A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  Gus adjusted the tie Derwent had given him. “Hank, reality check. The verdict was in before the trial ever started and this thing with Iraq is just one more way the system is stacked.” He turned and faced the lawyer. “It’s like flying combat – when all else fails, select guns and put the pointy end of the jet in their face.”

  “It’s not too late for damage control. I can still cut a deal.”

  “How does a simple ‘no’ sound?”

  Hank’s respect for the pilot went over the moon. “Gus, you are one amazing guy.”

  “Let’s go do it,” the pilot said.

  “Guard,” Hank called, “we’re ready.” Two guards escorted them to the courtroom. Gus led the way in as over half the audience stood. “I’ll be damned,” Hank said in a low voice.

  “Without doubt,” Gus said. “Go get ‘em.”

  Hank joined Aly at the table and waited for the tenth day of the trial to start. “Break a leg,” Cassandra whispered in his ear.

  “You are encouraging,” he murmured as the judges entered.

  Bouchard quickly disposed of the opening formalities without ruling on Iraq’s petition for custody, and recalled Horan to the stand. “Monsieur Sutherland, you may continue.”

  Hank came to the podium and sat his thin leather folder down unopened. “Good morning, Mr. Horan. Have you found the missing disk?” They waited for the translation. Horan replied that they had searched all night to no avail. “I see. Are you totally impartial in this matter?” Horan swelled with indignity and angrily replied that he was. “I see,” Hank said as Aly handed him a videocassette. He relayed it to the clerk. “If it pleases the court, this was aired by the BBC on September 11, 2001.”

  “Objection,” Denise said. “Monsieur Horan is a member of the court and is not here as a witness.”

  “As the member of the court cannot produce the electronic recording in question,” Della Sante replied, “the court must satisfy itself that there are no irregularities in his conduct.” Bouchard glared at her for pre-empting his authority.

  Richter tapped his microphone for attention. “I am also deeply concerned about the missing disk and agree.”

  “Overruled,” Bouchard said. “The court will view the videocassette.” The room darkened as the screen descended.

  The logo of the BBC World News flashed on the screen as the commentator spoke. “The Palestinians in the town of Nabulus on the West Bank reacted spontaneously to the announcement of the destruction of the World Trade Center.” A black-robed woman laughing and dancing in the streets filled the screen. The image froze as the lights came back on.

  “Mr. Horan, do you recognize the woman on the screen?”

  “No,” Horan replied in English without waiting for the translator.

  Hank arched an eyebrow but said nothing as he opened his leather folder and pulled out the front page of an Arabic language newspaper. He handed it to the clerk who relayed it to Horan. Horan held up his hand and refused to touch the newspaper. “Apparently,” Hank said, “the witness does not recognize his own sister. Mr. Horan, will you be so kind as to translate for the court the caption under the newspaper photo that shows you with the same woman we see on the screen in front of the court?”

  “She is my sister,” Horan said in English.

  “We’re speaking English now?” Hank asked.

  Bouchard banged his gavel. “You will not badger an officer of the court, Counselor.”

  “I apologize, your Honor. I have no more questions of this witness.” He turned and looked at Denise.

  She led Horan through a series of gentle questions, trying to show he was an impartial and dedicated officer of the court. But what emerged was a rigid and dogmatic man claiming he was above all criticism because he shared the court’s authority. Della Sante’s body language was ample indication that she was disgusted with Horan. Denise finally managed to end it. “We have no further questions.”

  Hank stood. “The defense has no further use of this witness.” Horan bolted from the witness box and out the side door. “The defense enters the video and newspaper article as defense exhibits seven and eight.”

  Denise objected but Della Sante’s expression and gestures were clear evidence that she wasn’t having it. After a few moments of intense discussion at the bench, Bouchard composed himself and turned to the courtroom. “Objection overruled. So entered. As it is after twelve o’clock, the court is in recess until two this afternoon.”

  Hank turned to Catherine and Jason who were in their usual places behind the bar. “I’ll file a motion to exclude Person’s statement tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think that will do much good,” Catherine replied.

  “That is a very safe statement,” Cassandra murmured in his ear, her voice edged with cynicism. “The court is still in its formative stages and cannot afford the luxury of questioning its rules and procedures, much less its own officers.” Hank stood up to stretch. “By the way,” Cassandra said, “Suzanne Westcot is waiting in the hall outside.”

  “I believe I’m being summoned,” Hank said. He led Catherine and Jason outside as Aly gathered up the files and folders on the table and followed them.

  Suzanne was pacing the floor and wearing a stylish warm-up suit that made her look all of eighteen years old. “I just got here,” she said. She tossed her blonde ponytail and looked even younger. She gave Jason a serious look and lowered her voice. “Max thinks we can get a helicopter into Mission Awana. Getting out may be more difficult.”

  Jason didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

  “It will be dangerous,” Suzanne said.

  “His bag is in my car,” Aly said, her voice strained, tears in her eyes.

  Jason wrapped his arms around Aly, engulfing her. “Hey, I do this sort of thing for a living. I’ll be back. With Toby.”

  Tears streamed down Aly’s face. “I know.” Jason kissed her and followed Suzanne down the hall. Catherine handed Aly a Kleenex to dry her tears “Did you see that look in her eyes?” Aly asked. “Mark my words, she’ll make a play for him.”

  Catherine touched her arm. “I don’t think that’s a problem with the Tyler men.”

  Two hours later, Hank followed Aly into the packed courtroom. “No one left for lunch,” she told him. “They were afraid they would lose their seats.”

  “It’s the best show in town.”

  They waited as Bouchard reconvened the court. Bouchard adjusted his glasses and studied Denise. “Has the prosecution rested?”

  “Good question,” Hank allowed under his breath.

  Without the least embarrassment, Denise approached the podium. “No, your Honor. The prosecution calls Doctor Gustav Schumann.” Every head in the courtroom turned towards the side door as a collective silence held the room spellbound. The door opened and a tall and bent old man shuffled into the courtroom, his massive mane of gray hair instantly recognizable. His face was drawn and haggard from the mere exertion of walking, and few doubted that he was near death. His two canes played a slow tattoo on the floor as the audience came to its feet out of respect.

  “Alex, where are you?” Hank moaned to himself. Aly pushed a thick folder across the table, her face filled with worry. “I’m surprised he’s up to it,” Hank said quietly.

  Cassandra was there, speaking quietly in his ear. “After Horan, Du Milan needs to end on a high note. She wants to cloak her case with moral authority. Schumann can do that for her.”

  “Tell me,” Hank muttered. Gustav Schumann had been born in East Prussia and after World War II, had challenged the barbarism of his Soviet masters. He had spent most of his life in and out of East German jails where he had been repeatedly tortured and thrown into solitary confinement. But his jailers had not broken his spirit and he had emerged as the conscience of his generation. He had led the crusade for creating the ICC, and it was his voice that demanded universal justice for the oppressed of the world.

  Then it happened. The old man stood more erect and moved with co
nfidence as he took the stand. His head was up and his hazel eyes flashed with defiance. Gustav Schumann was about to fight one more, and perhaps his last, battle.

  Cassandra was still there. “Melwin developed a strategy but we really didn’t think he would be able to testify. It’s in the folder.” Hank opened the folder and started to read, splitting his attention as Denise began an almost reverential questioning. Hank listened, automatically searching for the weakness or misstep that could impeach his testimony. “Do not object” was written in bold letters in Melwin’s notes and underlined twice. Hank gave Denise high marks as she led Schumann through the opening formalities, reinforcing his authority. Finally, Denise came to the heart of Schumann’s testimony.

  “Did you serve on the Commission of Inquiry for the International War Crimes Tribunal in its investigation into United States war crimes against Iraq?”

  “I served as the chair of the commission from its inception through May of 1991.”

  “Please relate for the court the purpose of the commission.”

  “The purpose of the commission was to document the systematic destruction of the civilian infrastructure in Iraq during the Gulf War of 1991. Our investigators traveled over 2,000 miles in Iraq during a time when the United States was flying over 3000 bombing sorties a day. It was their goal to document the atrocities being committed by the United States. In that, they more than succeeded.”

  Hank marveled as he followed Melwin’s notes and listened to Schumann’s testimony. The Irishman had outlined the testimony he was now hearing, and annotated every major point and how the judges would respond. Again and again, Melwin had written “Do not object.” Bouchard finally declared a recess to give the old man a chance to recuperate.

  “What was Melwin’s game plan?” Hank asked Cassandra.

  “He seemed unconcerned and never confided in me,” she replied.

  “Nor me.” Hank scanned the folder, looking for any clue on how to challenge Schumann’s testimony. The fact that Schumann’s testimony was all hearsay mattered little and Melwin had calculated the judges would rule it truthful, voluntary, and trustworthy. Hank stopped his search when the court reconvened and Denise resumed her questioning. She turned to the Highway of Death.

  Hank’s head came up when Schumann said, “The investigators spent a full day examining the carnage. Many weapons of mass destruction had been used, such as cluster bomb units and napalm.” A loud murmur swept the courtroom at the mention of napalm and grew in volume. Bouchard let it grow before gaveling for order.

  Hank looked at Gus who shook his head. The pilot mouthed the words “No way.”

  Denise was surprised by the mention of napalm but an inner voice urged her to caution. “This is a very serious charge, Doctor. What evidence was presented to the commission substantiating the use of napalm?”

  A confused look crossed Schumann’s face. “That was sometime ago and I don’t recall the details. It is all in our report.” Denise nodded and moved on.

  Cassandra’s legal team was on it. “It was only an allegation,” she told Hank. “There is absolutely no evidence in the report about the use of napalm. He’s an old man and it will look bad if you beat him up on the stand.” Hank understood and listened as Denise continued her questioning. It was late in the afternoon when she finished and stepped away from the podium. She nodded briefly in Hank’s direction, her face a mask.

  “As it is late,” Bouchard said, “perhaps it would be best to resume tomorrow.”

  Hank closed the folder and saw the two short notes scribbled in Melwin’s scraggily scrawl on the back cover. He knew what to do. “Your Honor, I only have a few brief questions and unless the prosecutor has further questions, it will not be necessary for Doctor Schumann to return tomorrow.”

  Schumann gave Hank a weary look. “Let’s end it.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You testified that the name of your organization was ‘The Commission of Inquiry for the International War Crimes Tribunal.’ Is that correct?”

  Denise was on her feet. “Objection. Relevancy. This is a matter so trivial it demeans the court and the witness.”

  “Your Honors,” Hank responded, now certain he was on the right track, “we have heard compelling testimony. But it is secondhand and hearsay at best. I am merely trying to establish the framework in which it was originally presented to determine its relevancy to these proceedings.”

  The judges conferred briefly. “Objection overruled,” Bouchard said. “Doctor Schumann may answer the question.”

  “That is the correct title.”

  “Did the United Nations create this International War Crimes Tribunal?”

  “No.”

  “Was this International War Crimes Tribunal formed by the International Court of Justice?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask who created this so-called International War Crimes Tribunal?”

  Schumann was indignant. “Our charter, sir, was conveyed by humanity, the oppressed of the world who seek justice. It was our belief that the evidence presented by the commission was so compelling that the world could not ignore it.”

  “Let me rephrase the question, Doctor. Under whose authority was a charter granted to the International War Crimes Tribunal?”

  The two men stared at each other, locked in a contest of wills. “The International War Crimes Tribunal has yet to be formed,” Schumann admitted.

  “I have one last question about your investigators. Was your commission formed before or after your investigators traveled through Iraq and Kuwait?”

  “It was formed after they returned from Iraq,” Schumann replied.

  “Thank you, Doctor Schumann.” Hank turned to Denise and murmured, “Your witness,” daring her to continue the cross-examination.

  She stood, and for a moment, Hank thought she would accept the challenge. “We have no further questions. Thank you, Doctor Schumann. It has indeed been a rare privilege to hear you speak and share your wisdom.”

  The audience broke out in applause as Schumann made his way out. Bouchard let the applause crescendo and die away naturally. Sensing the moment was right, Denise turned to the judges and bowed. “Your Honors, the prosecution rests.”

  “We are adjourned until the usual time tomorrow,” Bouchard intoned.

  Hank sat back in his seat and threw his pencil on the table. “Good recovery,” Cassandra said. “Was it you or Alex?”

  “It was Alex.” Hank grabbed the folder and read from the back cover. “One: No war crimes tribunal existed. Two: commission a publicity stunt to embarrass the UN.”

  “We’ve got a major problem. The media is going ballistic over Schumann’s charge of using napalm. You’re going to have to defuse it without going after Schumann.”

  “That’s going to be tricky,” Hank replied.

  The riot police lowered their visors and locked their shields together as the mass of humanity surged down Scheveningseweg, the broad boulevard leading towards the ICC. Marci Lennox’s burly camera crew elbowed their way through the reporters who were clustered behind the police line and cleared a space for Marci. She tossed her hair into place and spoke into the camera.

  “The Dutch police tell me that they have never seen a demonstration of this size form so quickly and with such emotion.” She glanced down the street, her worry obvious. “Even from here, I can hear the chant of ‘Napalm, Napalm’ being repeated over and over.” A cameraman raised a micro camera mounted on a telescopic pole to get a better view. “The officer I spoke with estimated over five thousand demonstrators had gathered on the beach, but their numbers have obviously grown.”

  “Marci,” her director interrupted, “the police say we gotta get out’a here.”

  She knew the feed was live and played it. “This demonstration is the immediate fallout of Doctor Schumann’s charge that the United States used napalm on Mutlah Ridge. As far as public opinion is concerned, it is the smoking gun that has convicted Gus Tyler.”

  “Marci!” h
er director yelled. “We gotta go. This is turning into a riot.”

  “Hold on,” Marci said. She glanced at the micro camera’s monitor. Leading the mob was Ewe Reiss. “Zoom on him.” Reiss surged into view, filling the monitor, his face triumphant as the first paving stone arced over the police line. “Run!” Marci shouted.

  Bouchard took the call from Ziba Katelhong about the time Jason’s Lufthansa flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, pushed back from the terminal at Frankfurt, Germany. The judge listened for five minutes without saying a word. Then, “We’re in total agreement, Madam Secretary.” Again, he listened. “Can I rely on your complete backing?” He grunted in satisfaction at the answer. “Is the suite at Des Indes to your satisfaction?” As he expected, The Hague’s premier five-star luxury hotel was barely up to the task of meeting the Secretary General’s needs but it would have to do. He broke the connection and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his paunch. Slowly, and with relish, he selected the words he would use. He was back in control and it was just a matter of picking the right moment.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Hague

  Bouchard was braced for the inevitable when he reconvened the court at exactly nine A.M. on Friday, December 17. He smiled indulgently at Hank. “And what do you have for us today?” he asked.

  Slowly, Hank walked to the podium and handed the head clerk his latest petition.

  “As the prosecutor cannot find the original recording of Reverend Person’s statement, we petition the court to exclude the statement as presented by Watban Horan.”

  “Your Honors,” Denise said, “Monsieur Horan was acting as an officer of the court. There is no reason to disallow the statement.”

  Hank was ready. “Lacking the original electronic recording, the accuracy of the translation cannot be verified. Further, Watban Horan demonstrated a working knowledge of English, which he had denied under oath. Is the court to assume this is the only thing he lied about? Finally, there is the question of his motivation. Does his family loyalty exceed his loyalty to the court?”