“My Lord, as to the authenticity of this recording, I call your attention to the small item visible on the desk. You see there the Great Seal of the United States in the form of a medallion encased in what appears to be lucite, and just to the right you can see several papers bearing John Harris’s signature.”
Campbell returned to his table and selected a piece of paper that he handed to the clerk before handing a copy to Michael Garrity.
“I would enter into evidence at this time a personal item from my own collection of mementos, a letter from John Harris dated in 1985, which bears his signature. You can see that his signature on those letters on the screen, and the one in this exhibit, are identical.”
Michael thought of objecting on the grounds that it wasn’t the opinion of a graphology expert, but the gesture would be futile at best.
“I’ll admit that, Mr. Campbell.”
Jay had returned and was sliding back into his chair as Stuart Campbell turned the camera off. Jay began whispering urgently to Michael Garrity.
“Mr. Garrity?” the judge asked. “Do you rest, sir?”
“Just a second, My Lord,” Michael answered, ignoring the scowl on the judge’s face. In a few moments he stood up and gestured toward Jay.
“My Lord, we have received additional evidence that is extremely material to this case, and I ask you to permit Mr. Reinhart to recite it as he has just recited it to me.”
“No.”
“My Lord . . .”
“If you’ve something to say, Mr. Garrity, you will say it. You are the barrister before this court.”
“Very well, My Lord, although I was afraid I had no further credibility before you.”
O’Connell looked at Garrity as if he were seeing him for the first time.
“Mr. Garrity . . . I have reflected on my previous comments, and they were, perhaps, a bit hasty. I shall not cite you for contempt for your . . . your show earlier.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“State your new evidence.”
“As your Lordship knows, the Treaty Against Torture, otherwise known as the United Nations Convention Against Torture, under Article Three specifically prohibits any member state from sending, by extradition or otherwise, any person to a country in which there is a reasonable possibility that prohibited acts of torture or infliction of pain without coloration of law may be inflicted. Mr. Reinhart has just received confirmation from the Secretary of State of the United States, and from Washington, that the United States Government has new evidence that the government of Peru is about to be cited by a section of the United Nations for human rights abuses, specifically for the systematic torture of political prisoners, including the infliction of torture and unusually harsh punishment against two former Peruvian legislators. Placing Peru on such a list formally declares that until removed by the U.N., Peru is to be considered as a matter of law to have a demonstrated propensity for torturing any prisoner of former political standing. This information meets the applicable definitions of the Treaty Against Torture wherein it prohibits extradition of any person to a state that may reasonably be expected to use prohibited methods of torture or unusual punishment against such a person. Clearly, a former President of the United States fits this category, and since Peru may be said to have a clear intention to inflict torture and unlawful pain on the person of John Harris, any request for his extradition to Peru must be summarily denied.”
“Mr. Garrity,” the judge replied, “have you anything but verbal statements to make to support this charge?”
“Yes, My Lord, but it will take several days to physically receive the certification from the United Nations Directorate involved.”
“Then your motion to vacate the application for extradition is denied.”
“My Lord, I then move to adjourn this matter for ten days, or in the alternative, if the court proposes to issue orders, I move to stay execution of any such arrest or extradition order, for ten days. We must have time to produce those instruments.”
“I imagine,” the judge said, “that Mr. Campbell will have a rather impassioned response to that motion, Mr. Garrity.”
Stuart Campbell remained seated, his face impassive as O’Connell looked at him with increasing puzzlement. “What say you, Mr. Campbell?”
“My Lord?”
“I assume you have an objection to Mr. Garrity’s motion?”
“No, My Lord. I do not.”
“No?” O’Connell asked, his face betraying complete confusion.
“No.”
“Mr. Campbell, Mr. Garrity is asking to adjourn these proceedings for ten days, and you are not objecting?”
“No, My Lord.”
The judge sat in confused silence for a few seconds before sighing and shaking his head.
“Very well, then. I am going to consider granting the motion. We’ll take a momentary recess.”
FORTY-SEVEN
EuroAir 1020, in Flight—Thursday—12:15 P.M.
“How far out?” Craig asked, his voice crisp but more strained than Alastair had ever heard it.
“One hundred forty miles from the airport. About ninety from land.”
Craig studied the fuel gauges over his head, his lips almost white.
“How much left?” Alastair asked.
“Not enough. We’re under six hundred, if I can believe the gauges.”
“Six hundred per side?”
“No. Total.”
“Oh, Lord,” Alastair said.
“I don’t want to descend down at the normal point,” Craig said. “Let’s wait until we’re within fifty miles of the field, just in case.”
“Agreed.”
Craig punched the interphone button and waited for Jillian to come on the line.
“Jillian, I want you to get Elle and Ursula briefed and strapped in with life jackets on. Get Sherry, the Secret Service guy, and the President in life jackets as well as yourself, and get everyone seated about midway back in aisle seats. Review where the life rafts are. And hurry. I don’t think we’re going in the water, but I want to take no chances.”
“Okay,” she said and was gone.
“EuroAir Ten-Twenty, contact Galway Approach now, one twenty two point four. He understands your fuel emergency.”
“Roger Shanwick Control. Thank you.”
“Good luck, sir.”
Alastair switched the frequency and punched the transmit rocker switch.
“Galway Approach, EuroAir Ten-Twenty, level flight level three one zero. We have ATIS information Bravo.”
“Roger, Ten-Twenty, radar contact one hundred twenty-six miles from Galway Airport. I’ll provide you with radar vectors to the ILS approach runway zero nine at Galway.”
“Roger.”
Craig was looking up at the fuel gauges again.
“What?” Alastair said.
Craig diverted his gaze back to the forward instrument panel. “You don’t want to know. Just do a little praying, please.”
“Roger.”
Alastair passed the request to remain at altitude until fifty miles out to the controller.
“How far?” Craig asked.
“One hundred and five miles,” Alastair said, at the exact moment the gauges for engine number two on the right wing began winding back toward zero thrust and temperature.
“All right, we’ve lost number two,” Alastair said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“And there goes one,” Craig replied.
“Try a restart?” Alastair asked.
“With what? We’re out of gas.”
“I’ll get the APU . . . damn, no gas for the aux power unit either.”
“We’ll keep the speed up enough for windmilling hydraulics but . . .”
The electrical power died at the same moment.
“Damn!” Craig threw the appropriate switches on the overhead panel. “Okay, I’ve got my side powered from the battery.”
“I’ve got emergency lights and my battery GPS over here. No instruments,” Alastair
said.
“We’ll have to make a no-flap approach,” Craig added. “Hydraulics should last, and we should have standby rudder. VHF radio number one and VHF navigation radio number one and the transponder should work, but the computer’s gone.”
Alastair was already reaching for the transmit switch. “Galway Approach, EuroAir Ten Twenty has a dual engine flameout. No possibility of restart. We’ll need sharp vectoring right onto the localizer.”
The controller’s voice came back on a wave of audible alarm. “Ah . . . roger, ah, Ten Twenty . . . you’re one hundred nautical miles from the end of the runway. Can . . . you make it?”
Craig was running a high-speed calculation in his head, factoring in the winds as he slowed the jet to its most efficient no-flap airspeed.
Alastair watched his lips move, and his head begin to move side to side.
“No.”
“No?” Alastair asked.
“Ask him if there’s a closer field. We can’t make Galway.”
The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland
Mr. Justice O’Connell sat in thought for several minutes before looking up suddenly. “Very well. We’re back on the record, and I am ready to rule on Mr. Garrity’s motion.”
“Justice O’Connell?”
The judge sighed loudly but without sarcasm as he picked up his gavel. “Are you attempting to address this court again, Mr. Reinhart? Are you unaware that I’m provisionally ruling in your client’s favor?”
“Yes, sir, but in one respect your ruling will still deny him justice.”
O’Connell replaced the gavel on the bench and swallowed.
“Explain yourself, sir.”
“There is more evidence on that tape, Judge. Please wait, and let me instruct Mr. Garrity.”
Jay turned to Michael, but O’Connell’s voice cut through the attempt.
“I’ll hear you very briefly, Mr. Reinhart. To save time. Tell me directly.”
Jay got to his feet and looked at Stuart Campbell. “Mr. Campbell, would you please rewind that tape in your camera to the end of the original section, where Reynolds leaves the Oval Office?”
Campbell nodded and moved to the camera, deftly manipulating the controls before turning to Jay.
“What would you like to see?” Campbell asked.
Jay came around the table. “May I?”
“By all means,” Campbell said as he backed away from the screen.
Jay pushed the “play” button and let the picture continue until the last few frames of the alcove and the hallway outside the west door came into view.
He pushed “pause,” then leaned in close to the picture to verify what he thought he’d seen.
“What are we looking at, Mr. Reinhart?” O’Connell asked.
Jay sighed as he turned toward the bench. “Judge O’Connell, it is very important to my client that the world not erroneously believe the implications of this tape. I firmly believed as I came into this court this morning that John Harris was innocent, and that this tape had been tampered with, and that the conversation Mr. Campbell presented was false. I believe we successfully demonstrated how that could be done. But there was something bothering me when I first saw this, and I now know what it is. I wasn’t sure until Mr. Campbell played it a second time. Then I remembered a small, inconsequential item from a recent article in the American press.”
“Mr. Reinhart, get to the point. What do you see on this screen that I do not?”
Jay pointed to the hallway visible through the western wall door of the Oval Office.
“This video clearly shows a long hallway that extends at a ninety-degree angle to the western wall of the office. But in the real White House, there is no such hallway. Merely a small alcove. I can testify to this directly since I’ve been in the office and out that door. Can you see this, Judge?”
O’Connell left the bench and descended the steps to look closely at the screen.
“I do see a hallway, yes. But how am I to know your memory is correct? How long ago were you there, Mr. Reinhart?”
Jay hesitated. “Over ten years ago, I’ll admit. But one does not forget that office.”
The judge walked back around and regained his bench as Jay decided to chance a direct request.
“Your Honor, if I may have a ten-minute recess, the Secretary of State of the United States is on his way here. He is in the Oval Office on a weekly basis and can testify firsthand as to whether this hallway really exists or not.”
The judge sat down, saying nothing. He scratched his face and glanced at Stuart Campbell, who was silent, then leaned forward.
“Ten-minute recess it shall be, Mr. Reinhart.”
Joe Byer took the stand when Mr. Justice O’Connell reconvened the court, making fast work of the confirmation that the hallway shown in the video did not exist in the real White House.
“Thank you Mr. Byer, you may step down,” the judge said, focusing on Jay. “Mr. Reinhart, if not the White House . . . and I am satisfied about that . . . then what are we looking at?”
Jay got to his feet. “There are, Judge, a total of five different fully furnished mockups of the Oval Office available for the rental of film makers in the U.S. One of them is a permanent set used in the production of a popular television series about the White House. Others have been used constantly in a long procession of feature films or made-for-TV films. These sets can be shipped by truck anywhere in North America and set up in less than a week, and the interiors are essentially indistinguishable from the real office. What we see on this video are pictures made on an artificial set, a mock-up of the Oval Office.”
The judge looked at Stuart Campbell, who shook his head and raised the palm of one hand to indicate he had nothing to add or object to.
Jay had moved closer to the video screen and toggled the video forward and backward, seemingly absorbed in the picture.
“Mr. Reinhart, if you’re through, sir . . .”
Jay’s eyes had grown wider as he held an index finger in the air. “Wait . . . wait just a second, Your Honor . . .”
“Mr. Reinhart . . .”
Jay turned to the bench. “Judge O’Connell, would you consider coming down here again? There’s something else I’ve just found that absolutely proves my point.”
Mr. Justice O’Connell shook his head as he got to his feet and moved around to the screen once again.
“Here, sir. On that angled wall, you see that mirror, on the side of the alleged hallway just outside the door?”
“Yes?”
“Look in the mirror.”
“I see some vertical lines, not quite vertical,” he said. “What are they?”
“Those, Judge, are some of the two-by-fours holding up the backside of the set.”
EuroAir 1020, in Flight
“Ten Twenty, turn right now to a heading of zero nine five degrees. I’m taking you to a closer airport at Connemara. Twenty-one miles closer. There’s one runway, runway two seven, and there’s an ILS for that one. It’s twenty-two hundred meters . . . ah, over sixty five hundred feet in length.”
“What’s the designator?” Alastair asked quickly, receiving the four-letter code and punching it rapidly into his handheld GPS. “I show sixty-two miles, Galway.”
“Roger. Sixty-one miles now,” the controller said.
“Tell him we can do that, Alastair, but we’ll have only one chance at it. How’s the weather there? If it’s good enough, maybe we can land straight in to the east.”
Alastair passed the question.
“I have the weather for Connemara Regional,” the controller said. “The ceiling is indefinite at one hundred fifty feet, visibility a half mile and fog, winds are two seven zero at twelve knots. The ILS is up for runway two seven. Just tell me what you want.”
Alastair turned to Craig, who was licking his lips and mentally racing through more calculations.
“I think,” Craig said, without turning his head, “that we have no choice but to fly the instrument approach t
o runway two seven, even though that means we have to fly past the airport and turn around. We’ve got enough altitude to pass the runway a mile and a half to the south as we’re going eastbound, then make a tight left one-hundred-eighty-degree turn back west on instruments and find the localizer for runway two seven, and just . . . come down to the glide slope.”
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