“How’s the packing going?” he asked.
“Well, Ellen’s room is mostly packed up. I just need to get the stuff I’m throwing out into the trash so she won’t try to reclaim it.”
Kevin smiled. Ellen, a pack rat at heart, insisted on saving every piece of paper, Kid’s Meal toy, and art project that came into her possession. It was only through Kevin and Diane’s periodic secret sweeps that Ellen’s room was not totally engulfed.
“I haven’t even begun to think about packing the things we’re taking with us. Moving is so much work. I wish we could just stay put.”
They had just done ten years’ worth of staying put, Kevin thought. He didn’t say anything; he’d learned to listen to Diane complain, and offer words of understanding.
“I’m sorry I haven’t helped much with the move.”
Diane sighed. “I’ll see you in a little while. Don’t let Ellen have more sweets.”
“Of course not,” he said in mock indignation.
Kevin knew Diane didn’t want to go to Holland. A homebody, she was comfortable in Santa Rosa and among their circle of close friends. Kevin hoped the change of scene would be good for Diane, who had finally come around to the idea because she didn’t want to stand in the way of an experience for Ellen that few children got. If Ellen had not been in the equation and it had simply been a matter of Kevin wanting the experience, he suspected he would have been moving to Holland alone.
He wondered what the relocation would mean to them, and what would happen in their marriage. As they had gotten older, the differences between them grew and bothered Kevin more. He was forty-five years old, and he wasn’t yet ready to live on cruise control. With an innate zest for living, he still wanted to have adventures and make new memories, while Diane seemed weighed down and even haunted by old ones.
Kevin had never cheated on Diane, and he was not one to admit failure by divorce. And, of course, there was Ellen to consider now. He was in for the long haul. But he worried that he and Diane were disconnecting, and was scared to death that their marriage had begun to resemble that of the couple in American Beauty.
An hour later, Kevin pulled the van into the driveway. Ellen raced into their sprawling ranch house, leaving Kevin to carry in her Game Boy, backpack, as well as his own things. By the time he headed up the stairs, Ellen was passing him on her way down.
“I’m going next door to play with Lauren,” she said breezily.
“Thanks for a great day, Ellen.”
“Me, too. Love you,” she called back to him from halfway down the stairs.
Kevin’s face broke into a wide smile. He made it to the top of the stairs and put down his load. There were boxes everywhere.
Diane, wearing sweats, appeared in the hall. “I’m pooped,” she announced.
Kevin suddenly felt tired. The adrenaline of the trial and the sugar from the sundae had worn off. It was good to be home, even one that looked like a warehouse. Tomorrow, the movers would be taking everything away to storage – the things going to Holland with them would come along in five suitcases and two trunks. The day after, the family who had rented the house for a year would be moving their belongings in.
“Are we still going out to dinner?” Diane asked.
“I guess so,” Kevin replied. “I’m beat, but I want to take Bud out to celebrate the verdict and his retirement.”
“Whatever.” Shrugging indifferently, she said, “All the cooking utensils are packed up anyhow. And Ellen wants to spend the night next door.”
Kevin didn’t bother changing out of his suit. Diane put on a light blue summer dress. At forty-four, she still hardly ever wore makeup. Her smooth, moist skin and beautiful smile lit up her face, although the smile had not been coming out much lately. Diane wore her brown hair short now, and it was streaked with gray, which she made no effort to conceal. The most striking thing about her was that she didn’t act like she was beautiful; she carried herself with a reserved simplicity and looked good without trying.
Kevin and Diane drove to downtown Santa Rosa and strolled into his favorite restaurant: Mac’s Deli. Mac’s was a Santa Rosa institution; a hole-in-the-wall delicatessen that served huge sandwiches to the town’s movers and shakers. Diane didn’t care for Mac’s – she preferred fancier restaurants when they went out, and also, she didn’t like having to share Kevin with “the entire room” whenever they ate there.
Bud Marcello and his wife, Sherry, were already seated in a booth. The burly FBI Agent had grey, curly hair that looked a bit more unkempt than usual. He seemed to also be making less of an effort to conceal his bulging waistline now that he would no longer be subject to the Bureau’s grooming rules.
Marcello rose and kissed Diane on the cheek.
“Come on,” he said to Kevin with a chuckle, “let’s take our victory lap.”
Kevin winced. As Santa Rosa’s first and only federal prosecutor, he was a bit of a legal-community celebrity. But he shied away from gloating whenever he sent someone on their way to federal prison. Tonight, Kevin decided to humor the gregarious agent. After all, Bud needed to start drumming up business after tomorrow.
“Got your new business cards printed up yet?” Kevin teased.
“Right here,” Bud said, slapping his breast pocket.
Kevin had worked with Bud Marcello for the last eight years. Bud was a tenacious investigator with a keen sense of fair play, and Kevin had come to trust him completely. He was also the most irreverent FBI agent Kevin had ever met. If Bud needed some information, he would bypass the Bureau’s cumbersome procedures and just go get it, leaving FBI supervisors and bean counters tearing out their hair.
Kevin and Bud walked around Mac’s, talking to various lawyers and politicians sitting in the booths. News of the local councilman’s conviction had spread, and the pair was roundly congratulated. Political animals always went with a winner.
After Kevin and Bud had rejoined their wives, other locals frequently stopped by, talking about the trial, Kevin’s move to Holland, and Bud’s plans as he liberally passed out his new cards.
Kevin saw Diane silently steam as their meal was repeatedly interrupted.
“Are you looking forward to living in Holland, Diane?” It was Gaye LeBaron, the legendary columnist for the Santa Rosa Press Democrat. LeBaron was sharp and very perceptive, but Diane was savvy enough not to spill her guts to the local scribe.
“I’m too busy packing to think about it,” Diane said, managing a weak smile.
Shortly after dinner, Kevin and Diane took their leave.
“Stay away from the dark side,” Kevin kidded Bud, who was fully prepared to take on work from criminal defense attorneys in his new private investigation business.
There was no conversation in the car as the Andersons drove home. Kevin had enjoyed savoring his victory with his friend. Diane was so wrapped up in her anxiety over the move that she hadn’t even asked him for details about the verdict, as she usually did. As he drove, Kevin shook it off. It was time to disengage from the councilman’s trial anyway, and to look forward to his new challenge of prosecuting Bosnian war criminals. He found himself hoping once again that the move would prove to be good for Diane and their marriage.
When they got home, Kevin went to say goodnight to Ellen. He strode into her room where she had rigged a pulley system between her bedroom and Lauren’s next door. Kevin printed out the words “Good night, Love, Dad” on a piece of paper, opened Ellen’s window, and attached the paper to the rope with a clothespin. Then he pulled the rope through the pulley and watched as the note glided its way across to Lauren’s.
When they heard the sound of the rope scraping the pulleys, Ellen and Lauren appeared in Lauren’s bedroom window and retrieved the note. Ellen read it, grinned, and blew him a goodnight kiss.
He got up and went to check his e-mail for the last time.
WELCOME, said the familiar AOL greeting. YOU’VE GOT MAIL.
He scanned the list of incoming mail. One entry ca
ught his eye: a message from his contact at the Tribunal in The Hague. He double clicked on it and read:
We are sorry to inform you that a budget freeze has been imposed upon the Office of the Prosecutor. At this time, we must withdraw our offer of a position for you. We will keep your application on file if the funding becomes available.
Rupert Schmidt, Director of Personnel
Kevin felt the air go out of him.
CHAPTER 2
“Rupert Schmidt, please.”
Kevin stood inside the guardhouse at the entrance to the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia in The Hague. He had repeatedly tried from home in California to reach Schmidt by e-mail, fax and phone – to no avail. The Tribunal official was obviously going to great lengths to avoid him. “Who may I say is here to see Mr. Schmidt?” asked a young guard wearing the sky-blue United Nations uniform.
Peering into the guard’s booth through the glass, Kevin saw control panels, closed circuit television monitors, and an automatic rifle hanging conspicuously from a rack.
“I’m Kevin Anderson from the United States. Mr. Schmidt hired me to work as a prosecutor.”
The clean-cut guard’s face broke into a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Tribunal, sir.” He picked up a phone and punched in some buttons.
Kevin hoped his name wasn’t on a list of people who had been unhired. He looked around the small guardhouse, spying a metal detector, X-ray machine, and some lockers. Another blue-uniformed guard stood near the metal detector.
After a minute, the guard put down the phone and motioned Kevin closer to the glass. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Schmidt is not in at the moment. He’s expected back soon. Why don’t I give you a visitor’s pass and you can sit in on the court this morning? When Mr. Schmidt arrives, I’ll tell him where you are.”
“That sounds good.”
Kevin was relieved that he was finally getting closer to the elusive Mr. Schmidt, to whom he planned to make a personal appeal. He was also anxious to see the inside of a courtroom at the Tribunal.
Kevin collected the pink visitor’s ticket that the guard passed through the slot in the glass, and then walked through the metal detector. He headed out the door of the small guardhouse, toward a large triangle-shaped building some thirty feet away. The three-story building had large brown pillars and was surrounded by a high steel fence. It looked to cover half a city block.
He entered the Tribunal building and found himself in a small lobby. To his right and left were glass doors marked “Employees Only.” Straight ahead was a white marble staircase with another metal detector and security guard.
Kevin approached the guard and showed his ticket. When the metal detector beeped, he was ordered to stand with his feet spread apart and hands outstretched. The guard ran a wand over Kevin’s body. The sensitive machine had picked up the metal in Kevin’s rubber jogging watch.
Kevin was then directed to the top of the stairs, where yet another guard greeted him. Next to her was a fresh-faced man in his early thirties carrying a reporter’s notebook.
“Follow me,” the guard said. “We’re going to Courtroom 2.”
She led Kevin and the other man down a maze of corridors. Finally, she stopped, pulled up an industrial-size set of keys hanging from her belt, and opened a large metal door on the left. Kevin followed the other man into a tiny glass booth, with four chairs, perched in a corner of a surprisingly small courtroom with a low ceiling. The door closed behind him and he heard the key turn in the lock.
On each seat was an electronic translator – the size of a small cellular phone – connected to a headset. Following the lead of the other man, who seemed like he had done this before, Kevin picked up a headset and put it on. He sat down, and then looked out into the courtroom. Kevin felt very conspicuous sitting in the glass cage.
“This must be what monkeys in a zoo feel like,” he said softly.
The man smiled kindly.
On the other side of the glass, Kevin saw his first war criminal. The accused man sat to Kevin’s left. He was an older, gray-haired man wearing a worn suit. He was flanked by two large U.N. guards. In front of him were his lawyers, two tall men wearing black robes. Kevin leaned forward to get a look to his far right and saw the prosecutors, a man and a woman. In the center of the courtroom were the court clerks and ushers, also dressed in black robes.
Kevin rose quickly when he heard the usher announce the arrival of the judges. Three judges strode into the courtroom, wearing snazzy black robes with red satin. As he listened and watched, Kevin was fascinated by the various nationalities that appeared to be working in the glass courtroom. Of the three judges, one was an African woman, another a Caucasian man with an Australian accent, and the third an Asian man. The clerk spoke in French, the prosecutor in English, and the defense lawyers in BCS – the acronym for the Bosnian-Croatian-Serbian language.
Kevin guessed that the African woman sitting in the middle was the President of the trial chamber. She turned toward the defense attorney. “You may begin, Mr. Krasnic.”
A distinguished, silver-haired man stood up and began speaking in BCS. The witness, who Kevin could not see from the visitors’ gallery, answered in that language as well.
Listening to the English translation on his headset, Kevin soon gleaned that this case was a prosecution of a Bosnian Serb general whose troops had participated in the invasion of the Bosnian city of Srebrenica. Near the end of the war in Bosnia, the Bosnian Serb Army had entered the U.N. protected area of Srebrenica and rounded up the Muslim men, killing some 7,000 of them.
The witness had been called by the defense, so Kevin assumed that the prosecution had finished presenting its evidence. The defense lawyer asked the witness a series of questions apparently based upon a detailed statement that the witness had already given.
The witness was a Muslim. During the war, he had been a city official in Zepa, another U.N. safe area. He testified that the General had been involved in negotiations at Zepa when the Srebrenica massacre occurred, and had treated the Muslims in Zepa fairly.
Kevin scanned the tiny visitors’ gallery. He was locked in the room with the other man, who was taking notes. He wondered what would happen if either of them needed to use the bathroom. Kevin was sorry he’d had a second cup of coffee after breakfast.
When the defense lawyer finished questioning the witness, the presiding judge turned to the prosecutor. “You may begin your cross-examination, Mr. Stone.”
A ramrod-straight man with short black hair stood up and approached the podium.
“May it please the Court,” Stone began, with a clipped British accent that suggested aristocracy. He turned toward the witness, peering over small, rectangular wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose. He appeared to study the man in the witness stand as if judging a type of fowl or perhaps selecting a cut of roast beef.
“How many times have you rehearsed this rather tawdry performance with the defense lawyers?” the Englishman finally asked.
Kevin was shocked at the confrontational nature of the question. He waited for an objection from the defense, but none was made.
“What do you mean?” the witness sputtered.
“You are here to answer questions, sir. Not to ask them.”
Kevin looked at the defense lawyers, expecting an objection for badgering the witness.
The lawyers, however, made no effort to intervene.
The prosecutor marched on. “The defense lawyers prepared your statement for you, did they not?”
“No.”
“You mean to tell us that you sat down entirely on your own and typed out this fifteen page statement covering all of the events that are relevant to this trial?” The prosecutor took off his glasses and leaned forward, challenging the witness.
“Yes, sir, I did.”
The prosecutor threw the glasses down. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”
Kevin eyes widened in surprise. A lawyer couldn’t express
his personal opinion that a witness was lying! He knew if he ever tried that in federal court, there would be a thunderous objection from the defense, followed by a stern rebuke from the judge.
In Courtroom 2, neither the defense lawyers nor the judges said a word.
The prosecutor continued: “What do you think of what the Serbs did to your people in Srebrenica?”
“Well, um, I don’t know. I didn’t personally see anything happen.”
“Sir, you were a collaborator with the Serbs, weren’t you? A traitor to your people.” The glasses were back on the prosecutor’s nose but he seemed never to be looking through them as much as he was using them as a prop.
Kevin shifted in his seat. This prosecutor was pissing him off, and he was about ready to stand up and object himself.
The other man in the visitors’ booth was calmly taking notes.
The witness now sounded as if the prosecutor was getting under his skin. “I was not a traitor, sir,” he said emphatically. “That is a very unfair thing to say.”
The prosecutor continued undeterred. “Several people we’ve interviewed say you were particularly cruel to your own people.”
Kevin shifted in his chair. “I can’t believe this guy,” he said under his breath. It was improper to ask a witness to comment on what someone had said out of court, let alone face anonymous accusations. Still, there was no objection from the defense.
When the judge mercifully called for the regular morning recess, Kevin and the other man waited in the visitors’ booth until the accused was taken out of the courtroom. Then, the door was unlocked, and a guard told Kevin and the other man that they needed to go back to the lobby to wait out the recess.
Kevin sat on a bench, hoping that he might be summoned to Rupert Schmidt’s office. The lobby was empty except for Kevin and his fellow observer from Courtroom 2. Kevin decided to talk to the man, who was standing by the coffee machine.
The TRIBUNAL Page 2