A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  EIGHTEEN

  The Hague

  Hank and Melwin were in their robes and ready to leave for the courtroom on Friday morning when Marie Doorn, their newest assistant, joined them. She was a middle-aged, pleasant looking, and very petite woman that life had passed by. She handed Melwin a folder. “Precedents from the International Court of Justice. The trial division relies on them for guidance during deliberations.”

  Melwin thumbed through the folder. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “The court has not seen the need to make it public knowledge,” Doorn said.

  Melwin followed Hank to the courtroom, his head down as he carefully read. Hank had to guide him to the defense table. They sat down and Melwin continued to read, beside himself with excitement. “Excellent. Excellent.”

  “Be sure to thank her,” Hank said. Gus entered through the side door and stood in the dock for a moment, inspecting the spectators. The pilot nodded to Hank and sat down. “A man in command,” Hank murmured.

  The red light on the clerk’s desk blinked and everyone stood before the clerk could speak. The judges filed in and Bouchard took his seat. “Please be seated,” he intoned, starting the third day of the trial. “The court has investigated the presence of listening devices in the courtroom. The security division of the court installed them for security purposes and no unauthorized disclosure of confidential and privileged conversations occurred. Therefore, the defendant’s petition for a mistrial is denied. Madam Prosecutor, are there any other issues for the court’s consideration?”

  “There are none, your Honor.”

  Melwin was on his feet. “The defense adds Henri Scullanois to its witness list.”

  “The court has ruled previously on this issue,” Bouchard replied.

  Melwin opened the folder Marie Doorn had given him. “There are ample precedents for modifications and additions established by the International Court of Justice.” He handed the citation list to the clerk. “Further, in view of the listening devices that were discovered yesterday …”

  Denise interrupted him. “The calling of Monsieur Scullanois is totally unrelated to the issue of monitoring devices in the courtroom, which, need I remind the court, were placed solely for security reasons.”

  “But were of French manufacture,” Melwin replied. “Is Madam Prosecutor worried that we will discover a connection?”

  Della Sante leaned forward. “The prosecutor makes a good point.”

  Richter cleared his throat. “I find little probative value in calling the foreign …”

  “Your request to call Monsieur Scullanois is denied,” Bouchard quickly said, relieved that both judges were in agreement.

  “As I was saying,” Richter added, “I find little probative value in calling Herr Scullanois at this time, in this matter.”

  Bouchard’s jaw worked as he chose his next words. “However, the court will consider any request defense counsel may have for additional witnesses who are experts in security procedures and monitoring devices.” Satisfied he had defused the issue, he continued. “Madam Prosecutor, you may open your case.”

  Denise stepped to the podium with a thick notebook. She opened it and carefully uncapped her OMAS pen, deliberately playing to the cameras. She checked off her first point. “If it may please the court, we will prove that the defendant killed one or more persons on the night of February 25, 1991 on Mutlah Ridge in Iraq, in an international armed conflict sanctioned by the United Nations. Further, we will prove that he was aware that such persons were protected under the relevant articles and protocols of the Geneva Convention, and that he was aware of their presence on Mutlah Ridge.”

  Melwin came to his feet. “Your Honor, the defense will stipulate that any action on Mutlah Ridge that occurred on the night in question took place within the context of an armed conflict sanctioned by the United Nations.”

  “Is that agreeable to the prosecution?” Bouchard asked.

  “It is, your Honor,” Denise replied.

  Bouchard looked at Della Sante and Richter who both nodded. “The court accepts the stipulation.”

  “In addition,” Denise continued, “we will prove that Colonel Tyler employed weapons that are inherently widespread and indiscriminate, and are in violation of the international law of armed conflict.” She spoke for forty more minutes outlining the evidence before capping her pen and closing her notebook.

  “Please call your first witness,” Bouchard told her.

  “The prosecution calls the Secretary General of the United Nations.”

  An expectant hush fell over the audience as the elegant and dignified Secretary General took the stand. Ziba Katelhong was a tall woman and carried her heritage with pride. Her hair was cut short in the traditional Zulu manner and she was big-hipped and heavy. The clerk handed her the declaration to tell the truth. Ziba Katelhong read with a clipped English accent, the product of the best public schools in England. “I solemnly declare that I will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” She sat down.

  “Now there’s an oath with teeth,” Hank said in a low voice. He split his attention as Denise led the Secretary General through the standard questions while Cassandra spoke in his ear, outlining the prosecutor’s strategy.

  “They’re more worried about jurisdiction than we thought,” Cassandra explained. “Du Milan must link the court’s jurisdiction to the authority of the United Nations. This is right up Alex’s ally. Let him handle it.”

  Denise reached the heart of Katelhong’s testimony. “Does the crime before this court fall under the jurisdiction of the United Nations?”

  “Yes,” the Secretary General answered. “All crimes against humanity fall under our jurisdiction. This is embodied as one of our purposes in Article One of our Charter. This was further developed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948. As the massacre on Mutlah Ridge occurred in a conflict conducted under our authority, the United Nations has jurisdiction.” Again, Hank split his attention while Denise continued to pose questions that were answered by political rhetoric. She ended by thanking the Secretary General and sat down to a polite round of applause.

  “Be gentle,” Hank told Melwin.

  “It will be difficult,” Melwin replied. He stepped to the podium and started by asking where Katelhong was on February 25, 1991. He quickly determined that she had been in college in Switzerland, was not a delegate or employee of the United Nations at the time, and had never been to the Middle East prior to that date. “Madam Secretary, is the United Nations a signatory to the Rome Statute creating the International Criminal Court?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The United Nations fathered the court.”

  “Ah, I see. May I ask who was the bride?” A tickle of laughter worked through the audience. Bouchard banged his gavel, quieting the audience. “Madam Secretary, what is the formal relationship between the United Nations and the court?”

  “The court has not been brought into a formal relationship with the United Nations.”

  “Then whatever jurisdiction the United Nations had at Mutlah Ridge cannot be legally delegated to the court.”

  Katelhong flared. “The Gulf War was under United Nations mandate and the court is our creation.”

  Melwin was incredulous. “Are you saying the court is a branch of the United Nations, subject to veto in the Security Council, and not an independent body?”

  Denise was on her feet. “Objection. Counsel is engaging the Secretary General in debate.”

  Bouchard spoke quietly to Della Sante and Richter. “Sustained,” he said in a loud voice.

  Melwin was unperturbed by the ruling. “Madam Secretary, when did the prosecutor first approach the United Nations about this case?”

  She answered in a condescending tone. “I cannot answer your question.”

  Melwin sensed an opening. “Cannot or will not? Or, Madam Secretary, is the business of the United Nations conducted in secret?”

  “I deal with m
any sensitive issues that cannot be discussed in public.”

  “Surely you can give us an approximate date. Was it before or after the charges were filed against Colonel Tyler?”

  “Objection,” Denise called. “The Secretary General has stated why she cannot answer.”

  Melwin let his disgust show. “Or are we dealing with political influence that strikes at the prosecutor’s impartiality? If the court is to succeed, there must be no tint of partisan or political pressure.” Again, Bouchard conferred with the other two judges and sustained Denise’s objection.

  “Madame Secretary, was Panama a combatant in the Gulf War?” Her answer was a simple no. Melwin looked at her expectantly. “Has Panama prosecuted any of its citizens for fighting in that war?” Again, she answered no. Satisfied, Melwin said, “The defense has no further questions, but reserves the right to recall the witness.” Denise had no questions and Ziba Katelhong marched regally out, glad to escape.

  Hank leaned into to Melwin. “How do we recall her to the stand?”

  “I’ll notify the Victims and Witnesses Unit. But we need a date.”

  Hank thought for a moment. “The first day we start our defense.”

  “As the court has no power of subpoena, I doubt that she’ll appear.”

  A tight smile played at Hank’s mouth. “Whatever way she plays it will be a mistake.”

  Denise returned to the podium. “The prosecution calls Peter DeGroot.”

  Hank was worried. While he remembered seeing the name on the witness list, he couldn’t recall anything significant from Cassandra’s research. He had assumed that the prosecutor had included it with many others as chaff meant to distract and preoccupy his staff. He heard a loud murmur from the spectators when Harm de Rijn came through the side door. “What the hell?” he said, totally surprised.

  Cassandra’s voice was in his ear. “Du Milan sandbagged us. We assumed she was calling a Dutch politician with the same name. DeGroot is de Rijn’s real name. He was a correspondent during the Gulf War and very critical of the war.”

  “One of Saddam’s boys?”

  “Unfortunately,” Cassandra replied.

  The clerk stood and handed de Rijn the undertaking as to truthfulness. De Rijn read it aloud majestically. Hank steepled his fingers under his chin and listened as Denise established de Rijn’s identity and led him through the pro forma questions placing him on Mutlah Ridge after the attack.

  “At this time,” Denise said, “the prosecution enters into evidence the videotape the witness recorded during his time on Mutlah Ridge.”

  Melwin came to his feet to object. “Shouldn’t we see it first?”

  A chuckle rippled across the courtroom as Bouchard stared at him. Della Sante whispered in the Belgian’s ear and he nodded. “Counsel for the defense is correct,” Bouchard said, biting his words.

  A murmur of anticipation worked across the courtroom as the lights darkened and a screen dropped from the ceiling. An image of destroyed trucks and cars appeared as de Rijn’s narration, in Dutch, described the scenes of carnage. An English translation crawled along the bottom of the screen. Key phrases seemed to leap out, the result of clever highlighting and volume control. “Over two thousand trucks and vehicles destroyed … the charred and dismembered remains of over three thousand men and women … the stench of scorched flesh filled the air.” Two women spectators ran from the room. The video ended and the lights came up.

  Denise stood at the podium. “Are these scenes that you personally witnessed?”

  “That is correct,” de Rijn answered. “And I will take them to my grave.”

  Denise continued to question him, fueling the emotional impact the video had created. Finally, she looked at the judges as tears streaked her face. “We can ask no more of this witness,” she said.

  Melwin stood to question the video’s authenticity.

  Cassandra spoke in Hank’s ear. “You want it entered as evidence.” Hank reached out and touched Melwin’s arm, bringing him back to his seat.

  Bouchard breathed in relief. “The video by Harm de Rijn” – he corrected himself – “Peter DeGroot is entered as prosecution exhibit one. The court is adjourned until Monday at ten o’clock.”

  Marci Lennox’s bodyguards were hard pressed to hold an area open as spectators and demonstrators pressed into the forecourt. Her cameraman was forced into a close-up. “Secretary General Katelhong avoided answering hard questions from the defense implying the United Nations exercises undue influence on the court. The court rocked with another shock wave as the Netherlands’ premier news commentator, Harm de Rijn, took the stand under his real name, Peter DeGroot. The videotape that he recorded on the Highway of Death drove two women from the courtroom and left the prosecutor in tears, adding to the emotional carnage of this trial.”

  Her director in New York was on the satellite feed. “Good stuff Marci. Get your tight little butt on a plane and get back here.”

  “I’d rather cover it from here,” she told him. “Wait until you see Sutherland in action. It’s going to get very interesting. Can you get Liz to anchor it from your end?” Liz was Elizabeth Gordon, CNC-TV’s star anchorwoman.

  Marie Doorn was waiting in the office for the post mortem when Hank, Melwin, Catherine, and Jason arrived from the courtroom. “This just came in on the computer,” she told them, holding up a miniature CD disk. “I downloaded it.”

  Cassandra spoke in Hank’s ear. “I sent it. This is de Rijn’s original video. It was only shown once, late at night on Dutch TV. You really need to see it, and there’s more coming.”

  They watched the video without a word. “My God,” Hank whispered when the screen went blank. “They edited it. What were they thinking of?”

  “Maybe they thought the original was safely buried,” Catherine said.

  Melwin shook his head. “Europeans treat evidence much differently than Americans and the English.”

  “It’s going to get very interesting on Monday,” Hank replied.

  “Be careful,” Catherine counseled. “You’re stressing the judges.”

  “That is the idea.”

  “But you don’t want them to prematurely self destruct.”

  “If NATO is any indication,” Jason scoffed, “a Belgian, German, and Italian will do that without any help.”

  NINETEEN

  Amsterdam

  “What a lovely day,” Catherine said. She held onto Hank’s arm as they browsed their way through the Sunday antique market on Nieuwmarkt Square. Catherine was an inch taller than her husband, and well proportioned for her height. Her salt and pepper hair was cut in a stylish bob and she drew more than a few appreciative looks. Occasionally, a head would turn, recognizing Hank. But for the most part, they were just two more tourists. “It’s hard to believe it’s December.”

  Hank pushed their way through the crowd. “When the sun comes out, the Dutch make the most of it.” A church bell pealed and he pointed to their left. “Oude Kerk. There’s been a church there since the 1200s.”

  “Can we go? Is it far?”

  “Couple of hundred yards. But it’s right through the red light district.”

  “It can’t be busy on a Sunday morning.”

  “You’d be surprised. The Dutch are very enterprising, not to mention horny.” She laughed, enchanting him as always, and he gave in. “Okay, so don’t go blaming me later for making you go through there.”

  “Of course I will.” They headed across the square and turned down a narrow street. “Introducing de Rijn’s tape was very clever of Du Milan,” she told him. “It fixed the horror in everyone’s mind.”

  “There was no way I could keep it out. But they made a mistake. Shouldn’t have edited it.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  He spoke very slowly. “Shove it down de Rijn’s throat bit by bit.” He held her arm tightly. “Don’t turn around. We’re being followed.” He made sure his percom was on. “Cassandra, are you there? There’s a blue Merc
edes behind us.”

  Her voice was in his ear, reassuring and safe. “I’m here. I’m not monitoring anything but I’ll notify the police. Turn left at the next street and head for the canal. Cross over the drawbridge and turn right. Keep the canal on your right.”

  “It’s gaining on us.”

  “Don’t panic. Do you see the canal?”

  They walked faster. “In sight. Almost there.”

  “Cross over and I’ll raise the bridge.”

  Hank pressed Catherine’s elbow and they hurried over the little drawbridge. It started to rise. The Mercedes stopped, still trapped two cars short of the bridge. “Now slow down and take in the sights,” Cassandra said. “Tell me what the Mercedes is doing.”

  “Hank, what are you doing?” Catherine asked.

  “Sightseeing,” he told her.

  She glanced at a theater’s marquee. “Well, I don’t have any need to see a ‘Real Live Fucking Show.’”

  “Something for the family?” the barker in front of the theater called.

  “The Mercedes is following us on the other side of the canal,” Hank told Cassandra.

  “Good,” Cassandra said. “Turn around and head back. You’ll see two policemen coming your way. They’re looking for you.”

  They turned around and walked past the theater. For a moment, the barker looked hopeful but they kept on walking. “Is that the Mercedes you told me about?” Catherine asked.

  “I can’t be sure. It looks the same.”

  “Hank, I think you’re becoming paranoid.”

  The Hague

  Jason and Aly waited impatiently at the prison’s main entrance and counted the minutes to visiting hours. Aly sat the big basket with dinner down and tried to calm an anxious Jason. “It’s really too early to tell.”

  “I know,” Jason replied.

  A guard opened the gate and they hurried to sign in and go through the mandatory inspections. Six minutes later, they were inside and hurrying down the long corridor to Gus’s cell. He was waiting for them in the open doorway. Aly ran into his arms while Jason pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Mayo Clinic. “Michelle’s waiting for the call,” Jason said. He handed the phone to Gus.