Thirst for Justice

by David R. Boyd

  “Doctor, could you please describe an average day at the clinic in Goma.”

  “Okay. The first thing we do when a child enters the screening area and isn’t in immediate distress is attempt to determine his or her age. This may sound easy, but not in Africa. There are many orphans who have no idea how old they are. As well, malnutrition causes stunted growth, so the standardized tables and charts used to estimate age here in the U.S. are useless. What we do instead is take an upper arm measurement with these bracelets.” Michael held up a thin green, yellow, orange, and red paper band. “We call them the bracelets of life. The green zone means a child is adequately nourished. Yellow means the child is at risk of malnutrition and should be closely monitored. Those whose upper arms are in the orange zone, between 110 millimeters and 125 millimeters, are suffering from moderate malnutrition. If the MUAC—sorry, the mid-upper-arm circumference—falls in the red zone (less than 110 millimeters), a child is dying of starvation and needs intensive medical care.”

  “Could you show us 110 millimeters on the bracelet?”

  Michael adjusted the bracelet, making a tiny circle, and held it up for the jury to see. “Their upper arms are that small.”

  Several jurors audibly gasped.

  Quarrington wheeled over to the jury box and handed out a dozen of the bracelets. “You may see for yourselves.”

  Michael described the chaos, madness, and sadness of a typical week working in the Congo. “The first time that you see a child die from starvation is unforgettable. It seems like such a terrible waste. You hold the light, lifeless body in your arms. Many medical professionals gradually become immune. I never did. I found the work addictive, all-consuming. You feel so alive, you’re doing something useful, something good, something right. Despite the stress, the heat, the humidity, the disease, the deaths, the struggles, and the endless problems, I loved it there, loved the work, my colleagues, the country, and the people.”

  “Dr. MacDougall, you took photographs of your patients, is that correct?”

  “Yes, with their permission.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I wanted to be able to remember them. All of them. Even the ones who didn’t make it.”

  “And you kept these photographs on your laptop?” While Quarrington continued the questions, Yavari turned on the video projector.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recognize this USB drive?”

  “Yes. It’s a digital photo album of patients from my first trip to Africa.”

  “Could we have the lights turned down please?”

  Marconi leapt to her feet. “Objection. We’re here for a trial, not a slideshow. Relevance?”

  “The U.S. attorney makes a good point,” Klinsmann said. “Mr. Quarrington, could you enlighten us as to how photographs of African children are in any way relevant to your client’s defense.”

  “Of course, your honor. These photographs are evidence related to the first element of the necessity defense, establishing that there is in fact a humanitarian emergency occurring in sub-Saharan Africa.”

  Marconi added to her objection. “We can all agree that the Congo faces major problems. There’s no need to spoon-feed the court with pictures. In addition, there is no way to verify the authenticity of these photographs. They could have been taken anywhere, by anyone.”

  “To the contrary,” Quarrington boomed, “the defendant is testifying under oath. He will aver to the authenticity of the photo­graphic evidence and is liable to criminal prosecution for perjury if he makes any false statements. This is no different from the introduction of any physical evidence by any witness in a trial.”

  “I am not convinced, Mr. Quarrington,” Klinsmann said. “You’re on a short leash, but you may proceed.” The bailiff dimmed the lights.

  Quarrington handed the remote control to Michael. “Dr. MacDougall, please describe the nature of the images that you are about to present?”

  “Yes. Of course I had my phone with me when I traveled to Africa. My original intention was to take photos of the places I visited and the people I met. Like a regular tourist, I guess. However, because of the intensity of the humanitarian crisis in the Eastern Congo, there were no days off, no opportunities to visit national parks or wildlife sanctuaries as I’d originally envisioned. Instead, virtually all of the photographs are of my IMAF colleagues and our patients.

  “Our paper recordkeeping is very limited. We have a bare-bones administrative staff, so it seemed like it might be useful to take photographs of every patient that I diagnosed or treated. Some days that would be dozens of people, up to perhaps one hundred. The majority were children.”

  The first slide showed a dark-skinned, malnourished child, staring vacantly into the camera. “This is Amara Sembolo, the first patient that I treated after my arrival in the Congo. He suffered from diarrhea, thrush, scabies, and malaria. Amara, despite my best efforts, was too far gone.” Michael’s voice cracked.

  “This is Edzongo Itoua. Severely malnourished but resilient. A real fighter, as you can see in his eyes. We called him ‘Fast Eddie.’ He gained weight and was eventually discharged.”

  “This is Bernadette Kabongo. Fourteen years old. Forced to work as a sex slave. She died in childbirth. Her son was stillborn.”

  “Arsene Malonga. Destin Tsoumou. Martine Muhindo. Francky Bhebey Ndey. Laurent Lumumba. Kaniono Lukoki.” Whether they’d lived or died, for several minutes, Michael whispered their names.

  Michael came to Anna’s photograph of the little boy, Étienne Tshisekedi, to whom he’d given his own blood. Michael came apart on the witness stand, wracked by uncontrollable sobs.

  Despite the fact that the lights were turned down, tear tracks were evident on the faces of several jurors. Two of the shadow jurors, sitting in the public gallery were openly crying. It was impossible not to be moved. These were children, no different from American children.

  Michael could no longer even say the names. Photo after photo appeared on the screen in silence. Marconi stood and bravely interrupted. “Your honor, I would like to suggest that we take a break. Let’s give the defendant time to regain his composure before we continue.”

  “Excellent suggestion. We will take a fifteen-minute recess. Bailiff! Lights.”

  “Permission to approach the bench, your honor?” asked the U.S. attorney.

  “Yes, Ms. Marconi.”

  Marconi and Quarrington stepped up to the dais, where the acoustics were modified to ensure that conversations between judge and counsel were out of the jury’s earshot.

  “I think we’ve seen enough, your honor. The defendant has made his point. Repeatedly. How many photographs do we expect the jury to endure?”

  Quarrington had a quick answer. “The number of children who die daily in Africa due to preventable and treatable ailments numbers in the thousands, as we have heard. In my submission, that would be an appropriate range for the number of images for the jury to ‘endure’ as my friend put it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Marconi sputtered.

  “Hold your vitriol, Ms. Marconi,” Quarrington was unflappable. “You will be relieved to learn that the defense does not have anywhere near 5,000 photographs, let alone 10,000. I believe there are approximately 150 pictures on this CD.”

  Klinsmann held up a hand. “I think there’s a reasonable compromise available here. In my opinion, the jury and I have seen all that we need to see to inform our judgment in this case. The disk containing all of the photographs—both viewed and unviewed—has been entered into evidence and will be available to the jury should they wish to review it as part of their deliberations. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Yes, your honor.” Marconi’s gambit had worked. She appeared humane in seeking a respite for Michael but succeeded in her ulterior objective of stopping the defense’s slideshow.

  “Mr. Quarrington?” prom
pted the judge.

  “I would like to register my objection on the record. Withholding relevant evidence from the jury constitutes a potential ground for appeal.”

  “So noted. Dismissed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said as Quarrington returned to the defense table.

  “Absolutely no need to apologize. You were superb.”

  Court was called to order again and Quarrington resumed his questions. “Dr. MacDougall, please tell us about the steps you took to address the problems facing the world’s forgotten children when you returned home.”

  “I tried to persuade the government to recognize and respond to the magnitude of preventable death, disease, and suffering, to change its approach. I set up a charitable organization called the Blue Drop Foundation. I used some of my life savings to get it started.”

  “Please tell us about the basic idea behind the Blue Drop Foundation.”

  “The idea came to me a while after I returned from Africa. It seemed so simple. I thought that if Americans paid a one-cent premium for every soda, beer, bottled water, juice, coffee, or tea, for every time they bought a beverage . . . and if you took all that money and dedicated it to providing clean water in developing countries, then one of the biggest problems facing a billion people every day could be solved within a decade. A penny per drink. Is that too much to pay to save the lives of at least one million kids a year? Can anybody in the United States answer that question ‘Yes’ and still look at themselves in the mirror?”

  “And what was the response to your idea?”

  “I presented the concept to politicians and CEOs. I approached members of Congress, governors, bureaucrats, and all kinds of corporate executives. It was like talking to lobotomy patients in a mental institution. I couldn’t seem to penetrate the fog. ‘Too great an impact on the bottom line.’ ‘Consumers will go ballistic.’ ‘Sure we’ll do it but we don’t want to be the first.’ All I got was a litany of excuses.

  “I went to the megacorporations. No luck. I went to the microbreweries. No luck. I reached out to every soda pop manufacturer and juice processor in the country. I got nowhere. I achieved nothing. I couldn’t create even a microscopic crack in the brick wall of corporate and government indifference.”

  “And so you decided to pursue a different approach?”

  “Yes. I realized that the humanitarian crisis warranted desperate, immediate action. I thought long and hard about the best way that I, as an individual, could get the government’s attention. That’s when I began to contemplate taking the extreme step of contaminating Seattle’s water supply. Initially I was horrified by the very thought of it.”

  “But?”

  “But as distasteful as the idea seemed, I couldn’t come up with any viable alternatives. I witnessed too many kids dying. Hundreds of children’s faces invade my brain every time I try to sleep. I lived with them. I visited with them. I listened to their stories. I gave them the best medical treatment possible in the circumstances. I did everything I could, everything, and it was light years short of being anywhere near enough.

  “My goal in contaminating Seattle’s water was to save people, not harm them. I planned everything extremely carefully to ensure that Americans would not die, or even become ill, as a result of my actions. If the government had listened, the outcome would have been millions of innocent children saved and not a single person hurt.”

  Quarrington repeated the final words: “Millions saved and not a single person hurt.”

  Michael was drenched with sweat when he finished, wet patches visible under both arms.

  Marconi requested a recess before proceeding with her cross-examination. She was reluctant to leave the jurors reflecting on Michael’s story but wanted to consult with her superiors about the pros and cons of keeping him on the stand, where he might score even more points with the jury. They decided to keep it simple. She would ask tight, focused questions to which she already knew the answer, and would avoid letting Michael tell any more stories.

  After a brief ten-minute respite, she stood in front of the witness stand. “Mr. MacDougall, I have nine simple yes or no questions for you. One, did you steal perchloroethylene from a hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two. You were well aware that perchloroethylene is a toxic chemical, were you not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “These are simple yes or no questions,” Marconi cut Michael off. “Three. You trespassed in an area off limits to the public and dumped PCE in the Chester Morse Reservoir, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew that the Chester Morse Reservoir is the primary source of drinking water for the city of Seattle?”

  “Yes.”

  “You left the country the same day that you dumped the PCE in Seattle’s drinking water?”

  “Yes.”

  “You threatened to carry out another attack on an American city’s drinking water unless the government of the United States complied with your demand to spend an additional $100 billion on foreign aid, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You made this threat directly to the president?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the president comply with your demand?”

  “No.”

  “So your plan, if I can call it that, was a failure?”

  “Well—”

  “Yes or no?”

  Michael sat stone-faced, unwilling to answer. Klinsmann glared down at him and said, “You have to answer the question.”

  “The government—”

  Marconi cut Michael off again, asking, “Did your plan succeed, yes or no?” but he ignored her. Without raising his voice, he completed his sentence: “. . . refused to do the right thing.”

  “Your honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer the question put to him?”

  Again Klinsmann glared at Michael over the top of his glasses. “Mr. MacDougall, answer the question or I will find you in contempt of court.”

  “Did your plan succeed, yes or no?”

  “No,” said Michael.

  Chapter 46

  After an abbreviated lunch break, Marconi began her closing statement. Still not a single hair out of place. No wrinkles in her suit. Still speaking without the assistance of notes. “Most criminals have excuses for their illegal actions. This is particularly true of terrorists, who almost always justify their actions based on political or religious beliefs. In the American legal system, excuses and justifications do not qualify as defenses.

  “Imagine the consequences of accepting the defendant’s arguments. Grocery stores could be pillaged because somebody was hungry; hospitals could be plundered for drugs because someone was in pain; homes could be broken into because a person lacked shelter; banks could be robbed because someone was unemployed.

  “There were avenues available to the defendant that preclude the defense of necessity. He could vote, write letters, lobby, circulate petitions, join like-minded citizens, or form an advocacy organization. If he wanted to take matters into his own hands, in a lawful and democratic manner, he could run for elected office.

  “The defense has attempted to portray the accused as a do-gooder. In fact the accused is a terrorist. The Patriot Act defines terrorism as an activity that meets three basic criteria: intimidates or coerces either the government or the civilian population, breaks criminal laws, and endangers human life. The accused is clearly, undeniably, three for three. He blackmailed the president, stole, trespassed, used a chemical weapon, and poisoned the people of Seattle.

  “American courts have consistently rejected the use of the necessity defense in comparable circumstances. Let me quote several leading cases. The Federal Court, Tenth Circuit, ruled that ‘to allow the personal, ethical, moral, or religious beliefs of a person, no matter how sincere or well-intended, as a justification for criminal
activity . . . would not only lead to chaos but would be tantamount to sanctioning anarchy.’ The Federal Court, Seventh Circuit, ruled that ‘one who elects to serve mankind by taking the law into his own hands thereby demonstrates his conviction that his own ability to determine policy is superior to democratic decision-making. Appellant’s professed unselfish motivation, rather than a justification, actually identifies a form of arrogance which organized society cannot tolerate.’

  “Like other terrorists who have wrought havoc on Americans, importing fear into our lives, the accused has taken it upon himself to usurp the role of the Almighty. By taking into his own hands decisions about who should live and who should die, the accused is guilty not only of terrorism but playing God. He wants you to think that he is somehow above the law, more capable than our elected president and Congress of making important fiscal and foreign policy decisions. Despite my colleague’s attempts to portray the defendant as an honorable man, a humanitarian, and even, unbelievably, a hero, you must remember one fundamental point: there’s no such thing as an innocent terrorist.”

  For his closing statement Quarrington abandoned his wheelchair and used two beautiful canes, carved from arbutus, to help him stand and face the jury.

  “Dr. MacDougall is not a terrorist, a criminal, a murderer, or a madman. Comparisons to the Unabomber, Timothy McVeigh, and Osama bin Laden are grossly unfair and inaccurate. These madmen killed innocent people in pursuit of personal agendas, half-baked Luddite philosophies, and illogical religious ideas. Dr. MacDougall killed no one, injured no one, and sought to save millions of lives.

  “I would like to ask each of you to think of your children, how much you love them, what they mean to you, the joy and wonder they have brought into your life, how proud you are of their accomplishments.