickstep, disappeared from the courtroom through the chambers door, followed by two of the armed bailiffs.

Another took a smiling, relieved Caleb Marlowe down to the detention area to gather his personal effects.

Len Redgrove wrapped his arms around Will in a huge bear hug, and whispered, almost in tears, “God bless you, Will. Magnificent.”

Jacki was clapping her hands and laughing, struggling to find an adequate response—but failing.

“You better get outside in the corridor—the press is going to be salivating for a comment on this. This is most incredible!” Redgrove declared.

Will turned to his old law professor. He smiled and put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Len,” he said with a smile, “I want to go down and escort Marlowe out of the jail myself, and I would greatly appreciate it if you and Jacki could go face the media hounds and give them some good sound bites—what little you can actually say. You know how to do it. You know the routine.”

He paused. “And thank you both. From the bottom of my heart.”

Will took a side door out, went down to the detention center, and announced to the jailers he was there to escort Marlowe out of the building after his release. They acknowledged they would let him know when his client would be free to go.

Will understood there would be paperwork and a processing procedure that might take some time. But after nearly an hour, Will grew tired of waiting.

“Would you check on the status of Colonel Marlowe? He was discharged by the court more than an hour ago. How are we doing with his release?”

The jailer agreed to check and she disappeared behind a door. Another twenty minutes went by.

Then the jailer returned, shaking her head.

“I'm sorry,” she said with a thick accent, “Colonel Marlowe has already been discharged. He's left the detention center.”

“Did he leave a message for me? I'm his defense counsel. He was supposed to meet with me.”

The jailer simply shook her head. Puzzled, Will left the building and walked out onto the street. Briefcase in his hand, he walked along it toward the harbor on the North Sea. It was good to get some fresh air to clear his head. He wanted to call Fiona immediately and tell her the great news, but he was wondering what to do about his client…and about the strange feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. When he reached the water, he dropped his briefcase at his feet, and leaned against one of the large gray posts with a tourist telescope.

Then he sensed someone's presence and looked up. It was a familiar face, a familiar uniform. Standing next to him at the North Sea harbor was Lieutenant General Cal Tucker.

Tucker extended his big hand and shook Will's firmly.

“Congratulations,” he said, smiling.

“You heard the good news about Colonel Marlowe?”

The general nodded.

“You came all the way here to follow the outcome?”

“In a way, I did,” Tucker said. “I came in with some of the Navy. Your little case here came close to an international incident.”

“How much can you tell me?”

“Just this. Earlier this morning, the President of the United States sent a letter to the President of the International Criminal Court. Putting the ICC on notice that Marlowe's continued detention posed a risk to the national security of the United States.”

Will nodded. He now understood what the note had been that Judge Korlov had received during the last day of the trial.

“I suppose you can't tell me what the president would have done if the ICC had found Marlowe guilty?”

“You're right,” General Tucker replied. Then he gave Will another handshake and quickly walked back to his waiting aides, who escorted him to a small landing craft. In a few minutes, Will saw the vessel motoring rapidly out of sight.

78

W
ILL HEADED STRAIGHT TO HIS HOTEL ROOM
. He had made plans to rendezvous with Redgrove and Jacki and celebrate at one of the finer restaurants in the old section of The Hague. But first he wanted to call Fiona with the good news, and then access his e-mail on his laptop so he could catch up on things with his office.

After reaching his hotel room, as he tossed his coat on the bed, he caught sight of the envelope that Caleb Marlowe had given him.

He sliced it open and read the note inside. It was typical Caleb Marlowe—direct, but enigmatic—and a little troubling.

Will—

I couldn't have had better legal counsel. A job well done. Now I have to finish the final phase of this mission. This is the reckoning. I do need your help one last time. You have a card with a telephone number on it. Share it with no one, but call the number. May the Lord be your shield.

This was not the kind of message Will wanted from his client. He had successfully navigated Caleb Marlowe through a potential court-martial, a Senate subcommittee hearing, and the International Criminal Court. Whether Marlowe's “mission” was real or imagined, he did not know—and at this point, he was not sure how much he really cared.

Something had happened to him in front of the international tribunal when his personal life and Audra's death had suddenly been interjected into the record. Perhaps the meeting with Damon Lynch, in a strange way, had forced him to confront—and begin to move
beyond—the shadow of darkness that still lingered within him over his first wife's death.

But if it had, then Will wanted to move forward. He wanted to get home to Fiona. To think long and hard about exposing his family to any more danger because of the high-risk cases he accepted.

He pulled out his wallet, and flipped to the little snapshot of Fiona he kept there. Staring at his precious wife's face, which was framed by her dark, flowing hair, he remained deeply in thought for a few minutes. Finally, with a sigh, he retrieved the small white card with the telephone number on it. It was not something he wanted to do. Yet at the same time, he felt a tidal pull to make the call. Somehow, Will understood that there was unfinished business for him…business not just his own. Perhaps the completion of something much larger than he had ever imagined.

He lifted the phone and punched in the number from the card.

On the third ring, the agent in Mexico answered.

“This is Will Chambers calling.”

“Prove it.”

“Coral.”

“What's up?”

“I'm supposed to call.”

“Oh?” the man at the other end said.

“Look,” Will said, “I have to tell you—I'm not in the mood to play twenty questions. Marlowe said I'm supposed to call, so I'm calling. I'm the one who ought to be asking the questions.”

“Well, maybe there was something he wanted you to know.”

“Like what?”

“Marlowe believes he's on some kind of mission. I'm really not sure what's involved. I would hate to think that a decorated war hero like Caleb Marlowe has gone off the deep end…”

“I'm still not getting any answers.”

“You know, Will,” the man continued, “Marlowe may need you. I believe he's down here somewhere.”

“Where? Mexico?”

“Right. Down here in Mexico. You may be able to do your client a whole lot of good. And maybe even your country at the same time. I'd like you to head over to the commercial-cargo section of the airport
there in the Netherlands. We've got a plane that can bring you down to Mexico City. We can talk down here.”

The attorney paused. He was tired of riddles. And he was homesick for his wife. The American agent at the other end, it was clear, was being deliberately obscure.

During the silence Will thought about something else. The reason for the intentional ambiguity was now becoming obvious. A collision course was being planned. Something was going to happen. Marlowe was certainly involved…and for some bizarre reason, so was he.

Why did he think that this last, unexpected chapter in the case of Colonel Caleb Marlowe, accused, might be not only bigger than he thought, but more personal as well?

What if this final road led to that unknown ground where the puzzles of forgiveness and vengeance would be resolved? What if he was being called to a place of ultimate sacrifice?

He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Then he asked one last question.

“On a scale of one to ten—what is the risk here?”

“Well, Will, let me put it to you this way. Life is full of risks. There's a risk when you travel the freeway. Or when you fight for justice. Or when you put yourself in harm's way because you just may have the chance to save the lives of innocent people.”