A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  “I don’t think he will,” Hank said. “Never underestimate Du Milan. She figured out our strategy days ago so it doesn’t matter what Melwin might tell her.”

  Gus checked his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Hank said. “For now, write down everything you can remember about Jim Cannon and Davis Armiston.”

  Gus’s anger flashed. “Armiston! He couldn’t fly the jet worth beans and only survived the Gulf War in ’91 because Toby was in his backseat. The Armiston I knew was infinite confidence and zero competence. He was all politics and the youngest general since World War II. He pinned on his fourth star the week he became SACEUR. Rumor had it he was a total bust.”

  “Du Milan is calling him as a witness,” Hank said.

  “Oh no,” Gus moaned. “He hates my guts.”

  “Don’t go falling on your sword and doing pushups yet,” Hank cautioned. “Don’t be late for your appointment. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Aly hugged him and they left.

  Gus sat for a few moments and forced his anger away. “Fuckin’ Armiston.” He stood up, stretched, and headed for his appointment with the prison’s psychiatrist. Hank’s interview on Dutch TV with Harm de Rijn had changed everything and he now had free access around the prison during the day. The only thing he couldn’t do was walk out the main gate. He found the office in the administration block and knocked. The door opened and he sucked in his breath. The young woman standing there was six inches shorter than him, with dark blonde, carelessly cut hair, and a trim figure. She was very attractive in an unconventional way and rippled with an undercurrent of sexuality.

  “Please come in,” she said. “I’m Doctor Therese Derwent.” They shook hands in the formal European manner and she motioned at the two easy chairs arranged in a comfortable corner of the office. They sat down and she crossed her ankles as she picked up his case file. “I have been monitoring your progress here.”

  “Progress?” he asked. “What human being makes progress caged like an animal?”

  “Please forgive me, that was a poor choice of words. I am concerned with how you are adjusting to your confinement.”

  “I’m adjusting to my confinement just fine.”

  “Are you?” She picked up the remote control for the DVD. The TV came to life. “These are not in chronological order,” she explained. “But they do make more sense arranged this way.” A series of scenes showed Gus wandering the corridors gazing aimlessly at his surroundings. Then he was pacing his cell. From time to time, he paused and carefully examined an item. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. She flicked off the DVD and leaned forward to study his face for a few moments. “You’re planning to escape,” she announced. It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact. “Please don’t.”

  “Now why would I want to do that?”

  “I understand your wife is quite ill and in hospital.”

  “I’m surprised you’re the least bit concerned.”

  “May I see your right hand?” she asked. She took his hand with both of hers, and her touch was warm and soft. “Most of the residents here enjoy conjugal privileges. I know the tensions can build and become quite unbearable.”

  “Are you offering yourself up for the cause?”

  “Please, don’t be rude. But certain accommodations can be made.”

  It was late that same afternoon and Hank was listening to the BCC when he first heard the announcement. The President of the ICC had named Gaston Bouchard, a Belgian, as the presiding judge for Gus’s trial. The other two judges would be announced at a later date. “What’s the bad news here?” he asked Cassandra.

  “Gaston Bouchard is Belgium’s former ambassador to the UN and the leading proponent of the doctrine of universal jurisdiction. He is also rabidly anti-American.”

  “Rabidly?” Hank asked.

  “Like in junkyard dog,” Cassandra replied. “I have a very detailed file on him.”

  Hank sat his percom on top of a printer and a lengthy file started to spit out. “Cassandra, I need a profile on the Reverend Tobias Person. The prosecution has a statement he made claiming that he and Gus knew there were civilians at Mutlah Ridge. Gus says he would never make such a claim but I want to know where Person is coming from.” He picked up the file on Bouchard. It was not good reading and he was still mulling over the implications when Aly buzzed him on the intercom. Bouchard had commanded his immediate presence in his offices on the top floor.

  “Take the elevator to the seventh floor,” she told him, “and cross the fly bridge to the East Tower.” Based on what he had just read, Hank knew better than to delay and hurried for the elevator.

  Bouchard’s outer office was a complete counterpoint to the rest of the ICC’s palace and reminded Hank of an antechamber he had seen at Versailles, Louis XIV’s palace outside Paris. As expected, he had to cool his heels for thirty minutes, allowing Bouchard to establish his preeminence. It was a game Hank could play but for now, respectful humility was the order of the day. “Nice tapestries,” he said to the receptionist. She responded with an icy stare and ignored him. He shrugged and tried to make himself comfortable in a chair not built for normal humans. He chalked it all up to ‘the treatment.’ He stood when Denise entered, certain the imperious Bouchard would immediately receive them. He was almost right.

  “Leave all electrical devices with me,” the receptionist ordered.

  Hank laid his percom on her desk. “Wonderful hospitality,” he said. The receptionist opened the massive double doors to Bouchard’s inner sanctum and ushered them in.

  The man waiting for them was an overweight bureaucrat who fancied himself an intellectual and was impressed with his importance as a judge. As a young man, he was considered handsome, but forty years, 125 pounds, and a choleric disposition had changed him into a cantankerous old man who could not understand why people avoided him. Although Bouchard was fluent in English, he spoke in French. “Madame Prosecutor, please translate my instructions. I have called you both here to make clear what I expect.”

  Denise translated his words. “Professor Sutherland is very knowledgeable about court procedures and protocols, and I would prefer we speak in English.” Hank arched an eyebrow, surprised that she was standing up to Bouchard.

  Bouchard pointed at Hank and continued in French. “You are, above all else, a member of the court and have an obligation to justice that transcends your duties to the accused. Therefore, there will be none of the courtroom tricks you Americans are so fond of.” He waited while Denise translated. “I am instituting what you call a gag order. You will not speak to the press, any individual, or appear on TV until a judgment has been achieved. Further, there will be none of your Perry Mason surprises in my court. All evidence and witnesses will be properly presented well in advance. I expect all substantive questions to be presented in writing before raised in open session.”

  Hank listened as Denise explained Bouchard’s rules. “Substantive?”

  Bouchard drummed his fingers on his desk, obviously irritated at Hank’s questioning of anything he might say. “Questions with substance, meaning they are essential or fundamental.” The beat increased. “This is exactly what I will not tolerate in open session. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your Honor. I fully understand.”

  “That is all,” Bouchard said. “You are excused.”

  Denise led the way outside and waited while Hank retrieved his percom. “I don’t like him either,” she confided. “Perhaps we should discuss ways to resolve any conflicts?”

  “Sounds like collaborating with the enemy.”

  Denise gave him a look he could not decipher. “As officers of the court, we are not enemies and must work together.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if only our staffs conferred at this point.”

  “Of course.” She turned and walked away.

  He ambled across the fly bridge and paused at mid span, taking in the view. The forecourt seven floors below him was still crowded with demon
strators who had taken up permanent residence. He spoke in a low voice. “Okay, Cassandra, what’s going on with Du Milan?”

  He gazed at the misty horizon on the North Sea as he listened. “We monitored a phone call between Madam Du Milan and her husband, Chrestien. He wants her to establish a more personal relationship to curb your uncivilized tendencies.”

  “Moi? Uncivilized?”

  “Yes, you, Monsieur Barbarian. They’ve seen how you exploit the media and want to rein you in. By the way, pressure is building in the United States for the President to free Colonel Tyler.”

  “I don’t think the President is quite ready to invade The Hague. What’s the story with Natividad Gomez and General Davis Armiston as witnesses?”

  “Gomez is the one who gave them Colonel Tyler’s personnel records. They need her to establish the source, and the validity of the files. Armiston can testify that Colonel Tyler was there and did fly the mission.”

  “So Gomez is a spy. ”

  “More of an exploited lover. As for Armiston, he needs the publicity to make a run for the presidency.”

  “Why would any sane person want that job?” Hank muttered. “Anything on Person yet.”

  “Nothing about the statement he made. The bad news is that the missionary society financing the mission is strongly pacifist. Our profilers say we’re dealing with an unknown quantity.”

  “I need to talk to the Reverend.”

  “Hold on,” Cassandra replied, “I’ll see what I can do.” She made small talk. “What did you think of Bouchard?”

  “You guys don’t miss much, do you? He lived up to expectations.”

  “Sorry, Hank. I can’t get through to the Sudan. All normal lines are down, the satellite channels are blocked, and there’s strong interference on the radios. It might be jamming. The supply line to the mission has been cut, and it appears to be surrounded by the Sudanese Army and Islamic militias.”

  “What does your legal team think about Person testifying?”

  “They don’t recommend it.”

  The images on the screen smoothly transitioned as the assistant prosecutor recapped his Power Point briefing on one Henry Michael Sutherland. The final image zoomed in on Hank sitting at a table in his hotel’s sidewalk café as he read that morning’s edition of the London Times. It was a subtle way of saying their information was current. He ended with the traditional, “Are there any questions I can answer, Madam Prosecutor?” Denise smiled graciously and shook her head. He handed her the thick confidential dossier. “Many of the details are fascinating,” he said. “My colleagues say he has a suppressed Rambo complex, but I think that is a gross simplification of a very complex and intelligent man. He has an aggressive trait that is contained and focused by the scholarly and mild side of his personality.”

  “So which is the real Sutherland?” she asked.

  “It depends on the situation, Madam Prosecutor. As I mentioned earlier, he did challenge a mob and save a demonstrator from being thrown over the side of the Oakland Bay Bridge. He clubbed one man with a baseball bat rather unmercifully.” He suspected that would get her attention and it did.

  “I would like to compare photos of Tyler and Sutherland.” The assistant typed in a command and the computer responded. The large screen split and images of Gus and Hank appeared. “Leave it on,” she said, dismissing him.

  “Do not underestimate this man, Madam Prosecutor.” He bowed and left her alone, pleased that she had allowed him the last word.

  Denise thumbed through the dossier. She leaned forward in her chair and studied the photographs of Gus and Hank. Thanks to the large, high-definition screen, they were almost life-sized. The lean and rugged, good looking Gus was a total contrast to the pleasant and buoyant Hank. There was no doubt that half the women following the trial would be attracted to Gus. Fortunately, the senior president of the ICC had assured her that the three judges hearing the case would all be men, which she could play to her advantage.

  She worked her way through the thick document, occasionally looking up at the screen. She finished and sank back in her chair, the still opened dossier on her lap, her eyes locked on the screen. She let her emotions run free. There was no doubt that Gus was very appealing.

  The Dutch were well known for their frugality when it came to heating and Gus wondered why his cell was so warm so late in the evening. Rather than complain, he opened the door for cross-ventilation, stripped down to his shorts, and got comfortable on his narrow bunk. He turned on his nightlight to read, taking advantage of the few short evening hours before the lights went out. But he couldn’t focus on the words as he slipped back into the past.

  It was a short drive from the Officer’s Club to their quarters in family housing. Clare sat quietly but he knew something was bothering her. He cast back, trying to remember anything from the promotion party all the new captains had thrown that evening. He could only think of one thing. Clare hit him on arm. Hard. “What was that all about?”

  he asked. Her voice was matter-of-fact. “She was throwing herself at you.” He shook his head. “Who? I must’ve missed that.” He braced himself for the answer. “Miss Tits, that’s who. Captain what’s-his-name’s date. And you didn’t miss it. In fact, you were rather enjoying it.” He heard that certain tone in her voice and relaxed. “Give me a break. They’re engaged and she was just buttering up the boss.” He waited for her answer. “Well, she certainly wanted to do more than spread a little butter, especially if she got you alone.” Gus sighed, fully knowing what was coming. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” Clare released her seatbelt and cuddled against him. “Then I better teach you so you’ll be prepared when it happens.” This was a variation he hadn’t seen before. “You know I’m a slow learner.” Her hand played with the buttons on his shirt. “We’ll work at it until you get it right.”

  “May I come in?” Therese Derwent said, breaking his reverie. She was standing in the doorway and holding two books in the crook of her arm. She had changed in her office for an evening out and was gorgeous.

  Hank swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. “Please.” He motioned to one of the two chairs in his cell. She placed the books down on the table and shrugged off her coat. Her simple dress shimmered in the light but what interested him was the identification card dangling from a thin black lanyard around her neck. It was the first time he had seen one in the prison.

  “I thought you might find these interesting reading,” she said. “One is the history of the court and the other a critique of the doctrine of universal jurisdiction by Alex Melwin.”

  Gus came even more alert at the mention of Melwin. “Thanks,” he said, wondering why the psychiatrist had picked late Friday evening to drop them off.

  “Today was not a good beginning,” she said, “and I’m afraid you might have misunderstood. Language is always a barrier but we are worried about you. I was hoping we might talk again. Perhaps Monday?”

  He made a show of considering it. He gave a little nod. “It’s my wife, you know.”

  “I know,” she said. She stood up. “I must go.”

  He hurried over to help her with her coat. “Hold on for a second. I’ll walk with you.” He pulled on a pair of warm-up pants and a T-shirt. He slipped into his sandals and followed her into the corridor. “I can’t really complain about the way I’m treated here,” he told her. “Still, I get so damned depressed.”

  “We see our prisons as places of rehabilitation, not punishment. We can work on the depression.” They reached the end of his cellblock where the gate was closed, sealing the inmates in for the night. She slid her identification card through the electronic lock. The gate slid back and he saw the guard in the glassed-in control booth on the other side. He was stretched out on a bunk watching TV and the lights were down low. The guard never looked up or checked the TV monitors. “This is as far as you can go at night,” she told him.

  They shook hands and, again, the warmth of her touch surprised him. “Than
ks for the books. I’ll read them over the weekend.” He watched her as she walked down the corridor and through the next gate. He ambled back to his cell, deep in thought.

  NINE

  The Hague

  Gus stepped out of the cubicle shower after his routine Monday morning exercise, dried off, and carefully examined his beard, thankful there was very little gray. But was it too long? He strongly suspected the psychiatrist keyed on small behavioral traits. So how would she react to a three-day growth of beard? Would she see it as a sign of growing depression, perhaps vulnerability, or find it attractive as Europeans often did, or a little of all three? What if she sees right through it? he thought. He quickly shaved and pulled on a clean pair of warm-up pants and a loose sweatshirt. He slipped on his running shoes and checked the mirror. For better or worse, he was going for the clean athletic look.

  He walked down the corridor, carefully checking for the identification cards he had seen Friday night. The guards were only wearing their normal badges and the gates were all open. He made the connection. Gates close and ID cards come out. So the cards are also access control keys they only use at night. He needed to work on it. The door to Derwent’s office was open and he wandered in. She smiled. “Right on time.” He closed the door and she motioned him to the easy chairs in the far corner. They sat down and she bent forward. He caught a slight fragrance of expensive perfume. “Tea? How was your weekend?”

  “Thanks for the books. I’m not a lawyer but I’m thankful we didn’t join the ICC.”

  “Please explain.”

  For a moment, he considered faking an answer. Go for the truth. “Based on what I read, I’m a war criminal.”

  “Is that true?” she asked.

  He deliberately fidgeted. “The way I read the Rome Statute creating the court, if a fighter jock like me wastes a single civilian in combat, he’s committed murder.”

  “You disagree with that?”

  “Of course I do. We don’t go out there to deliberately kill civilians.”