A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  “Two can play Sutherland’s game. Release the photos of Mutlah Ridge that I sent you.”

  “But they’re so terrible, so gruesome.”

  Chrestien took a deep breath, a sure sign that he was irritated with her. “Which is exactly why they haven’t been released before. Point to them and claim that justice has been denied too long.” He mouthed a few words of support and broke the connection.

  She sat down and dropped the phone in her lap. She tried to relax and let the wonderful chair do its magic but a niggling suspicion that she had made a mistake kept eating at her. The more she thought, the more certain she became that she had to delay the trial, appease the media, develop the case against Tyler, and most of all, get a sense of Hank Sutherland. She made a note to have the assistant prosecutor compile a dossier on Sutherland. She considered the man an idiot, but he should be able to do that. The intercom buzzed and she picked up the phone. Sutherland was waiting in the outer office with his staff. “He has a staff?” she wondered aloud. “Send them in.”

  Denise bisected Aly the moment she entered the office and dismissed her as being too heavy, too plain, and too Dutch. There was no doubt that the huge man was Gus’s son with the same rangy good looks and ambling gait. Instinctively, she sensed that Hank was going on the attack. She buzzed for the assistant prosecutor and his deputy, feeling the need for reinforcements. “What may I do for you?” she asked. The two men who served as her assistant prosecutors entered unannounced and stood against the rear wall. “Do you need a delay to prepare?” She glanced at her deputies who both nodded. They obviously shared her doubts.

  “Not at this time,” Hank replied. “But we do need to see the evidence and your witness list. I also need Melwin’s files.”

  Denise’s niggling suspicions mushroomed into panic. Why wasn’t he demanding time to prepare, and insisting the court follow its normal process with months of built-in delay? Her need to read his dossier grew more intense. “We will deliver everything we have to your offices.” Her two deputies made notes and looked very uncomfortable.

  “Unfortunately,” Hank said, “I don’t have an office.”

  “The registrar will make space available for you,” the assistant prosecutor said.

  Denise gave the man a withering look. “But the rent is quite high,” she added. “Five thousand dollars a day.” She ignored the shocked look on her deputies’ faces.

  “Is Visa a problem?” Hank asked.

  “Speak to the registrar,” Denise replied icily. “The prosecutor does not deal with financial matters.”

  Jason carried in two file boxes and sat them down on the big conference table in their new offices. “Melwin’s files,” he said. “There are two more outside.”

  Hank peeled off the file index taped to the top box and studied it for a moment. “Interesting.” He opened the first box and rifled through it. “Where’s Aly?”

  “She’s badgering the prosecutor’s staff about the evidence and witness list as we speak.”

  Hank allowed a tight smile. “I image they’re enjoying that.” He pulled a folder out of the box and sat down. “Security around here is nonexistent. Can you fix it?”

  “No problemo. I’ll have the place swept for bugs, and get a couple of office safes. Anything else?”

  Hank nodded. “I need to see everything the Air Force has on Gus – his personnel file, his records from the Academy, training records, medical file, Officer Efficiency Reports, you name it.”

  “You got it,” Jason promised. He gave Hank a worried look. “We’ve only got a month. Is that enough time?”

  Hank thought for a moment. “Normally, no. But this case will not be tried in the courtroom. It’s all politics and the media is the judge and the public the jury.”

  “So Dad’s already convicted.”

  “Far from it. Send Aly in the moment she gets back.” Hank kicked back, propped his feet on the table, and started to read. After a few moments, he sat up and opened a second file. “Melwin,” he murmured, “you are full of surprises.”

  Hank was standing over the table and arranging Melwin’s files when Aly stormed into his office. “They gave us twelve boxes of evidence.” She slammed a thick folder down on the table. “This is their witness list! There’s over two thousand names on it.”

  “It’s a game lawyers play to swamp the opposition with misleads and needless work.” Aly grumped a few words in Dutch and left. Hank picked up the prosecution’s witness list and read the first name. “Interesting,” he mumbled to himself. “The Secretary General of the United Nations. Two can play at that. Cassandra, are there any former members of Saddam Hussein’s regime living in Europe?”

  “There’s Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf, the minister of information better known as Baghdad Bob, five in all.”

  “I’ll put them all on our witness list. I also need the names of weapons experts and professors of international law who can help us, preferably European. Also, can you research the prosecution’s witness list?”

  “Will do,” Cassandra promised.

  Hank glanced at the second name on the prosecution’s list. “Who in the world is Uwe Reiss?” He scanned the list, quickly ticking off the easy ones. A name buried in the middle caught his attention. He pulled out one of Melwin’s files and his eyes opened wide as he read. “Son of a bitch!” He buzzed Aly on the intercom. “I’ve got to talk to Gus. Can you cross-reference Melwin’s files with everything the prosecutor gave us?” Aly said she’d get right on it.

  It was after the evening meal when Hank reached Gus. “How’s it going?” the lawyer asked. He sat down, opened his briefcase, and made sure his percom was on.

  “Things got better after your interview on TV,” Gus said. There was a gaunt look in his eyes.

  Hank sensed Gus was fighting off a major bout of depression. Being locked up did that to a sane person. “The Dutch are very sensitive to public criticism. Hopefully, I can make them even more responsive.”

  “You’re being monitored,” Cassandra said. “Shall I scramble it?”

  Hank nodded at the percom. “Gus, as you know, the trial is scheduled to start in a little over a month. I can request a delay, it’s up to you.”

  “Look, I want out of here so bad my eyes are crossed. But isn’t that rushing things? Can you be ready by then?”

  Hank took a deep breath. “If this were the States, no way. But this isn’t the States and …” His voice trailed off.

  “And the verdict’s already in. I’m going down, aren’t I?”

  Hank had anticipated this moment. Long experience had taught him that the prosecution’s case always looked strongest at the beginning and that it took time and work to break it down. He was afraid a truthful explanation would drive Gus deeper into depression, and he wanted a vigorous, upbeat, morally outraged August Tyler for the world to see and judge. “Well, Du Milan thinks you are,” Hank replied. “I haven’t found the right hammers yet. Don’t worry, I’ll find them.”

  Cassandra’s voice spoke in his ear. “I’m using up a lot of power and need to recharge. Place me against an electrical outlet.” Hank did as Cassandra asked and leaned the percom against a wall plug. “Ooh,” she purred. “That feels better.”

  “Am I’m going down?” Gus repeated.

  “Get that out of your head. Nothing here is a done deal. From the evidence I’ve seen so far, they haven’t got much of a case. My plan is to go for maximum media exposure and once we’re in the courtroom … well, let’s just say I’ll make it very interesting for them.” Gus did not look convinced.

  “The court doesn’t have juries,” Hank continued. “Well, I’m going to use the media and make the public the jury. I’m going to take the verdict away from the judges.”

  “Can you do that?”

  Hank cracked a tight smile. They were making progress and Gus was coming around. “Well, you saw what happened after one interview on TV. It’s a media circus out there and no one wants to be caught in the spotlight. Look at
poor Melwin.”

  “I’m supposed to feel sorry for him?”

  Hank shook his head. “No, not at all. What I’m trying to say is that a guilty verdict is not a done deal. Don’t let Du Milan get inside your head. That’s why she isolated you, to break you down and make you vulnerable.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “Tell me about the Reverend Tobias Person.”

  SEVEN

  The Hague

  Gus paced the floor. “Toby Person. He was a backseater in Strike Eagles, that’s the F-15E. We were in the same squadron. He looked all of eighteen years old, a little pudgy, and maybe five feet six inches tall. His hair flopped down over his forehead like a sheepdog, and he spent a lot of time gazing into space, seeing a world no one else saw. Not a figure to inspire confidence, but he was the best damn WSO – weapons systems officer – to ever strap on the jet. When there was serious work, Toby was the man.” Gus shook his head in wonder. “Toby Person. Who would’ve ever thought?”

  Hank nodded in agreement. The Reverend Tobias Person was a living legend in Africa, a missionary in the Southern Sudan. “You said you were in the same squadron.”

  “Yeah. I was chief of training and didn’t have a regular WSO, so I hijacked him for the Mutlah Ridge mission to fly in my backseat. Jim Cannon, our wing commander, had teamed him with a pilot who couldn’t fly worth diddly squat.” He snorted. “Davis Armiston. What a prick.”

  Hank’s head came up. “The General Davis Armiston?”

  “One and the same,” Gus replied. “He was a captain then and totally lacking in situational awareness.” He drew into himself, going back in time. “Toby learned Arabic over there.” He gave a little laugh. “We gave him a bad time about it at first, but he just pressed ahead. We stopped laughing when the Saudi Air Force liaison officers attached to the Wing started to ask for his help in explaining things. Toby was different. After the Mutlah Ridge mission I found him in the chapel. It was a small room set aside for the chaplains to use. He was just sitting there, staring at the table they used for an altar, like he was seeing what wasn’t there. I never thought he was overly religious but I’ll never forget what he said. ‘I guess we did good out there.’ It was the way he said it. Not painful, just sad.”

  “What did you say?” Hank asked.

  “I told him we were just doing our job. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good. Then he asked, ‘Why do we do this?’ Hell, what was I supposed to say? I asked myself that same question every time one of our buddies bought it. Do you know how many memorial services and funerals I’ve been to?” Gus drew into himself. “I quit counting at fifty.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Gus shook his head, still not satisfied that he had found an answer. “‘There’s an obligation to serve that we must honor.’”

  Hank sensed he was seeing a part of Gus Tyler that very few would be privileged to experience. “Even at the risk of your own lives,” he added.

  Gus looked up and his wry grin was back. “Yeah, but we don’t talk about that. Doesn’t go with the image.”

  “We’re going to have to go over the mission in detail,” Hank said. “But it can wait for now.”

  “There’s a videotape of the mission,” Gus told him. “Recorded through the HUD, that’s the heads-up-display. It’s got the audio and all the symbology; airspeed, altitude, weapons settings.”

  “What happened to it?”

  Again, Gus shook his head. “I have no idea. Jim Cannon, the wing commander, had it sealed and me certify it. The last I heard it was sent to Headquarters CentCom.”

  “We’ll find it,” Hank said, continuing to take notes. “So what happened after the attack on Mutlah Ridge?”

  “The war was over in a few days and we rotated back to the States. Toby resigned his commission, got out, and we lost contact. I sort’a followed his career. He fast tracked a medical degree in Florida then went to Mission Awana in the Sudan, near Malakal on the White Nile. He was in the news big time two years ago when the Sudanese Army attacked the mission.”

  “Right,” Hank said. “The Air Force had a detachment of C-130s at Awana flying relief and peacekeeping missions for the U.N. They were almost wiped out and the commander killed.”

  Gus shook his head. “Dave Alston, an old buddy from the Air Force. He was seriously wounded but he made it.”

  “Cathy and I heard the Reverend Person talk at a fund raiser,” Hank said. “Powerful. You wouldn’t recognize him now. Skinny, balding, burnt by the sun, hands like claws. He’s made a difference in the Sudan.”

  “Why all the interest in Toby?” Gus asked.

  “I apologize for doing it this way, but I had to get your unbiased reaction. The Reverend Tobias Person is on the prosecutor’s witness list. According to Melwin’s notes, Person made a sworn statement that claims you and he knowingly bombed civilians on Mutlah Ridge.”

  Gus stared at the lawyer. “No way he’d say that. You don’t know Toby. Make that no fucking way.”

  “That’s good to hear. I haven’t seen the statement yet, but there is no way they’ll get it in.”

  The Palace of the ICC was deserted when Hank returned and a sleepy security guard let him in. “Use the rear entrance at night,” the guard grumbled. The motion-activated lights followed Hank’s progress across the entrance rotunda and down the main hallway. He stopped outside the main courtroom where Gus’s case would be heard and tested the big double doors carved from African mahogany. He felt them give and he pushed his way inside. The lights automatically came on.

  Although the décor was austere and modern, the floor plan was much the same as any courtroom. But the differences were telling. Hank sat down at the defense counsel’s table and sank back in the leather chair. Like a good soldier, his eyes scanned the battleground where he would engage the enemy. The prosecutor’s table was to his immediate right and a small reading lectern was centered between the tables and facing the judge’s bench, which was constructed of the same rare wood as the doors. “How many trees died for this?” he asked in a low voice. On the left side of the bench, the dock, the small enclosure where Gus would sit during the trial, replaced the jury box. The witness box was on the right side of the bench. The long clerk’s table was in front of the bench, between the lectern and the judges. Over a hundred seats for spectators filled the back half of the room, and a TV control room overlooked the courtroom from high above the big entrance doors at the rear.

  Cassandra’s voice was low and urgent. “Hank, don’t say a thing. I monitored a signal. The room is bugged. Tap your fingers on the table.” He did as she asked. “The bug is underneath,” she told him. He sank back into the chair, thinking. Reluctant to give up the comfortable chair, he pulled himself to his feet and headed for the stairs. Again, the lights marked his progress. “Smile,” Cassandra said. “You’re on Candid Camera.”

  “Very original.”

  “Well,” she replied in a huff, “I’m only a computer, not a comedienne.”

  Aly was alone in their new offices still feeding documents into a scanner so the computer could automatically cross-reference Melwin’s files with the prosecutor’s evidence package. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “I’m almost done,” she answered.

  “Can you search for Tobias Person and a Colonel James, or Jim Cannon?”

  “Of course.” She typed a command into the computer. “There are six references for Person but so far there is nothing on Cannon.”

  “Let me know if something turns up.” He keyed the computer and searched for Toby’s statement. He found the file number and dug it out only to discover it was in French. “Aly,” he called. “How’s your French?”

  “Not bad,” she answered. “It was my third language in high school.”

  “Can you translate this for me?” She did and Hank gave silent thanks for the Dutch educational system. When she finished, he kicked back in his chair. “Damn,” he muttered. “We’re going to need an official translation.
” She promised it by the end of the next day and went back to work.

  Hank closed his eyes, relaxed, and let his mind wander. It was a technique he had developed years before when he was still a deputy district attorney, and the strangest ideas and connections would often emerge. Sooner or later, something worthwhile would pop out and capture his attention. He drifted off as a hodge-podge of images cycled out of his subconscious. He fell asleep.

  Hank’s eyes snapped open. Early morning light streamed through the windows and he was alone. He smiled. “Folks,” he murmured, “things just got interesting.” Aly had left a note for him. She had finished and had found three more references on Tobias Person but nothing on a James Cannon. She’d be back around noon, and Jason should return with the office safes sometime that day.

  “Cassandra, I need to locate James Cannon, a retired Air Force colonel who was Gus’s commander in the Gulf War at Al Kharj Air Base. Also, we need the videotape of Gus’s mission over Mutlah Ridge. It was recorded through the HUD of his F-15. It was sent to Central Command in 1991.”

  “If it still exists,” she answered, “we’ll find it. Searching for Cannon now.” Then, “Most unusual. Please wait a moment.”

  Hank played with the computer and called up the new references on Toby. “What’s the current situation in the southern Sudan?”

  “There’s a very nasty civil war going on down there. Islamic fundamentalists captured the government in Khartoum, and control all the oil revenues. The southern Sudan tribes, mostly Dinka and Nuer, are fighting for their independence.”

  Another thought came to Hank. “Can you search the court’s data base for Person and Cannon without them knowing?”

  She made small talk while doing it. “All of the registrar’s records are part of the public record and are on the Internet. But the prosecutor’s files are protected by a firewall and a sophisticated entry protocol.”