“What’s the point of that?”
“Like I told you, sometimes there are secrets they don’t want to reveal. Every once in a while they decide to drop a prosecution rather than have to reveal them.”
“Dream on. You’d be better off spending your time studying the football teams.”
“I seem to be doing pretty well so far. You’re the one who needs to study.”
“All rise! Veuillez vous lever!”
The hearing on Kevin’s motions gave him his first opportunity to see Judges Orozco and Linares. Alone at the defense counsel table, Kevin rose as the three judges entered Courtroom 1. On the opposite side of the courtroom, Charles Oswald and Bradford Stone stood confidently.
“Good morning, counsel,” Judge Orozco said pleasantly. Her English was marked with a Spanish accent. “Mr. Anderson, do you wish to be heard on the motion to dismiss based upon the circumstances of your client’s arrest?”
Kevin rose. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Before he could speak, Judge Linares of the Philippines interrupted. “Counsel, I think we can save ourselves a lot of time here. Even if the arrest was illegal, you are not entitled to have the case dismissed. There is no precedent in support of the remedy of dismissal of the charges against the accused.”
Kevin was about to offer a polite response when Judge Davidson broke in. “In any case, you don’t have any proof that the arrest was illegal, counselor. These police reports you submitted are a bunch of hearsay. The prosecutor has submitted documents which categorically deny any U.N. involvement in your client’s arrest.”
“If you grant me a hearing, I will bring in the witnesses with firsthand information.”
“We’re not going to waste our time, counsel,” Judge Davidson growled. “Your motion is denied. Court is adjourned.”
The other judges looked surprised as Judge Davidson abruptly got up and began exiting the courtroom. Then Kevin realized that there had been no discussion about his graymail motion.
“Your Honors,” he shouted, “there is one more motion to be heard today.”
Judge Orozco had risen from her chair, and Judge Davidson was already on his way to the door.
“What motion is that, counsel?” Judge Orozco asked.
“My motion to require the prosecution to provide intelligence agency information.” He did not want to refer to it as a “graymail” motion in open court.
Judge Orozco gave Kevin a puzzled look. She sat down and said, “I don’t believe I’ve seen that motion.”
“We don’t know what counsel is talking about,” Bradford Stone piped up.
Judge Davidson was still standing. “There are no other motions pending, counsel.”
Kevin dug frantically through his papers. “Here it is, Your Honors. It was filed the same day as the motion challenging the arrest of Mr. Zaric.”
Kevin offered the paper to the usher to be shown to the Court. “We have no record of any such motion being filed,” the Deputy Registrar told the judges.
“We never received anything,” Bradford Stone volunteered.
“What are you trying to do, counsel?” Judge Davidson asked gruffly.
“I have the stamped copy showing it was received by the Registrar, Your Honor. I filed it myself.”
Judge Davidson was still standing. “There’s nothing before the Court, counsel. Court is adjourned.”
The judge turned to leave.
“May I file it again, Your Honors, since it has apparently been misplaced?”
Judge Davidson glared at Kevin; he had lost his patience.
“No,” Judge Davidson shouted. “The time for filing motions has expired. Court is adjourned.” He strode briskly off the bench, with the other judges following closely.
CHAPTER 12
Four days later, Kevin was sitting at the dining room table having dinner with Diane and Ellen when suddenly there was a thunderous knock at the front door.
Ellen raced to the door. Before Kevin and Diane were even out of their seats, she had thrown open the door.
Two black figures yelled out in Dutch and threw something into the house.
“They came!” Ellen shrieked. “They came!”
Kevin saw confetti and small round brown cookies strewn along their hallway. A brown burlap sack had been left by the door.
Ellen picked up a cookie and popped it into her mouth. “Yum, pepernoten!”
It was December 5th, the day the Dutch celebrated the arrival of Sinterklaas, their version of Santa Claus. Instead of elves, his helpers were “Black Piets,” descendants of the ancient Moors who were said to have met up with Sinterklaas in Spain and helped him distribute gifts to children who had been good. In reality, the “Piets” were neighbors, who had been given gifts by several parents to be delivered to their children.
Ellen scooped up some confetti and threw it in the air. “This is great!” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t sure if Sinterklaas even came to American houses.”
Kevin reached down, picked up one of the pepernoten, and took a bite. It tasted like a spicy graham cracker. “Hey, these are good.”
Ellen spied the burlap sack by the door that had been left by the helpers. She looked inside and pulled out a large box. “Look, it has my name on it!” She tore at the wrapping paper, and then opened the box. “Ice skates!” She pulled out a pair of white leather ice skates. “The canals just have to freeze over this winter!”
The next morning, Kevin received a present of a different kind: a stack of witness interview reports from Nihudian. The reports were grim, and presented an unchanging pattern of brutality. The Black Dragons who first invaded a town acted with military professionalism and did not harass the civilians. They were men who were thought to be from Serbia and were unknown to the witnesses. Then, once in the camps, other men wearing Dragon uniforms – local Bosnian Serbs – appeared, and they routinely subjected the prisoners to beatings, rape and execution. The prisoners often knew these men. Kevin began to make a list of their names as he read the reports.
When he finished, Kevin called Nihudian and thanked him for his work.
“I don’t feel successful,” Nihudian replied. “I’m not sure I found anything helpful to you.”
“It helps to know what to expect. What are these witnesses like? Believable?”
“You ought to come and see for yourself, Kevin. Most of them would talk to you. Maybe you can get a better idea what to ask them in court if you meet them in person. There are quite a few witnesses in Sarajevo. Why don’t you come for a few days?”
“That’s not a bad idea. My client won’t tell me anything and if I don’t come up with some cross-examination material, I’m going to look like an idiot at the trial.”
A few days later, Kevin was on his way to Sarajevo. He anxiously looked out the window as the pilot announced over the intercom that they would soon be landing. He was looking forward to seeing Nihudian and meeting witnesses, but was unsure what to expect in Bosnia. Although the war had been over for five years, he knew that feelings still ran high among the Muslims, Croats, and Serbs.
Sarajevo had been awarded to the Muslims in the Peace Agreement, and Kevin wondered how safe he would be, although he had told Diane and Ellen there was nothing to worry about. But what if he was recognized from TV as Draga’s lawyer?
The skyscrapers of the city came into view in the distance. Sarajevo looked like a big city in a bowl, with tall office and apartment buildings, and the pointed towers of Muslim mosques jutting into the air from a valley surrounded by large hills. When the plane got closer, Kevin saw that some of the buildings were just shells, with no glass in the windows and burned out interiors. One skyscraper was partially collapsed; a twisted rubble of steel and cement rising about five stories in a grotesque heap.
Kevin was reminded of a movie called “Welcome to Sarajevo” that he had seen back in the United States. It portrayed a bloody, dangerous place where people ran between buildings to avoid the constant snipers.
H
e was glad to see Nihudian’s smiling face when he walked into the airport terminal after clearing Customs.
“Welcome to Sarajevo,” Nihudian said warmly, extending his hand.
As he offered his own hand, Kevin shuddered.
Nihudian led Kevin to his car, an old red Volkswagen Golf. “I want you to meet my family. Then, we will start working. I have arranged meetings with six witnesses.”
“Good work. Do you think we’ll have any – security problems?”
“Well, we might if you are recognized. But most people here are too busy rebuilding to watch much TV. So, we’ll just keep a low profile and you should be okay.”
Kevin felt only slightly reassured.
Nihudian drove north from the airport, along the Miljacka River, which ran along the east side of downtown Sarajevo. Kevin saw the bright yellow and red tower of the Holiday Inn, where he would be staying. The hotel had been relentlessly shelled and sniped at during the war, but now, with a fresh paint job, it stood looking like any Holiday Inn in a major city.
As they drove, Kevin saw 19th century buildings that looked to be untouched by the war, such as an old post office, an opera building, and parts of Sarajevo University. The streets were filled with people hurrying about as in any American city.
“There’s the old National Library,” Nihudian said, pointing to a stately brown building with its windows blown out. “The Serbs shelled it during the war, and we lost many historical works. Then they claimed the Muslims did it themselves to look like victims.” Nihudian shook his head sadly.
He pointed out Old Town Sarajevo, a mixture of stone mosques and small shops resembling a Turkish bazaar. “This is from the Ottoman Empire,” Nihudian said. “It’s what makes Sarajevo unique, and why the Muslims fought so hard to keep it.”
Soon they parked in front of a large, gray apartment building. “This is home,” Nihudian said. “My wife and daughters are anxious to meet you.”
They walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. When they reached the apartment, Nihudian introduced Kevin to his wife and two young daughters, none of whom spoke English except, “Hello, Kevin,” which they said in unison and had obviously practiced. The table was set with shiny silverware and fancy porcelain plates and cups. When they sat down for lunch, Nihudian interpreted as Kevin asked the girls how old they were, if they liked their school, and what they did for fun.
“We like to play with our dolls,” the oldest said, “and ride our bikes.”
Kevin thought of how little difference there seemed to be between these Bosnian girls and his own all-American daughter. Many Bosnian children had lost their fathers or both parents during the war. Fortunately, Nihudian’s girls – bright, healthy and well-mannered – looked as if they had survived the violence with no outward signs of trauma.
After lunch, Nihudian and his family took Kevin for a walk around their neighborhood. They pointed out some buildings nearby that were riddled with holes from shells fired by the Serbs from a football stadium near the hills. Kevin watched as the girls played on the swings and climbed on monkey bars at a small neighborhood park.
“Your girls are wonderful,” Kevin told Nihudian. “I’m glad you and your family can live here safely now.”
“It is a shame that they cannot grow up like I did,” Nihudian said, “side by side with Serbs and Croats. The war deeply divided this country and too many bad things happened for people to be able to forgive and forget so soon.”
“What surprises me is that you can’t tell who is a Serb, Croat, or Muslim by just looking at someone,” Kevin said. “They’re all Caucasians, and they look basically the same. I pictured Muslims as darker skinned people, like those from Iran or India. How did people know who was Serb, Croat, or Muslim during the war?”
“Their neighbors. The war turned neighbor against neighbor. When the Serbs invaded a town, they left the Serb houses standing and burned the Muslim houses, then looted them. You could see a street with some houses perfectly normal, and the ones on either side of them completely destroyed.”
“Why did Serbs turn against their Muslim neighbors?”
“I think most did it out of fear. Fear that they would be treated as a Muslim if they did not go along. Fear that the Muslims would do the same thing to them if given a chance. That was the kind of propaganda Slobodan Milosevic put out all over Serbia.”
Kevin looked at the children playing together in the park, and then up at the hillside where snipers had taken aim. It gave him a sudden shiver.
“You’ll have four days to get to know Sarajevo,” Nihudian said as if he could read Kevin’s mind. “You’ll learn to like it more.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get going to our first interview. It is with a judge, so we don’t want to be late.”
Kevin watched as Nihudian hugged his girls and kissed his wife goodbye. Then he led Kevin through his neighborhood until they came to an old shabby apartment building a few blocks away.
“A judge lives here?” Kevin asked.
“This judge is a refugee from another part of Bosnia. She was a judge in the northern municipality of Prijedor before the war. Many people fled to Sarajevo after the Serbs expelled them from their villages. When the war ended, the Dayton Peace Agreement divided Bosnia in two. The Serbs now govern the territory they took during the war, forty-nine percent of the country. They call it Republika Srpska. The Muslim and Croat Federation governs the remaining fifty-one percent of Bosnia. The Muslims are still afraid to go back to their homes in Serb territory.”
As they climbed the stairs to the judge’s apartment, it looked like this judge was living as a peasant. But the middle-aged woman who answered the door, with jet black hair streaked with grey, had a competent, intelligent air about her. She and Nihudian spoke in Bosnian for a minute, then she motioned to Kevin to come in.
She led them to a small table in the main room of what looked like a two-room flat. Kevin could see four other people sitting inside the other room, which looked to be a bedroom. “I know you are working for Draga,” she said to Kevin as Nihudian translated. “I also know that you will be looking for some way to discredit me or use my testimony to help your client. But go ahead and ask your questions.”
Kevin tried to break the ice. “I’m not trying to discredit you. That would serve no purpose. There are too many others like you who will testify. I just want to know some of the details of what you saw the Black Dragons do, and who in particular was doing it.”
“Do you want to know the name of the man who raped me at Omarska?”
The judge looked Kevin directly in the eye without a hint of bitterness or shame.
“You were at the camp in Omarska? I thought only men were kept there.”
“They kept a handful of women to work in the restaurant, prepare the food, clean the offices, that kind of thing.”
“I do want to know the name of the man who raped you, if you don’t mind.”
“His name was Victor Vidic.”
“Was he a member of the Black Dragons?”
“He claimed to be. He came to Omarska wearing a black beret and black uniform like the Dragons. He and his friends, who dressed alike, would beat prisoners during the day, then get drunk and rape the women at night.”
Kevin didn’t need to know the details of the rape, and for that he was grateful. He changed the subject, asking the woman about her life before she was arrested, about the ethnic cleansing of Prijedor by the Serbs, and her confinement at Omarska. By the end of the interview, Kevin’s heart went out to her, and he felt terrible about how she and the others had suffered. He told her how sorry he was for what she had gone through.
Part of him was also sorry that he had come to interview her. It was much easier to cross-examine witnesses when they remained impersonal. He dreaded having to cross-examine this woman in court. What could he say? She was obviously telling the truth.
“I have just one more question,” he said at the door when he and Nihudian were leaving. “As a judge, you
have seen lawyers do their jobs for many years. Is there anything I should know to do my job?”
The woman hesitated. “There is one thing you might want to know,” she said finally. “After the war started, many Bosnian Serbs were infatuated with Draga and his Black Dragons, but they couldn’t be Dragons themselves. For one thing, they couldn’t stay sober for a day. I heard they had their own black uniforms made up by a tailor in Sokolaz and wore them around pretending to be Black Dragons. I think your client was ruthless, but perhaps he is being blamed for more things than he is responsible for.”
Kevin felt his heart beat faster. Ellen’s preposterous Draga-impersonation defense had come alive. “Would you happen to know where in Sokolaz they got the uniforms?”
“It would have to be Stigic’s Sewing Shop. Josef Stigic is the only tailor there.”
“You must have been an excellent judge,” Kevin said gratefully as they stood to leave. “Thank you for being so fair.”
When he and Nihudian were back on the street, Kevin’s spirits had soared.
“That’s a great lead,” he said to Nihudian. “Where is Sokolaz?”
“It’s a town about 30 miles northwest of Sarajevo. But it’s in Republika Srpska.”
“I want to talk to that tailor.”
“It’s dangerous,” Nihudian replied. “Sokolaz is the headquarters of the old Drina Corps of the Bosnian Serb Army. They’re the ones who massacred 7,000 Muslims at Srebrenica. A Muslim and American would not be welcome in Sokolaz.”
Kevin nodded, but he kept thinking how important conformation from the tailor could be as they walked back to Nihudian’s car. “Where to next?”
“Our next witness is a damaging one. He saw Draga shoot his friend here in Sarajevo.”
Kevin’s heart sank. If what the witness said was correct, Kevin knew it meant that he was defending a murderer. Beyond that, he realized that his “Draga impersonation” defense wouldn’t fly too well if someone saw Draga commit murder himself.
The TRIBUNAL Page 12