A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  “Will that work?”

  “With Bouchard? I doubt it. But the other two judges might agree.”

  “Pity we don’t know who they are,” Hank said.

  “There are five other judges in the trial division and they all want to hear this case. I can tell you that none will be sympathetic to Colonel Tyler.”

  “I didn’t need to know that,” Hank muttered. He made a mental note to have Cassandra’s team profile all five. “Notify the court that we’re calling the Reverend as a witness.”

  Westcot was enjoying himself. He was sitting in the receiving chamber of Alphonse Relieu, the ICC’s senior president, and wondering where the other two presidents of the court were hiding. But he was not surprised. He did have a well-deserved reputation, and braver souls had run for cover when Max Westcot sighted down on them. Sir John Landis, the presiding judge at Gus’s confirmation hearing, was made of much stronger stuff and was sitting next to Relieu. There was no doubt in Westcot’s mind that the meeting was going nowhere, but it was exactly the type of exchange he loved. He made a mental bet that he could send at least one of the two men scurrying for the restroom. He ran his handicapping system and decided Relieu was the odds-on favorite.

  The three men stood when Denise entered the ornate chamber. It was the first time Westcot had seen her in person and he sighed, deeply regretting that his marriage license lacked a mileage limitation. Denise bestowed a beautiful smile on him and his regret multiplied substantially. She sat down, crossing her legs, and gestured to the chair next to her. He joined her and she touched the back of his right hand.

  “This a pleasure,” she murmured. “Chrestien has spoken of you so many times.” Her hand lingered on his.

  “Madam Prosecutor,” Relieu said, “thank you for coming on such short notice. Monsieur Westcot has a most interesting, but very informal, proposal from his President.”

  Denise arched an eyebrow. She was aware of the power and influence Westcot wielded and doubted that Relieu could stand up to him. “Of course we are most willing to hear whatever your President may offer.” She withdrew her hand and the battle was joined.

  “If the court,” Westcot said, “will release the colonel, my government is prepared to recall him to active duty and charge him with war crimes.”

  “I am familiar with your Manual for Courts-Martial,” Landis said. “Bringing charges does not automatically mean a court-martial.”

  Westcot was not a lawyer but his percom was on and his legal team, without doubt the best in the world, was feeding him information through his earpiece. “Considering the severity of the charges against Colonel Tyler, I’m confident the officer conducting the pretrial investigation will recommend a court-martial.”

  Relieu caught the slight shake of Denise’s head. “The preamble to the Rome Statute establishing the court clearly states that the court’s authority is complementary to national criminal jurisdictions, which hold primacy over our proceedings. We will, of course, defer to Panama should they decide to bring Tyler to trial.” His voice shook as he looked at Denise. “The court cannot grant the United States primacy in this matter.”

  Westcot gave Relieu a long look that asked why he was being so stupid. A European politician could only antagonize the President of the United States up to a point. Anything beyond that had serious consequences. “May I ask why? This is a proposal that satisfies both our needs.”

  Denise again touched Westcot’s hand. “Complementarity only extends to member countries of the court. Now should the United States ratify the Rome Statute and become a party to the court, then perhaps …”

  “That will never happen, my dear,” Westcot told her. She gave him a sad look and withdrew her hand. “But I assure you, our system of military law reflects the law of armed conflict.”

  Landis chimed in, not the least intimidated by Westcot. “You must think we’re simpletons. The law of international armed conflict separates the intended effect of an action from its logically foreseen effect, which the Rome Statute will never do.”

  Westcot listened to the voice in his earpiece. “So,” he replied, “if a pilot bombs a train station to stop a troop movement and kills civilians who just happen to be in the train station, he’s guilty of murder.”

  Denise nodded. “Under every civilized system of law.”

  Westcot’s legal team was way ahead of her. “Under every system of criminal law,” he replied, “but not under the law of armed conflict.”

  “A court-martial,” Landis said, “would undoubtedly find Tyler not guilty. That would be a mockery of justice and the court would be forced to declare it a sham trial and have the prosecutor bring charges against him.”

  “Even I know that is double jeopardy,” Westcot said. He came to his feet and fixed the two men with a cold look. “I assure you, you are making a very bad mistake.” He turned and stalked out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

  Relieu ran for his private restroom.

  TWELVE

  The Hague

  “You seem in a much better mood this morning,” Therese Derwent said.

  Gus looked around the psychiatrist’s office, searching for a bug. He couldn’t find one He settled into a chair and sipped at his coffee. “You know, the one thing I really hate about this place is eating alone.”

  “Is that important to you?”

  “Dinner was the one thing Clare always insisted on. We’d all gather, no matter where we were, camping, on a boat, you name it. Sometimes the food wasn’t so good, but the dinner was always great.”

  Derwent smiled. “Family, sharing, and conversation. Perhaps that defines us as humans.”

  “And a society,” he added, certain he had made a friend.

  Hank arrived in Denise’s office thirty seconds early. He bestowed his best smile on the receptionist and waited. At exactly 10:30 A.M. on Friday morning, the fifth of November, the receptionist buzzed Denise and announced his presence. Denise dispatched the assistant prosecutor to usher him in, and Hank suspected they were playing one of the games the ICC specialized in. The court was meticulously correct in following its procedures as long as the prosecution’s case was not in jeopardy.

  Denise rose to greet him with a pleasant smile. He wasn’t sure who had designed the business suit she was wearing but the results were a study in judicial restraint, business functionality, exquisite taste, and subdued sexuality. Hank estimated the cost around 2000 euros. He missed it by half. They shook hands and Denise nodded graciously. “May I introduce Natividad Gomez?”

  Hank turned to the woman sitting opposite him. She was short, overweight, and on the dowdy side. Like so many heavy women, she had a smooth and lovely face. He estimated her age around forty but like so many things that morning, he was wrong.

  He smiled at the lawyer sitting next to her. “Hi, Coop. It’s been a long time. How’s the ambulance chasing business?”

  R. Garrison Cooper’s bushy eyebrows twitched and he glared at Hank. “Personal injury is a much maligned field.” Cooper’s gravelly voice betrayed his years of boozing.

  “I take it you know each other,” Denise said.

  “Coop was the defense counsel on a court-martial I prosecuted,” Hank explained. “He managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.”

  “My client,” Cooper grumped, “changed his plea to guilty at the last moment. I was winning.”

  “So what brings you here?” Hank asked.

  Cooper cleared his throat. “This is a very unusual case and I’ve volunteered my services as Miss Gomez’s legal adviser.”

  “Publicity is a wonderful thing,” Hank said. Cooper’s career was in decline and in desperate need of a boost. Cooper glared at him but didn’t take the bait. Hank sat down. “Miss Gomez, thank you for your help. This is a formal deposition” – he nodded at the court recorder – “and the questions are much the same ones you’ll hear if you take the stand.” He opened his leather folder. “Your full name.”

  “Nativ
idad Adelina Gomez.”

  Hank jotted her name down followed by her initials. “Your age?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Cooper said.

  Hank sighed audibly. It was going to be one of those days. “Are you married?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Cooper repeated.

  “Place of birth?”

  “Again, don’t answer that,” Cooper said.

  Hank switched to Spanish and asked if she was a US citizen. Without thinking, she replied in Spanish that she was a naturalized US citizen. “Thank you,” Hank said.

  “Do that again,” Cooper said, “and this deposition is over.”

  “Please describe where you work,” Hank said. Cooper nodded, allowing her to answer.

  “I work for the United States Air Force Personnel Center located at Randolph Air Force Base outside San Antonio, Texas. I have been employed for eleven years and I am a clerk in the Records Division.”

  Hank knew a rehearsed answer when he heard one and gave Cooper high marks for properly preparing his client. “Did you have access to the records of Colonel August William Tyler?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you remove or make copies of Colonel Tyler’s records?”

  “I made copies,” she answered.

  “Were they complete and did you make any changes or omit anything?”

  Her English was very stilted and formal. “I copied all the records on Colonel Tyler I could find. I did not make any changes or omit anything.”

  “Did you provide these copies to another person?”

  Cooper whispered in her ear. “Yes, I did,” she answered.

  “His or her name?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Cooper said.

  “I’m trying to determine the authenticity of the records and establish the custodial chain,” Hank said. He turned to Natividad. “Have you reviewed the files currently in possession of the court?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Are they complete and unaltered?”

  “I think so,” she replied.

  “You think so,” Hank said. He closed his folder. “Thank you for your help, Miss Gomez.” He stood and nodded at Denise. “Madam Prosecutor.” He left the room with Cooper in close trail.

  “Hank, we need to talk,” the older man said.

  Hank stopped. “She’s in a world of hurt.”

  “I know that. I only got involved yesterday. The poor woman did what she thought was the right thing.”

  “Coop, what she did makes her a spy, and I’ll make that point the moment she takes the stand.” He wasn’t sure how he would handle Gomez on the stand but he let the threat resonate, certain it would get back to Gomez and Denise. “Gomez will be arrested the moment she returns to the States. The court cannot compel a witness to appear, so if you really want to help her, convince her not to take the stand. Contact the DOJ and cut a deal while you still can.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried. I told her that Du Milan only needs the records to prove Tyler was there, and there are other ways to do that.” He paused for a moment. “By the way, how’s it feel to defend an innocent man when the court is stacked against you?”

  Hank lobbed another bombshell to confuse and distract Denise. “Who said he was innocent?”

  NATO Headquarters

  Jason marched into the General’s office and came to attention, waiting to be recognized. Hammerly took in the big man. Technical Sergeant Jason Tyler, USAF, was everything he wanted in a security cop, smart, resourceful, and loyal. He hoped his sons turned out as well. “At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat. How’s your dad doing?”

  “Confinement is tough, but he’s managing.”

  “I understand your mother has taken a turn for the worse.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jason answered, “she has. She’s in the Mayo.”

  “Any problems with Sutherland?”

  “None, sir. We’ve got a covert security team in place 24/7. Intel is still reporting some threats, but we’re not seeing it.”

  “How’s your cover?”

  Jason allowed a frown. “Sutherland made one of our teams outside his hotel but thought it was hostile. He doesn’t know we’re there, and the ICC and the Dutch are clueless. Sir, we need to call Colonel James Cannon as a witness but can’t find him.”

  Hammerly nodded. “I’ll see what I can do but you need to keep looking.”

  The Hague

  The TV coverage of Armiston’s departure from Schiphol Airport reminded Hank of the send off given to rock stars and Hollywood celebrities. The general held up two fingers and waved the victory sign. “I shall return,” he announced.

  Hank flicked the TV off and threw the remote control down in disgust “You are one piece of work.” He leaned back into this chair, closed his eyes and went to work. What to do about Natividad? He fitted his earpiece and opened his percom. “Cassandra, what have you got on Natividad Adelina Gomez?”

  “I heard you met her today,” Cassandra said.

  “You heard right. I felt sorry for her.”

  “The Department of Justice has issued a warrant for her arrest.”

  “Any chance of Cooper cutting a deal for her?” Hank asked.

  “He’s already approached them. They’re willing to listen – if she cooperates. There’s not much in her file. Thirty-one years old, born in Juarez Mexico, naturalized in 2004, clean record with the police, outstanding job ratings. She does have a boyfriend we haven’t identified. Here’s an interesting tidbit. Our profilers think she’s a virgin.”

  “In this day and age?”

  “It does happen,” Cassandra replied.

  “What do you have on Henri Scullanois?”

  “Volumes.”

  “What exactly is he up to?”

  “I’ll have our analysts work on it and get back to you,” she said.

  Hank broke the connection and buzzed Melwin. “Alex, you got a moment?” The Irishman said he did and Hank ambled into his office. He stretched out in a chair, folded his fingers across his stomach and tried to look serious. “Alex, me lad, here it is Friday afternoon and I want to ruin everyone’s weekend.”

  “That’s very sporting of you,” Melwin replied. “Exactly how do you plan to do that?”

  “I want to call Henri Scullanois as a defense witness.” For a moment, he was certain Melwin was suffering labor pains. “Why not?” Hank ventured. “If they can call the UN’s Secretary General, why can’t we call Scullanois?”

  Melwin was finally able to breath. “It’s different. Countries do not join the court to have their national policies put on trial. It’s an unspoken understanding.” Hank waited for him to work it out. “Brilliant,” Melwin breathed. “Absolutely brilliant.” He reached for the phone and called Bouchard’s receptionist. “Please inform the Justice that we are amending our witness list and notification to that effect is on the way.” He listened for a moment before he hung up. “Bouchard is in Brussels and won’t be back until Wednesday. But I think you just changed his plans.” He buzzed Aly on the intercom and asked her to draft the notification. “Hank wants it delivered to Bouchard’s office this afternoon.” He turned to Hank. “It will be ready for your signature in a few minutes and she’ll deliver it personally. I must say, this is very uncivilized of you.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Hank replied.

  Île St-Louis, Paris

  Denise cradled the exquisitely cut crystal glass snifter in her hands and savored the aroma. The cognac, like everything around her, was testimony to a wealth and privilege that very few men and women ever experience. She sipped at the pale gold liquid and let its warmth capture her. It was the perfect cap to a perfect dinner. And she loved the elegant surroundings. The Hôtel L’Abord was not the biggest mansion on the island, the Rothschild’s Hôtel Lambert held that honor, but it was one of the oldest and dated back to 1629. It was also unique in that it had always been in the possession of the L’Abords, if for no other reason than the family had the knack of picking the winnin
g side of the revolution of the moment. When that failed, they bought their way out of trouble or left the country.

  Their hostess, the elderly Comtessa Eugenie L’Abord, was the current occupant of the mansion. The Comtessa was the resident harpy of French politics and could make and break political careers at will. Even Denise’s husband, Chrestien, danced attendance on her. On this particular Friday evening, the Comtessa had blended the skills of her chef with an informal atmosphere to create a culinary triumph. The four other guests were witty and cultured; all certified as the brightest and best, not to mention the wealthiest, denizens of French society and politics. Like them, Denise was casually dressed yet perfectly at ease in the regal surroundings.

  The elderly Comtessa sat beside Denise. “I was so worried that you couldn’t make it back from The Hague.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed this evening for the world,” Denise said. “It was a difficult week, and this was just what I needed.”

  “It must be that wretched American. I can’t remember his name.”

  Denise laughed and every man turned towards her. “Hank Sutherland. Actually, I quite like him.”

  The Comtessa was shocked. “Sacré bleu!”

  Denise smiled at the old-fashioned expression. Her eyes followed the butler as he crossed the room and spoke to her husband. Chrestien stood and followed him out. “Monsieur Sutherland is a very unusual man,” Denise said, “and not what he seems. He is very intelligent and quite brave.” The countess went into a deeper state of shock. “If you’re interested I’ll send you his dossier. It is very interesting reading.”

  “I would not even speak to the likes of him,” the Comtessa said, casting Hank into oblivion.

  Chrestien was back and joined them. “Comtessa, I must apologize. A most unfortunate message.” Cell phones were forbidden in the presence of the Comtessa and the tactful spoke of messages, not phone calls. “There is a matter I must deal with. As always, dinner was magnificent.” He glanced at Denise and looked at the door, the signal that she was to come with him. “Thank you for inviting us.” Chrestien kissed the old woman lightly on both cheeks and she cooed in pleasure. Denise stood and Chrestien guided her out of the room. The pressure on her elbow was ample indication that he was very upset. The moment they were settled in the privacy of their Rolls Royce, Chrestien glared at her. “Have you lost control?”