A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  “Do you love him?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Thank you, I have no more questions.” He sat down.

  Denise stared at Hank, reassessing her adversary. Reluctantly, she gave him high marks for his courtroom stagecraft. “I have no further questions.”

  It was a ‘walk-and-talk’ shot as Marci Lennox moved down the crowded sidewalk outside the ICC’s palace. “The defense team continues to rock the trial chamber with legal challenges and constant surprises. Every legal expert in the courtroom predicted that Sutherland would destroy today’s witness much as he had Harm de Rijn. But Colonel Tyler intervened and called off his attack dog attorney.” The director spliced in a clip of Gus talking to Hank in the courtroom with Marci doing a voice over. “A lip reader understood Tyler to say, ‘Everything she said was the truth. Leave her alone.’”

  The camera was back on Marci. “And much to everyone’s surprise, Sutherland did.”

  Amsterdam

  Catherine snuggled under the down comforter and cuddled against her husband. “I loved it.”

  “Loved what?”

  “Today in court, you ninny.”

  “Oh. I thought you had something else in mind.”

  “It was great theater and the media ate it up.”

  “We took a chance. I wasn’t sure if it would work or not. But letting her off didn’t improve our case.”

  “Does it matter?” She waited for a reply. Then, snuggling closer, “Hank, I do have something else in mind.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Catherine kicked him out of bed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Hague

  Hank noticed the change the moment he and Catherine got off the train from Amsterdam the next morning. A few of their fellow passengers actually nodded at them on the platform and the crowd seemed to magically part, giving them open access to the taxi rank. The cab driver jumped out to open the door and took the most direct route to the Palace. Hank decided it was time to really test the waters and told the driver to drop them off at the main entrance. Demonstrators, curious spectators, and over two hundred TV crews spilled out of the forecourt and blocked their way. Again, the crowd parted as they made their way inside. Catherine gave him a little nudge. “It worked.”

  “Not last night,” he grumbled.

  Denise was huddled with the assistant prosecutor prepping for the upcoming session when her husband burst into her office. She looked at him in surprise. “Chrestien! I wish you had told me you were coming. Court reconvenes in a few moments and we are pressed for time.”

  Chrestien shot a contemptuous look at her assistant. “Leave.” The man scurried out without a word, anxious to tell everyone on the prosecutor’s staff that Chrestien Du Milan was at least twenty years her senior and four inches shorter.

  “What’s wrong?” Denise asked.

  “What’s wrong? Westcot is here and talking to everyone in the EU except us.”

  An unspoken worry claimed Denise. Supposedly, Westcot and Chrestien were friends but that was a civilized façade. Behind the scenes they were bitter rivals and Chrestien hated the American. “Can you contain him?” she asked, refusing to show her concern.

  “Of course. But the trial is turning into a fiasco.”

  “Perhaps Sutherland has something to do with that.” Chrestien stomped his right foot and, for a moment, they stared at each other. She had never seen him so angry. “I seem to recall you saying that you’d take care of him.”

  Chrestien slumped in a chair as his anger slowly died away. “The security around Sutherland is tight as a drum.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Denise was his star pupil and his most prized possession but she was not ready for the brutal reality of his world. One of his operatives had contacted ‘the Family,’ a Corsican clan that supplied support services to the French underworld and the occasional terrorist group. A verbal contract was duly negotiated that was heavy on price but lacking in specifics. The Family would “disrupt” Tyler’s defense team for 1.5 million euros, and, as always, the Family required full payment in advance. “We’re trying to gain access to his staff,” he lied.

  Denise accepted that as part of the game and could live with it. “Oh, I see. Marie Doorn.”

  Again, the lie came easy. “Of course.” Chrestien’s operatives had approached Doorn, but to no avail. His anger slipped out. “Damn Sutherland! He’s turned Tyler into a Sir Galahad, the strong but silent type. There’s actually a fan club forming in Paris!” Chrestien shuddered at the betrayal by his fellow Parisians, who he considered a fickle lot at best. “Scullanois is in a panic. He says it will be the end of his career if he’s called as a witness. I’ve tried to calm Renée but she says Sutherland will link our rapprochement with China to the trial.” He paced the floor. “There will be the devil to pay with the EU if that comes out.”

  Denise tensed at the mention of Scullanois’s wife. “Reassure Renée that Bouchard will not let Henri take the stand. But no one can control Sutherland.”

  “I may have something.” Again, he considered how much she needed to know. “In Iraq.” He stood. “My airplane is waiting.” He kissed her good-by on the cheek.

  The courtroom buzzed with anticipation when Gus entered the dock. He nodded at Hank and Melwin, and scanned the packed spectator section. Half a dozen women smiled at him. He sat down and glanced at his watch, wondering why the delay.

  Eleven minutes later, Denise hurried into the courtroom. “Better late than never,” Melwin said in a low voice. The clerk buzzed the judges’ anti-chamber and called for everyone to stand. “Do not expect the same courtesy to be extended to you and me,” Melwin said. The judges filed in and day six of the trial started thirteen minutes late.

  Bouchard was his usual choleric self. “The court has reviewed defense counsel’s petition addressing temporal jurisdiction. It is our consensus that the court has temporal jurisdiction in this matter.”

  Hank looked at Melwin. “Did I hear right? By what precedent or law?”

  “My dear sainted grandmother called it Sod’s Law,” Melwin replied. He stood, a hungry look on his face, and raised his voice. “I’m not aware of any precedent supporting such a ruling. Perhaps the court can help me in this regard.”

  “Down boy,” Hank said. He was rewarded with a murmur of chuckles.

  Bouchard fixed the Irishman with a stern look. “Monsieur Melwin, you are out of order. Return to your seat.” He waited while Melwin sat down. “Madam Prosecutor, are there any matters or issues that need to be brought to the court’s attention?”

  Denise bobbed to her feet. “There are none, your Honor.” She sat down and waited for Melwin to stand. But he didn’t move.

  “You have nothing for us, Signore Melwin?” Della Sante asked.

  “Not today, your Honor,” Melwin replied. “Not that it would do any good,” he added sotto voce.

  “Madam Prosecutor,” Bouchard said, “you may call your next witness.”

  “The prosecution calls Ewe Reiss.”

  The side door opened and an apparition ghosted into the room. Audible gasps echoed over the crowd as the scarred and mutilated man took the witness stand. When the clerk stood to read the undertaking to tell the truth, Reiss held up his right hand, palm out and the stump of his fingers spread wide to stop him. “I will not take an oath.”

  Bouchard leaned forward. “You are not required to take the undertaking to tell the truth if you believe it is an affront to your human dignity, Monsieur Reiss.”

  “The men who did this to me all swore oaths. They are not my teachers.”

  Denise opened her folder and uncapped her OMAS. She checked off the first item as she began her questioning. Hank gave her high marks as she led Reiss through his testimony, establishing he was a civilian diesel mechanic working in Kuwait City and had been driving a truck transporting the bodies of Iraqi soldiers when he was caught in the attack on Mutlah ridge. His face streaked with tears as he
described the death of his fellow driver, also a civilian. “How was your friend killed?” Denise asked.

  “We were in the middle of the convoy and not hurt by the first bombs that boxed the convoy in. Then the plane attacked again, and dropped the small bombs that fall by the thousands and explode like hand grenades. I later learned they are called cluster bomb units.”

  “Did you see the airplane that dropped these bombs?”

  “It was the same one, the one that dropped the first bombs. It flew right over us, very low. I escaped before our gas tank exploded. But my friend was trapped in the truck and burned to death.”

  “Tell us about your friend and what happened.”

  “His name was Hassan Ghamby. He was twenty-six years old, a Palestinian who worked in Kuwait City. He supported his family who still live in Gaza.” Denise let his story unfold as he told of the next horrible hours and how he had crawled into the desert and dug a hole to hide from the attacking aircraft. He was hit again but later rescued by United States Marines who got him to a hospital in time to save his life. There was no anger in his voice, only a soft, melancholy echo from the past. She asked if he had been warned that the convoy could be attacked. His “No” carried a simplicity that left no doubt he was telling the truth. Denise closed her folder, capped her pen, and thanked him.

  Bouchard declared a recess for lunch.

  “We need to talk,” Cassandra told Hank. “We’ve got problems.”

  “Why did I know that?” Hank muttered.

  2

  Hank sat at the defense table after lunch, his hands folded, head bowed. He pulled into himself, thinking about all that Cassandra and her team had told him. He stood when the three judges entered, not sure what to do. “When in doubt, delay,” Melwin advised.

  Bouchard reconvened the court. “Your witness, Monsieur Sutherland.”

  Hank stepped to the podium carrying his thin leather folder. Reiss’s eyes were riveted on it. “Where’s Henri?” Hank asked.

  Bouchard rapped his gavel. “I have cautioned you before on this matter.”

  “Yes, your Honor, you have.” He turned to Reiss with the traditional “Good afternoon, Mr. Reiss.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Mr. Reiss, you testified that you saw the airplane that bombed the convoy and killed your friend. Could you identify any markings that identified its nationality?”

  “No. It was dark.”

  “Are you sure there was only one aircraft?”

  “There was only one at first. The others came later. I later learned it was an F-15 called the Strike Eagle.”

  “Were your vehicle’s headlights on?”

  “No. The Iraqis wouldn’t let us.”

  “As your truck was carrying bodies, was it clearly marked with a red cross?”

  “No. It had been used for carrying supplies and we didn’t have time to repaint it.”

  “Did you fire a flare or do anything to announce your presence to the attacking aircraft?”

  “I didn’t have flares.”

  “Then how could the pilot have known you were in the convoy?”

  Reiss only stared at Gus and did not answer. Hank let the silence resonate. “Mr. Reiss, what happened to the remains of Hassan Ghamby?”

  “I don’t know. There were so many casualties. I assume he was buried in a mass grave.”

  “Besides yourself, who else knew Hassan Ghamby was at Mutlah Ridge?” Denise’s head came up at Hank’s question. She quickly scribbled a note and handed it to her assistant with a warning look. He quickly left the courtroom. Reiss did not answer, and again, Hank did not press him. “Mr. Reiss,” his voice was soft, almost inaudible, “why were you trying to escape with the Iraqis?”

  “They paid me to drive and I wanted to help Hassan escape.”

  “Did the Iraqis pay Hassan Ghamby to help drive?”

  The apparition slowly shook his head. “No.”

  “You said Hassan Ghamby was a Palestinian working in Kuwait. Was he one of the Palestinians who had collaborated with the Iraqis during the occupation?”

  “He said the Kuwaitis would kill him if he stayed behind.”

  “Mr. Reiss, I know this is painful, but was Hassan Ghamby your lover?”

  A single tear streamed down Reiss’s scarred face as he slowly nodded. Hank’s voice was gentle. “The witness is nodding yes.” Suddenly, he sensed the truth and decided to take a chance. He gently tapped his leather folder, drawing every eye in the courtroom. “You weren’t really transporting bodies in the truck, were you?”

  Reiss’s head shook once. “No.”

  “What was in the truck?”

  “Mostly TVs and appliances. And a Rolls Royce.”

  “Were they stolen from the Kuwaitis?”

  Reiss lifted his head, at last free of a terrible burden. “Yes. But Hassan didn’t know. He was an honest man.”

  “I know this has been very painful, Mr. Reiss, and I thank you for telling the truth. I have no more questions.”

  Tears streaked Reiss’s scarred face as Denise stood. “The prosecution has no further questions but may have to recall the witness at a later time.”

  Bouchard adjourned the court for the day and Hank slumped in his seat as the courtroom emptied. “I can’t believe I did that,” Hank said.

  “I’d rather you didn’t do it again,” Catherine told him from the other side of the railing.

  “Do what?” Jason asked.

  “My husband,” Catherine answered, “violated one of the prime rules of questioning. He asked a question when he didn’t know the answer.”

  The forecourt of the palace was strangely quiet as Catherine made her way through the milling crowd towards Marci Lennox. A technician fitted her with a wireless button microphone. “Can you sense the anger?” the technician asked.

  “It’s confusion,” Catherine answered. “Not anger.” Another technician did a sound balance and they were on the air.

  “Mrs. Sutherland, “ Marci began, “we’ve seen your husband destroy one prosecution witness on the stand and then treat the next two with gentleness and understanding. Is this part of the defense’s strategy?”

  “It’s very simple,” Catherine replied. “Hank Sutherland honors the truth. Ewe Reiss is a true casualty of war, and when pressed, he told the truth.”

  Amsterdam

  The phone in Hank and Catherine’s hotel suite rang just after they had gone to bed. Hank picked it up, barely conscious. It was Jason. “I’m in the lobby. Turn on the TV. I’ll be right up.” He broke the connection.

  “Who was that?” Catherine asked.

  Hank reached for the remote control to the TV. “Jason. He’s on the way up.”

  He cycled to an English-speaking news station.

  A very concerned woman newsreader was standing in front of a map of the Netherlands. “The body of Harm de Rijn was discovered in his car, an apparent suicide. The car was found in his garage with the engine running. His wife told investigators that he had been severely depressed since testifying before the International Criminal Court.” A knock at the door demanded their attention.

  “That was quick,” Hank said. He padded to the door and let Jason in.

  “There’s a pretty ugly crowd outside,” Jason said.

  “In Holland?”

  “Yeah, in Holland. I’ve got a security team in place. Stay inside.” He didn’t tell them the security team had been guarding them from the very first and that he had one guarding Aly and her parents. “But I can’t locate Melwin.”

  Catherine was standing in the doorway to the bedroom. “Try Marie Doorn’s apartment.”

  “What the hell is he doing there?” Hank asked.

  “They seem to have clicked,” Catherine replied.

  “Cassandra,” Hank said, “do you have Marie Doorn’s address?”

  Delft, the Netherlands

  The light was still on in Marie Doorn’s small third-floor apartment when Jason arrived shortly after midnight. He
was not surprised when Marie answered his knock dressed in a silk negligee. He spoke briefly to Melwin and, satisfied that all was well, returned to his car. He wrapped a lap robe around his shoulders and used a night scope to scan the apartment building a hundred yards away. He punched at his cell phone and called for another security team. The controller told him a team was on the way, and that all was quiet at the Amstel Intercontinental and the van der Nord farm. Jason settled down to wait for the team.

  “Oh, oh,” he murmured. Two men were walking down the side of the apartment building, headed for the rear entrance. He bolted from the car and punched at his cell phone as he ran for the apartment. “I got two unknowns inside Doorn’s building. Going in.” The controller told him the security team was ten to twelve minutes away. Jason drew his 9mm Glock and chambered a round. He was through the front door and bounding up the stairs. He reached the third floor and cracked the stairwell door leading into the hallway. Nothing.

  He checked the hallway again. The door to Doorn’s apartment was cracked open.

  How had he missed that? Before he could move, two muffled shots, little more than loud pops, echoed from the apartment. He crouched at the doorway as two more pops carried down the hall. A bitter taste flooded Jason’s mouth. He was too late and two people were dead. The two men emerged from the apartment. The first one headed for the stairwell as the other closed the door and walked quickly away in the other direction.

  Jason drew back into the shadows and waited. He shifted the Glock to his left hand. The door slowly opened and a man came through. He headed for the stairs and didn’t see Jason at his back. “Freeze,” Jason ordered. The man was a blur of motion as he spun around and kicked at the Glock with his right foot. But Jason was quicker. He raised the Glock and caught the man’s ankle with his right hand. He held him off balance, his hand a crushing vice. The man drew a small semi-automatic and fired. The bullet creased Jason’s bicep and smashed into the wall. Jason reacted automatically and twisted the man’s leg. The man jerked and pulled his leg free as Jason drove a fist into his chest. The assailant stumbled backwards and pitched over the side of the railing. His scream came to an abrupt halt when he bounced off the concrete floor three stories below. The semi-automatic clattered as it bounced, an ending punctuation. Jason charged down the stairs.