Hank closed the door and sat down. “Melwin signed me in and left.” He placed his personal communicator on the table and opened the lid. “He’s drafting a notification letter to the registrar that I’ll be assisting him. Du Milan will have a fit when she sees it.”
Cassandra appeared on the screen and he heard her voice in his ear. “The room is bugged. Do you want me to jam it?” Hank turned the percom’s ruby lens on himself and nodded.
“Why did Melwin change his mind?” Gus asked.
“Apparently, your son spoke to him. You might say Melwin had a religious experience.” The lawyer smiled. “I am looking forward to meeting your son.”
“You’ll like him. I really appreciate what you’re doing, Professor Sutherland.”
“I prefer to be called Hank. By the way, you did a great job at the confirmation hearing on the jurisdiction issue.”
“I heard some guy give a talk about the ICC at a Rotary Club luncheon. What the hell is going on here?”
Hank chose his words carefully. “The court is still staking out its territory and is desperate to justify its existence and cost. Unfortunately, the court is turning into a monstrosity with a bad case of legal creep. They’re investigating areas like environmental pollution, drug trafficking, and crimes against human dignity, which is all far beyond its original charter. While they deny it, the court’s ultimate goal is to expand its jurisdiction over non-member states. They call it ‘universal jurisdiction’ and your case is one of the stepping stones in that process.”
The way Gus paced the floor reminded Hank of a caged tiger he had seen in a zoo. The animal had ranged back and forth in her cage, her muscles rippling beneath her skin, glaring at the world in defiance. “You know my wife is terminally ill. I’ve got to get back to her.”
“I know. But the court doesn’t move fast and follows a process that takes time. For some reason, they’ve fast-tracked your indictment, which is not like them at all. I could challenge them on it but I don’t think it would do any good.”
Gus made a decision. “Keep things moving as fast as you can. So what happens next?”
“You’ll be tried by a three-judge chamber from the trial division. There’s no jury and they can convict with two votes.”
“Whatever happened to trial by jury and a unanimous decision?”
“You have none of our constitutional protections here. I’ll press ahead, but we’ll be lucky to get a court date within a year.”
Gus was shocked. “What?”
“It’s the process I mentioned. All the concerned countries that are members of the court have to be notified and given time to respond.”
“What about the evidence? The prosecutor, what’s her name, had a pile of it.”
“Denise Du Milan. As for the rules of evidence, it can get shaky. Hearsay is routinely allowed. The judges only have to consider it truthful, relevant, and necessary. So far, the prosecutor has not released any of the evidence she cited in your confirmation hearing. Her staff says it will be released at the ‘proper time.’ The good news is that her staff is mediocre when they’re having a good day. Make that a very good day and very mediocre.”
Gus sat on the edge of his bunk and stared at the floor. “Ah, shit. I’ll never get out of here. Do you know that I can’t even call my family?” He snorted. “Local calls only and I have to pay for them. Ninety dollars a call.”
“Does your family have a videophone?” Gus nodded in answer. “Good.” Hank handed Gus a cell phone and gave him an encouraging look.
Gus punched in his home number and his daughter’s image came on the small screen. “Oh, Daddy!” she cried. Hank stepped outside and closed the door to give them privacy.
FIVE
The Hague
The elevator doors on the fourth floor of the Palace of International Justice swooshed back and Denise stormed out. It was just after ten A.M. on Saturday morning and her hard leather heels resonated on the Italian marble floor, echoing down the wide corridor of the severely modern building and announcing her presence to her waiting staff. In many ways it was a first, for the ICC never worked on Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, holidays, or for six weeks in mid summer. With one exception, her staff of nineteen was contemplating filing a mass grievance for the gross inconvenience of being called in on a weekend. They took little consolation in being paid triple time for their efforts.
The double-glass doors leading into the prosecutor’s offices divided with a will of their own, and the waiting staff imitated the parting of the Red Sea, forming a corridor leading to her office. One look at her face was ample warning that filing a work grievance would have amounted to professional self-immolation of a most gruesome nature. Images of widows throwing themselves on funeral pyres hovered in their minds. They would have to settle for the triple time.
“Good morning, Madam Prosecutor,” the assistant prosecutor said. Denise considered the man a non-entity and didn’t even look at him. She sloughed off her leather topcoat, letting it fall to the floor. A secretary scrambled to pick it up.
“Coffee,” she snapped. She had made the 280-mile drive from Paris in a little over three hours and was in desperate need of a caffeine jolt. She threw the end of her scarf over her shoulder and peeled off her driving gloves. She gave the assistant prosecutor a look of contempt and dropped the gloves on the floor. “Get Melwin. Now. And the prison superintendent.”
“Monsieur Melwin is in reception,” came the answer. “With another gentlemen.”
“Who is?” she snapped.
Being braver than the average, the assistant prosecutor answered. “Sutherland. Melwin’s second chair.”
“I am aware of that development,” she said icily. She paused for a moment, containing the fury that threatened to consume her. She took three deep breaths, as Chrestien had taught her, tossed her hair into place and entered her private suite. “Ah, bonjour, Alex,” she sang. “And Monsieur Sutherland. So good to see you again. Please come in.” She led them into her corner office with its panoramic view of The Hague, the beach at Scheveningen, and the North Sea. She offered them chairs and sat behind her huge black-lacquered desk. Assuming that Hank did not speak French, she reverted to that language. “One word from me, Melwin, and we will crush you like a grape.” Then, in English, “As your country is not a member of the court, Monsieur Sutherland, your serving on the defense is quite impossible.”
The last of Melwin’s backbone crumbled. “It was all a misunderstanding,” he said.
“What misunderstanding?” Hank asked. “The registrar was officially notified Friday, per the rules of the court. By the way, where’s the evidence?”
“It will be released at the proper time,” Denise replied. “As for the registrar, Alex has merely to file a letter of removal.”
“Of course,” Melwin said. “The first thing Monday morning.”
Hank sighed and stood to leave. “Melwin, you have the backbone of an amoeba. Madam Prosecutor, you are making a big mistake.”
Denise came out of her chair. “Do not threaten a member of this court. I’ll have you declared a persona non grata and removed from the country.”
“Offering advice is not making a threat,” Hank replied. “See you in court.”
“That will not happen,” Denise called to his back as he left.
Hank closed the door gently behind him and stood for a moment, taking stock of her assembled staff. Judging from the expressions on their faces, they had heard every word. He smiled at them. He had read five of their opinions and briefs and was not impressed. For all its faults, the American legal system did have a way of pigeonholing the weak and incompetent, and he knew pigeons when they were roosting, or in this case, molting. They were in for some rough times. A man who looked totally out of place came through the glass doors and spoke to the receptionist. Hank pulled the percom out of his pocket and held it casually in his left hand so the ruby lens pointed to the newcomer.
“That,” Cassandra’s voice said in his ear
, “is Superintendent Hans Blier of the Hugo de Groot prison where Colonel Tyler is being held.” Hank shook his head at the irony of the prison being named after Grotius, the founder of international law. Or maybe the Dutch did have a sense of humor. He pushed his way through Denise’s staff and headed for the elevator.
“Cassandra,” he said aloud, “I’m striking out here. It’s time for Plan B.”
“Which is?” she asked.
“It’s time to go to the media.”
“I can arrange it. I assume you intend to burn some bridges.”
“They’re already in ashes,” Hank replied. “I intend to build new ones. According to Gus’s file, his son is stationed in Belgium. I need to get him involved.”
“I’ll put you in contact,” Cassandra replied.
As one, Denise’s staff watched Hank as he disappeared down the hall. They were amused by the way he talked to himself. The intercom buzzed. “Will all department heads and Superintendent Blier please come to the conference room immediately.” Blier, the assistant prosecutor, and six department heads obediently filed into the conference room. Melwin stood in the corner, a very chastened schoolboy.
“Please remain standing,” Denise told them. “This won’t take long.” She paced the floor. “We haven’t seen the last of Sutherland. Given the high level of media interest, I expect to see him next on television. We’re going to take the initiative and make him respond to us, not the other way around. Therefore, we’re going to trial as soon as possible, not later than Wednesday, December first.”
“Five weeks!” the assistant prosecutor protested. “We need at least a year.”
“Then don’t let things get out of hand,” she replied sweetly. Her voice hardened.
“I set the agenda and drive events, not that …” She almost called Sutherland a trou du col, asshole, but settled for “… cochon.” Pig. “I want a full media blitz starting tomorrow.”
The assistant prosecutor gasped, his face wracked with shock. “Tomorrow is Sunday!” Being called in on a Saturday was bad enough, but working on a Sunday was outrageous, a gross violation of all human decency.
“Sunday is a very slow news day,” she explained. “By announcing on Sunday, we will dominate the Monday news.” It was a trick that Chrestien had learned from the Americans. “Further, all leaks will be approved by my office.” She turned to Melwin. “In the future, I want close coordination on Tyler’s defense and no more surprises. Superintendent Blier, I want no one, and I mean no one, visiting Tyler without my approval. Have I made myself clear?”
“Very clear, Madam Prosecutor,” Blier replied. She missed the Dutch stubbornness in his voice.
“Does everyone understand what I want?” she demanded. She was answered with total silence. As one, her entire staff decided to call in sick on Sunday. The media blitz would have to wait until Monday.
Hoevelaken, the Netherlands
Cassandra played the guide to perfection. “Turn right off the Autoweg and follow the signs into town.” Hank relayed her instructions to the taxi driver and guided him through the small town. It was Monday afternoon and children streamed across the road, making their way home after school. He smiled at their fresh-scrubbed looks and bulging book bags. “You’re on Ooesterdorpstraat,” Cassandra continued. “The van der Nord’s farm is just ahead of you.”
“I’m still in town,” Hank protested.
“Dutch farms in this area are very narrow,” she replied, “maybe a hundred feet wide, and run back from the road.”
He closed the privacy window between the front and rear seats. “I’ve read the file you gave me on Melwin and want to out him.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“Consider it done. Here you are.”
The driver saw the address and turned into the driveway of a traditional Dutch farmhouse with brightly painted shutters. Hank could see a modern barn in the rear and a narrow field that stretched back over two hundred meters. A young, very pretty, and heavyset girl was waiting for him. “I’m Aly van der Nord.”
“She’s twenty-two years old,” Cassandra said in his ear. “Jason Tyler is waiting inside.” Hank paid off the driver and followed Aly inside. He blinked twice when he saw Jason and immediately thought of a professional football player on steroids. “He doesn’t use steroids,” Cassandra told him.
“You guys are good,” Hank murmured, fully aware that Cassandra and the computers were honing his personality profile to a fine edge. Not only did they anticipate his question about Aly’s age, they gauged his reaction to Jason.
“Thank you,” Cassandra replied. “That was the first thing I thought when I saw him.”
“Professor Sutherland,” Jason Tyler said, extending his right hand. “We really appreciate all you’re doing.”
They shook hands. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Hank said. He tried to keep a straight face. “Especially as Alex Melwin speaks so highly of you. By the way, I prefer to go by Hank.”
“The Air Force will do whatever it can to help,” Jason said. “For obvious reasons, it has to be very unofficial. If you need anything, just tell me or Aly.” He handed Hank a thick envelope. Hank looked in the envelope and was surprised to see a thick wad of hundred dollar bills along with another credit card. “For expenses. The credit card is for an unlimited amount. Use it as you see fit. And you’ll need this.”
Jason handed him a small 22-caliber Beretta semi-automatic pistol that fit his hand perfectly. Hank handed it back. “No way,” he said. “The ICC is death on any weapons inside the palace. Not even their bailiffs or security guards are armed.”
Jason filed that information away and pocketed the automatic without a word. “I’m scheduled for an interview on TV this evening at Hilversum,” Hank explained. “I’d like you and Aly to be there. Just hold hands and look very worried.”
“It’s not far from here,” Jason said. “We can drive you there.”
“Hilversum is the home of our national radio and TV,” Aly added. “That’s where the major studios are. It may be late before we’re finished, so why don’t you stay with us tonight?”
“I’d be delighted,” Hank said.
Hank sat in Aly’s car while she opened the garage doors. Cassandra was back, her voice low and matter-of-fact. “You’ll be interviewed by Harm de Rijn, Holland’s most popular newscaster. He’s intelligent, sophisticated, and is highly critical of our foreign policy. We suspect he’ll concentrate his questions on why Americans are against the court and why you were removed as Melwin’s assistant. We fed him the information about Melwin but don’t know if he’ll use it. You might have to lead the discussion that way. Hold on, here’s something new that was just released. Alphonse Relieu, the court’s senior president, announced the trial will start on December first.”
Hank sat upright. “Son of a bitch! That’s five weeks away.”
“Wrong response,” Cassandra counseled. “Play on the rush to judgment and the lack of independent defense counsel. Refer to it as Star Chamber proceedings that totally violate the spirit and intent of the court.”
“Justice run amok.”
“Exactly,” Cassandra replied as Aly climbed in behind the wheel.
“Pardon?” Aly asked.
“Just talking to myself,” Hank answered. “I do it all the time.”
The Hague
Gus cycled through the four TV channels he was allowed to watch. He checked his clock. It was nine o’clock Monday evening and the Dutch news was buzzing with the breaking news on his trial and the delayed interview with Hank Sutherland. Why the delay? he wondered. Finally, Harm de Rijn’s reassuring countenance appeared on the screen. He was sitting in a news studio with Hank seated across a small table sipping the ever-present cup of coffee. Jason and Aly were sitting next to him and looking very worried as de Rijn introduced them. The family angle is a nice touch. It was obvious why de Rijn inspired trust and confidence in the Dutch. He was the gold standard for the modern
Dutch burgher – fifty-something, handsome, with a mass of carefully styled gray hair, bright blue eyes, and an honest and open, but very serious face. Gus turned up the volume of his TV to catch every word of the interview. Come on Hank, he thought. We need a homerun.
“As you no doubt have heard,” de Rijn said, looking intently into the camera and speaking in Dutch as sub captions in English crawled along the bottom of the screen, “the International Criminal Court announced late today that the war criminal Tyler’s trial will start in five weeks and that our guest, professor of law Doctor Henry Sutherland, has been removed from the defense team by the defense counsel, Alex Melwin.” He turned to Hank and spoke in English as the sub captions changed to Dutch. “Thank you for being here and I apologize for the delay in starting this interview. But given the intense interest in this case, we did want to broadcast live at a time most of our viewers would be watching.”
Gus banged his hand on the table, finally understanding. You delayed the interview until all the players coordinated the spin.
A quick smile played at the corners of Hank’s mouth. “Thank you for the excellent dinner while we waited. One of the pleasant surprises I’ve discovered is that Dutch cuisine is truly world class.”
De Rijn took the compliment graciously and keyed off it. “It was the least we could do. As you have also probably discovered, we Dutch are much more attuned to world events than Americans.”
“Now that’s a true statement if I ever heard one,” Hank conceded. “Everyone over here seems to know about the International Criminal Court and the arrest of Colonel Tyler. Personally, I think it’s a matter of geography. In the United States, we’re just too spread out and too far away to feel physically involved. Distance does lessen the impact.”
Gus’s laugh filled his cell. Hank had taken the issue away from de Rijn. That’s not the answer you wanted, was it?
“Perhaps,” de Rijn continued, “we could start by asking why Americans are so hostile to the court?”
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