A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  “Our options are limited if the French close Djibouti on you. That would put the Frogs in the driver’s seat with the rebels, or they could kiss and make up with Khartoum.”

  Westcot thought for a moment. “You may not have any options, but I do.”

  Weaver was certain of it. But would Westcot use them? He pushed a little harder to encourage him. “Regardless, the French definitely have their fingers in the pie.”

  Westcot’s voice was low and hard. “Which I will cut off at the elbow.” He returned the mini CD player. “May I keep this?”

  Weaver nodded. He ejected the disk and handed it to Westcot. “It’s been sanitized. Don’t reveal the source.” Westcot waited for the quid pro quo. “The President has a problem and would like your help. An old friend of yours, August Tyler, was arrested by the International Criminal Court.”

  Westcot arched an eyebrow. “Gus? I hadn’t heard. We were roommates at the Air Force Academy.”

  “Happened yesterday evening in Holland. The details are sketchy but they’re charging him Friday with war crimes committed during the Persian Gulf War in 1991.”

  “I assume the situation with China, Taiwan, and the UN is unchanged,” Westcot said. Weaver nodded in answer. “So, the President can’t do squat all about it.”

  Weaver put the best spin on it he could. “The President is not without options, and the State Department is pursuing Tyler’s release through diplomatic channels.”

  “Right,” Westcot scoffed. “But if he pushes too hard for Gus’s release, he’ll piss off our European allies something fierce, which will have a backlash in the UN when it comes to containing the Chinese.”

  “That’s a fair assessment,” Weaver conceded.

  “So Gus gets hung out to dry,” Westcot muttered. “Gus is one of the good guys. He doesn’t deserve that. So what does the President want me to do?”

  “Do whatever it takes to free him, short of starting a war.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  The Hague, the Netherlands

  Denise looked up from her notes when the TV crew arrived. She nodded at the director and went back to work as they hooked up microphones in the recently completed main courtroom of the Palace of International Criminal Justice. Technically, the court was located a few kilometers north of The Hague in Scheveningen, a seaside resort. She could overlook that connection with fun in the sun but preferred not to think about the court’s permanent home on the Alexanderkazerne, an old Dutch army base with its image of military tribunals. However, she thoroughly approved of the building’s modern architecture, which she saw as a statement of the new world order and universal justice.

  She spoke to the director to insure the cameras were all sighted on her. While the court proceedings would not be televised live, the tapes would be edited and available on the Internet soon after the session was concluded. She uncapped her OMAS fountain pen to sign the confinement order that would keep Gus in a cell during the trial. Deciding that would be premature, she recapped the pen.

  Without thinking, her fingers absentmindedly wrapped around the pen and moved in a gentle stroking motion. She loved the elegant featherweight pen, with its faceted shape, deep burgundy color, and gold and platinum nib that was broken in to her handwriting. Chrestien had given her the pen when she had graduated from the Sorbonne fourteen years ago. But that was before they were married, and when he was simply an old friend of the family.

  Two guards escorted Gus into the courtroom. Although she had reviewed his dossier and studied his photograph, this was the first time she had seen him in person and was struck by his rugged good looks. He was wearing a dark suit with a light blue shirt and striped tie that did not quite match. That bothered the Parisian in her soul. She watched as he stood in the dock and surveyed the courtroom. “You may sit down,” she said. He glanced at her but remained standing. Instinctively, she compared him to the other men in the courtroom. He overshadowed the clerks and lawyers who inhabited the ICC. She smiled to herself. Isolation and confinement would soon change that.

  She tried to listen when he spoke to his guards. Both smiled and one cast a glance in her direction. The grin on the guard’s face quickly disappeared when he realized she was looking at him. She decided Tyler had made a crude male remark. It angered her that the guards obviously liked him. She made a mental note to have them replaced.

  Unconsciously, she tossed her hair into place and adjusted the white bib court protocol required her to wear over her black robe. Alex Melwin, the court-appointed defense counsel, hurried into the room, his black robe flapping about his long skinny legs. She dismissed Melwin as a foolish Irishman. She strained to hear Gus’s voice, to gauge its impact. Melwin spoke a few words in a low tone she could not understand.

  “Get lost,” Gus said to Melwin.

  The black-robed clerk came to her feet. “Please stand for the entrance of the judges and remain standing silently until the judges are seated.” Denise glanced at Gus, taking his measure. He was taller than everyone else in the room. She made a mental note to wear shoes with higher heels.

  The three blue-robed judges conducting the pre-trial hearing entered through the door behind the bench and took their places. “The International Criminal Court is now in session,” the clerk intoned.

  The presiding judge, Sir John Landis, was a brilliant dyed-in-the-wool English eccentric and spoke in slow, measured tones. “This confirmation hearing into the charges levied against August William Tyler is now in order. Please be seated.” Denise sat down and automatically donned her headset. Although the official languages of the court were Arabic, Chinese, English, French, Russian, and Spanish, the working languages were English and French. Because Gus, the accused, spoke English, the trial would be conducted in that language. She listened to the French channel to insure the translator was correctly interpreting the proceedings. Satisfied, she removed her headset and brushed her hair back into place.

  After confirming that all parties were present, Landis asked if there were any objections, observations, or petitions for the Pre-Trial Chamber’s consideration. Both Denise and Melwin said there were none. Landis turned to Gus. “Have you received a copy of the document containing the charges brought against you?”

  “Yes, your Honor, I have,” Gus replied.

  “Do you understand these charges?” Landis asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do. But there’s a problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “When I asked the registrar of the court to contact the American Embassy for legal counsel, I was told that I had to select my defense counsel from a pre-approved list of lawyers. I thought I had the right to choose my own lawyers.”

  Denise came to her feet. “Your Honor, if I may. The accused indeed has that right under Article Sixty-seven of the Rome Statute. However, Rule Twenty-two of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence requires that the counsel for the defense shall have an established competence in international law and procedure. To that end, and in conjunction with Rule Twenty-one, the registrar must create and maintain a list of counsel who meet the criteria of Rule Twenty-two. It is from that list that the accused must select his defense counsel. As the defendant rejected all the names on the list, the presidency of the court assigned Mr. Melwin as his defense counsel.”

  Gus shook his head at the flow of numbers. “Are we playing Bingo here?” Fortunately, the judges did not hear it. Gus raised his voice, full of command. “I am not represented by Mr. Melwin.” Denise sucked in her breath, totally caught off guard by the force of his voice.

  “May I ask why you object to Mr. Melwin?” Landis asked.

  “He’s a fool,” Gus said. Denise came alert, quickly revising her estimate of Gus. He had correctly pigeonholed Melwin and effectively dismissed him before he could compromise his defense. “As soon as I’m allowed to contact the American Embassy or my family, I’ll arrange for my own counsel.”

  “Your Honor,” Denise said, “Mr. Tyler is charged as a Panamanian citi
zen. The United States Embassy has no interest in this matter.” Gus looked at her thoughtfully.

  The three judges conferred briefly before Landis spoke. “The registrar will review Mr. Tyler’s request for change of counsel and allow him to contact the American Embassy, if the registrar so deems. Mr. Tyler, as you are not aware of the court’s procedure I will, at this point, indulge you to a degree. This court draws on both the Romano-Germanic tradition of accusatory law and the adversarial approach of common law, with which you are familiar. For the time being, Mr. Melwin will remain the defense counsel of record. I suggest you listen to him. Do you understand all that I have said?”

  “Yes, your Honor, I do.” Nothing in his voice indicated that his surroundings or the judge cowed him. “However,” Gus said, “I have another question.”

  Landis blinked twice, obviously irritated. “Which is?”

  “Why am I here? I am a citizen of the United States and my country does not recognize the court.”

  Denise came to her feet. “Your Honor, if I may?”

  Landis seemed relieved to hear from her. “Proceed.”

  “Mr. Tyler is …”

  Gus interrupted her. “It’s Colonel Tyler.”

  “The court decides its own protocols,” Denise said. “You will be referred to as Mr. Tyler.”

  “May I ask why?” Gus asked.

  “The court will not cover your crimes with the respectability of a military title,” Denise answered.

  “Yet, I’m here because I fought a war, acted under orders, and was wearing the uniform of my country at the time.”

  Again, Landis conferred with the other two judges. “As the defendant is retired and no longer on active duty, the court will refer to him as Mr. Tyler.”

  Denise nailed Gus with a cold stare, fixing her first triumph. She waited for the cameras to swing onto her. “To answer your original question, Mr. Tyler, the court has jurisdiction over you because you are a citizen of Panama.”

  “My father was a sergeant in the United States Army and stationed in the Canal Zone at the time of my birth. I am an American citizen who happened to be born in Panama. I left there when I was eleven months old and haven’t been back.”

  Denise’s lips compressed into a tight smile. “Panama recognizes dual citizenship. Therefore, you are also a citizen of Panama. As Panama is a signatory to the Rome Statute forming the International Criminal Court, ratione personae is established.” She tilted her head and looked at Gus as though that explained everything. He mouthed a few words and both guards smiled. One had to place his hand over his mouth and look away.

  “May I ask what is so funny?” Denise demanded, now fully aware the cameras were fixed on Gus and not her.

  “I said, ‘I love it when she talks dirty like that.’”

  Landis tapped his pen and a camera swung in his direction. “Mr. Tyler, do not insult this court or make light of its authority.”

  “I apologize, your Honor. It won’t happen again.”

  “Mr. Tyler, our purpose today is four fold. First, to establish if you understand the charges lodged against you. Second, to inform you of the evidence against you. Third, to hear your plea to the charges, and, lastly, to consider any request for your interim release. To satisfy the court in the first matter, can you explain the charges in your own words?”

  “I am charged with the war crimes of committing murder on the night of 25-26 February, 1991, on Mutlah Ridge in Iraq, and using prohibited weapons.”

  “The first charge,” Landis explained, satisfied that he was back in control of his court, “is the war crime of willful killing one or more persons protected under The Geneva Conventions of 1949. The second charge is the war crime of using weapons prohibited under the same conventions. How do you plead to the charges?”

  Gus’s voice boomed in answer, again full of command. “Not guilty.”

  Landis made a note. “Madam Prosecutor, you may present the evidence against the defendant.”

  Denise picked up a thick document and placed it on the clerk’s desk. “If it pleases the court, I will summarize the evidence proving Mr. Tyler’s guilt.”

  “The court concurs,” Landis said.

  She adjusted her reading glasses and started to read. “The defendant was in command of an F-15E fighter-bomber on the night of February 25 to 26, 1991, and that he did attack an unarmed convoy comprised of many civilians in the vicinity of the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border known as Mutlah Ridge. Further, witnesses confirm he knew civilians were traveling in the convoy in civilian vehicles, were not taking a direct part in hostilities, and that he did bomb such vehicles carrying innocent civilians.” Denise continued to read in a monotone, surprising Gus by the depth of operational and technical detail in her summary. After each point, her assistant passed a folder of documents to the court clerk, piling up a visible mountain of evidence for the TV cameras. The visual effect was damning. For Gus, it was an eternity before she ended.

  Landis cleared his throat. “We have reviewed the evidence against Mr. Tyler in enough detail and find it sufficient and admissible. Therefore the defendant will be bound over to trial commencing on a date to be determined.” Landis jotted down a note. “We have one last issue to resolve. Should the defendant be released from custody prior to trial? Mr. Tyler, do you have anything to say in this regard?”

  “Your Honor, my wife suffers from a severe degenerative disease and is dying. I should be with her. I give my word that I will return for the trial.”

  Denise scoffed loudly as she stood. She waited until all three cameras were on her. “While I do not doubt the intentions of the honorable gentleman, I seriously doubt the United States government will allow him to return for trial. Therefore, we recommend that he remains in confinement.”

  Landis tapped his pen, and glanced at the other two judges. Both nodded. “The court agrees. Mr. Tyler will remain in confinement in the Netherlands.”

  “Your Honor,” Gus said, “will I now have access to competent counsel and be allowed visitors?”

  Landis gave him a studied look. “The court has already ruled that the registrar will review your request for counsel. For your information, outside counsel is allowed as a second chair, subject to certain restrictions. The issue of visitors is between the prosecutor and the incarcerating authority, which is the Kingdom of the Netherlands. This hearing is adjourned.” He stood.

  The clerk popped to her feet. “Please stand.” The room was silent as Landis and the other two judges hurried out of the room. Immediately, a clutch of reporters rushed at Denise.

  “Signora Du Milan,” a reporter asked in Italian, “is this the first time you’ve seen Tyler?”

  “That is correct,” Denise answered in the same language.

  Another reporter asked in Spanish, “What do you make of him?”

  Denise gathered up her notes and stuffed her briefcase, forgetting to sign the confinement order. “He’s another arrogant American cowboy,” she said in Spanish. “It is time we brought them to the bar of civilization, don’t you agree?” Nods all around. “Please remember that this man, no matter how charming and handsome he may appear, slaughtered thousands of innocent civilians in a few seconds. He must be held accountable.”

  She glanced at Gus who was staring at her, his face passive, his eyes fixed and unblinking. A jolt of fear rocked her when she realized it was the look of a hunter and she was in his sights. She reached into her briefcase and extracted the confinement order. She uncapped her OMAS and signed it with a flourish.

  San Francisco, California

  The old VW minivan belched smoke as it lumbered up the westbound approach to the new Oakland Bay Bridge, slowing the Friday afternoon rush hour traffic. “I haven’t seen one of those in years,” Hank Sutherland said to himself as he fell in behind. He made a mental note to stop talking to himself. Henry “Hank” Sutherland was not an imposing man, and at forty-seven years old, he tended to blend into the background. He stood a shade over five feet ten inches tall
, had a boyish face with freckles, all topped with a full head of barely controlled sandy-brown hair. Unfortunately, he had been spending too much time in the classroom – he taught law at the University of California, Berkeley – and was out of shape and putting on weight. For reasons totally beyond him, women found him attractive and men trusted him. But behind his friendly hazel eyes lurked a soaring intellect and the tenacity of a pit bull.

  The minivan slowed as it pulled onto the recently completed suspension span leading to Yerba Buena Island in the middle of the Bay. Traffic piled up behind him. Hank closed the outside air vent and resigned himself to the usual stop-and-go Friday rush hour traffic. He turned on the radio and hit the button for his favorite news station. Unfortunately, nothing had changed and the commentators were still fixated on the same subject. “… according to an Associated Press news flash from The Hague in the Netherlands, the International Criminal Court has identified the pilot accused of war crimes as August William Tyler, a retired United States Air Force colonel.”

  Directly in front of him, a convoy of four vans and an old school bus loaded with people coalesced around the old VW minivan and slowed even more, effectively blocking any traffic from passing. The blockade slowed and let the old VW minivan set the pace. The lanes in front of the convoy rapidly opened as frustrated drivers leaned on their horns.

  The horns grew louder as the convoy halted in mid span, well short of Yerba Buena Island. “What the hell,” Hank said. Men and women streamed off the bus and unfurled a large banner. On cue, a TV crew drove up on motorcycles to record the demonstration. More signs appeared, all condemning the United States for committing war crimes. Two men, one on each side of the bridge shinnied up the suspension cables. Both were carrying the end of a long line attached to the banner. The lines were quickly attached, and the men slid down, hoisting the banner above the stopped traffic.

  STOP AMERICAN WAR CRIMES AGAINST THE WORLD