Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  “Understood, sir.”

  Stuart Campbell was shaking his head in amazement with his hands held out in frustration as he queried his team and came up with no explanations.

  On the tape, the President sighed and crossed his arms with his head still not in view.

  “. . . go ahead.”

  “We expect there will be sixty or seventy people in that factory and in the compound, and some of them will be civilian.”

  “The workers?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir. It’s heavily defended outside, and that’s where most of the combat will likely occur. If we commission this force we’re ready to hire—these mercenaries who are ex-Shining Path, ex-Peruvian Army—they should be able to neutralize resistance rapidly and then empty the facility before they blow it up.”

  “My Lord,” Campbell protested, but O’Connell waved him down as he kept his eyes on the screen.

  “Sit, please, Mr. Campbell.”

  On the TV set, the same shot as before played out, the hidden camera riding Reynolds’s coat as he got to his feet and walked back toward the fireplace before turning, showing the President in full form at the other end of the office.

  “Sir,” Reynolds’s voice intoned, “these guys are good. They’ll get the job done, without question, and they’ll follow orders.”

  “. . . vital, Barry. I won’t authorize this unless . . . surgical as we can make it.”

  “It will be, sir.”

  “. . . recommendation?”

  “Depends on what you want to accomplish, sir. If you want to shut down that factory once and for all, devastate the leadership, frighten away anyone else who would set up such a large drug-making facility, and massively impact the heroin flow all at once, then I’d say let’s pay them and get it done. Seems a small sacrifice to make.”

  As before, the President pushed away from his desk and disappeared out of the frame. Reynolds apparently sat back down on the couch and swiveled toward the desk, raising the level of the frame and revealing the chief executive with his back to the camera standing at the window overlooking the Rose Garden.

  The frame lowered once more as the President turned, his head just out of the shot at the top, his voice suddenly clearer as he faced Reynolds. “Okay, Barry. You’ve got the green light. Officially this meeting never occurred, of course.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Now. Bring . . . over here and show me the details.”

  The rest of the tape was an identical recitation of the logistics of the plan, a handshake, and Reynolds’s exit back through the west door of the Oval with a brief shot of the hallway beyond.

  Jay stopped the tape, ejected it, and returned to his seat wholly distracted by the final frames of the tape, the same fleeting scene that had snagged his interest on the first viewing. He now recognized it.

  Michael Garrity rose slowly to his feet, gesturing in the direction of the television.

  “My Lord, this recording is obviously in direct opposition in meaning and import to the one Mr. Campbell first played. In Mr. Campbell’s version, President Harris is clearly guilty of ordering an act of torture and murder in his official capacity as President. In our version, he is clearly concerned about making certain no such actions are taken. Which one is correct, then?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Garrity,” O’Connell said, “that appears to be the question.”

  “Both of them,” Michael continued, “contain the very identifiable voice of the President, and both of them have the same voice identified as Mr. Reynolds, and therefore, it would seem, one must be real, and one must be fake. The point is, however, if one can be fabricated, so can the other. It is not a matter, My Lord, of which one is the real one so much as it is a matter of the demonstrated reality that either could be faked that should be important to the court. The extremely serious nature of what this Interpol warrant seeks to accomplish . . . namely the arrest of a former president . . . demands that supporting evidence be beyond serious question, and yet we have a clear demonstration that the voices can be faked, and thus neither can be accepted as conclusive without independently verifiable evidence.”

  Mr. Justice O’Connell’s eyebrows suddenly came together as a flash of anger clouded his face.

  “Mr. Garrity! Are you saying, sir, that the tape you’ve just shown this court was a fake?”

  Michael hesitated, not expecting the onslaught.

  “Yes, My Lord. My legal team retained last night the services of perhaps the best impressionist in Ireland, Mr. Byrne McHenry, a professional entertainer, and in only a few hours of work with an ordinary tape recorder he produced the sound track you heard in order to demonstrate . . .”

  The explosion of sound from the judge startled everyone in the courtroom.

  “THAT,” he sputtered, his eyes flaring, “is perhaps the most despicable act of purposeful misleading of a court I have ever experienced as a judge! Mr. Garrity, you may well stand to charges before the bar as a result of this dishonorable stunt. You’ve wasted the time of this court and attempted to use false evidence to sway us. SIT DOWN!”

  Michael Garrity faced the judge calmly, still on his feet.

  “No, My Lord, I will not sit down with your verbal indictment ringing in my ears.”

  “YOU WILL SIT DOWN, SIR, OR BE HELD IN CONTEMPT!”

  “I did not use false evidence, My Lord. I used evidence of falsity. There is a substantial difference.”

  O’Connell had his gavel pointed at Garrity again, but he stopped short of verbalizing the blast he had planned, and instead replaced the gavel on the bench and sat back, shaking his head.

  “Very well, Mr. Garrity, stand or sit or do whatever you like, but you’re little trick has backfired on you and your client. You have done precisely the opposite of what you intended, sir, because I shall now disregard your offered evidence as non-credible.”

  Michael sat down slowly, his eyes tracking the judge.

  “Mr. Garrity, this is very serious business, this action for perfection of a warrant and an order of extradition. It is serious business because of several factors. First, the Treaty Against Torture demands the faithful adherence of every signatory nation, and after dragging our lazy feet for over a decade, Ireland has finally ratified it as well. That means, sir, that no extradition treaty with Peru is needed. We have the treaty’s provisions for extradition, and they will suffice. It also means that a matter of a U.S. President ordering the killing and torture of individuals sets up without question a prima facie case for issuance of a corresponding Irish warrant for the arrest of the accused party. The treaty requires that the complained of action, in this case premeditated torture and murder by proxy, be a violation of the criminal law of the country considering extradition. Clearly these acts are crimes in Ireland. In addition, it is reprehensible that this involves a former U.S. President, since the United States bears much shame for dragging its feet for years on these matters even after it ratified the treaty. Its conduct during the Pinochet matter in England was unforgivable in my view. Washington sat by in stony silence when they should have been actively supporting immediate extradition. Why do I say this from the bench? Because it is the duty of each signatory nation to deal with matters under the treaty very rapidly. We must avoid even the appearance of foot-dragging or delayed compliance if international law is to have real meaning. Therefore, if I had the power to do so, I would not only order Mr. Harris arrested today, I would order him placed within that hour on the next transport to Lima, Peru, for trial. Unfortunately, our extradition procedures require additional steps, including a certification from the Peruvian government that there be no imposition of a death penalty. But, I am going to call a brief recess and study whether or not I can accelerate those procedures and extradite the man immediately through denial of appeal and perhaps some other legal method.”

  Michael jumped to his feet. “Mr. Justice O’Connell, I object . . .”

  “SIT DOWN, Mr. Garrity! Of course you object, and the reco
rd will carry your objections, and I fully expect you to appeal on the grounds that I’m biased, or prejudging the case, or whatever. I expect you’ll challenge my assertion of jurisdiction, the driver’s license I used to get here this morning, and perhaps even what I ate for breakfast. And if our Supreme Court wants to reverse me, so be it. But in the meantime, I will rule in my court the way I see fit, without the interference of the likes of you, sir!

  Stunned to silence, Michael sank slowly into his chair.

  FORTY-SIX

  EuroAir 1020, in Flight—Thursday—11:05 A.M. Dublin Time

  Sherry Lincoln caught the ashen expression on Jillian Walz’s face as Jillian left the cockpit. Sherry got to her feet, cornering Jillian in the forward galley.

  “What’s wrong up there?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just technical . . .”

  “Jillian! I know I’m a civilian and not one of your crew, but I can tell B.S. when it’s thrown at me. What’s going on? If it’s a personal thing, I’ll back off, but if it has to do with the operation of this flight, you’re going to tell me.”

  Jillian looked away and pursed her lips for a second, then met Sherry’s eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to smile. “We have a small problem. The winds are far worse than planned, and . . . and . . .”

  “You’re . . . not telling me we’re going somewhere else but Ireland?”

  Jillian exhaled sharply. “Ah . . . no . . . I’m not. We’re . . . going to be landing at Galway because we’re very short of fuel.”

  “How short?”

  “One approach only, and there’s fog, and since you must know, I’m scared to death.”

  It was Sherry’s turn to swallow hard. “But we are going to make it?”

  “Craig says yes, but it will be close. I know these fellows, and what’s scaring me is that I’ve never seen them this quiet.”

  The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland

  Before Mr. Justice O’Connell could formally declare the brief recess he had decided to take, Michael Garrity jumped to his feet. “My Lord . . .”

  “Sit down, Mr. Garrity, you have no credibility before this court! You shall not speak.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll hear me, judge.”

  Even though Mr. Justice O’Connell had seen Jay Reinhart get to his feet, the fact that someone not a member of the bar had dared address his court momentarily stopped him.

  “What?”

  “Your honor . . . I’m sorry, My Lord . . .”

  “You have no standing to address this court, Mr. Reinhart.”

  “Judge, if you have disqualified our barrister, and the defendant is not here to speak for himself, then I am the only voice left.”

  “SIT DOWN, SIR!”

  “No, My Lord . . .”

  “YOU DO NOT CALL ME ‘MY LORD’! You are not a barrister before this bar!”

  “True, but I am a lawyer, sworn to the law, and able to speak for my client if no one else can. And I will call you whatever you deem appropriate, Mr. Justice O’Connell.”

  The judge sat back heavily in his chair, his eyes flickering to Campbell, then back to Jay.

  “What, exactly, do you have to say, Mr. Reinhart?”

  “Just this, Judge. It was I who conceived the idea of fabricating the new sound track, merely to demonstrate clearly the point Michael Garrity made, that either sound track could have been fabricated. Never was there any intention to mislead this court. Quite the contrary. There was no way, I felt, to properly demonstrate this point by merely stating it. We had to show you it could be done. We had to show you that a good imitator could do a convincing version of John Harris’s very distinctive voice. And we established that. We also demonstrated that a talented mimic could even fabricate Mr. Reynolds’s voice. No matter how angry you may be, sir, at the tactic, it did, in fact, make that critical point. Without the supporting evidence that his tape’s sound track is real . . . and clearly Mr. Campbell simply cannot provide such evidence today in this forum . . . there is no way for him, for us, or for this court to know the truth. Absent that truth, his tape cannot be used as prima facie support of the charges against John Harris.”

  “Are you through, sir?” O’Connell said in an acidic tone.

  “Yes, Judge. Thank you.” Jay sat down.

  “The recorder will strike that entire speech from the record,” the judge directed. “Nothing in it has in any way changed my opinion of the circus you’ve tried to make of my court, Mr. Garrity, although . . . I am constrained to consider this anew. We’ll take a fifteen-minute recess, and then I shall rule on both the warrant and the order of extradition.”

  EuroAir 1020, in Flight

  The sudden ringing of the satellite phone caused both pilots to jump slightly, so intense was their concentration on the unfolding battle between remaining fuel and remaining distance.

  Alastair answered, almost not recognizing Jay Reinhart’s strained voice.

  “I just got Sherry’s message that you’ve turned around! Tell me it’s not so.”

  “It is, I’m afraid,” Alastair said. “In fact, it appears we’re going to have to land in Galway for fuel because we’re a bit short.”

  “Galway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you . . . refuel there and try it again?”

  Alastair shook his head no without even glancing at Craig. “No way. The winds have gone to hades in a handbasket.”

  There was a brief pause on the other end. “I see. Ah, I need to speak to Sherry.”

  Craig picked up the PA microphone and paged her to the cockpit, and she responded within ten seconds.

  “It’s Jay, Sherry. I told him we were returning to Ireland,” Alastair said, handing her the phone.

  “Jay! You heard we’re coming back.”

  “It’s all backfired, Sherry. Everything we’ve tried. This judge is hellbent to send John packing to Lima, and he’s off on a recess right now trying to figure out if he can bypass the normal appeals and slam him on a plane immediately.”

  “Oh my Lord.”

  “Your returning here couldn’t come at a worse time.”

  “So what do we do, Jay?”

  His voice was dejected but the instructions he gave were firm. “Just get yourselves safely on the ground wherever and call me. Leave a message if I don’t answer immediately, then sit tight. I . . . think I’m out of options here, but until I’m sure, I’d rather keep you aboard.”

  “I understand. Good luck.”

  The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland

  More than forty minutes had elapsed when Mr. Justice O’Connell reentered his court.

  “My Lord,” Stuart Campbell said, rising slowly.

  O’Connell looked slightly startled.

  “Yes, Mr. Campbell?”

  “Before you rule in this matter, My Lord, there is one additional point I need to make regarding our videotape.”

  Mr. Justice O’Connell hesitated, then let out a slightly exasperated sigh.

  “Is this truly necessary, Mr. Campbell? You’ll be gilding the lily.”

  “It is necessary for the record, My Lord.”

  “Very well. Proceed.”

  Jay had selected the vibrate function on his GSM phone before walking into the courtroom hours before, but he’d forgotten it through the proceedings. The insistent vibrations now coursing through his coat pocket finally reached his conscious mind, and he pulled the phone out and triggered the “on” button as he quietly got to his feet to step outside the courtroom.

  “Mr. Reinhart?” a familiar voice asked. “This is Secretary Byer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jay replied.

  “I’m going to patch you back to Washington, Mr. Reinhart, where one of my people has an answer for you. We’ll be there in a half hour, but you may need to hear this now. In a nutshell, you were right.”

  When Secretary Byer had finished, Jay stopped him from disconnecting.

  “I have a question, Mr. Secretary. You’re intimately familiar with the Oval Office. Would yo
u describe for me what’s outside the door on the western wall? I need to check my memory, and trust me, this is very important.”

  In the courtroom, Campbell had hit the “play” button on his camera, starting the tape toward the end of the sequence when the President and Reynolds were apparently leaning over a map discussing the impending raid.

  Campbell pressed the “pause” button then and turned to O’Connell.