TWENTY-ONE
The Hague
Bouchard mentally braced himself as he went through the opening ritual
and asked Du Milan if there were any issues before the court. As expected, Melwin immediately stood. Bouchard smiled tolerantly, establishing a semblance of control. “What do you have for us today?”
“If it may please the court,” Melwin began. “The court has established that the alleged crimes took place on February 25 and 26, 1991. Article Twelve of the Rome Statute clearly states, and I quote, ‘The court has jurisdiction only with respect to crimes committed after the entry into force of this Statute.’ The Statute was entered into force on April 11, 2002, when ten countries deposited instruments of ratification at a special ceremony at the United Nations. Therefore, the court does not have temporal jurisdiction over this alleged crime and we ask for the immediate dismissal of all charges against Mr. Tyler.” He handed the blue-covered petition to the clerk.
“Madam Prosecutor?” Bouchard asked.
Denise stepped to the podium. “As I stated in my opening remarks, the Rome Statute allows the court to reach into the past and to correct obvious crimes against humanity – crimes which were recognized by The Geneva Conventions prior to 1991. Further, the action on Mutlah Ridge occurred under a United Nations resolution. As The Geneva Conventions are integral to the United Nations and the Rome Statute, which the defense has rightfully made so clear to the court, the defendant’s crimes fall under the court’s jurisdiction.” Loud applause engulfed the courtroom.
Melwin tried to look tolerant. “Yet the court has no jurisdiction for crimes committed before its inception.”
“The court has previously ruled on
ratione personae
,” Bouchard said, “but not
ratione temporis
. Therefore, we will take your petition under consideration. Madam Prosecutor, you may continue.”
“The prosecution has no further need of the witness de Rijn and asks that he be excused.” The audience sat in stunned silence as Bouchard excused the absent TV commentator. Denise took a deep breath. “The prosecution calls Natividad Gomez.”
The woman who entered the courtroom had changed. She had lost twenty pounds, was dressed attractively, and her hair was carefully styled. “Oh, my,” Melwin breathed. “She’s a stunner.” They listened as Denise led Natividad through the standard questions establishing her identity, and that she worked in the records section of the Air Force Personnel Center at Randolph Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas. Denise handed Natividad a thick folder.
“Do you recognize the contents of this folder?”
Natividad went through the contents. “Yes I do. It contains August Tyler’s Air Force personnel file.”
“Please read the highlighted portions of the earmarked pages.”
For the next hour, Natividad methodically read from the file, documenting Gus’s training and assignments. Denise requested a recess for lunch just as she reached the sections covering the time he flew combat in the Gulf War.
“Good timing,” Hank allowed.
“I predict a full house drooling for blood on cross-examination when we reconvene,” Melwin said. “You mustn’t disappoint them.”
“I won’t,” Hank promised.
Two hours later, Bouchard led Della Sante and Richter to their seats and nodded at the cameras, enjoying the drama of the moment. “Please be seated.”
Denise continued to lead Natividad through Gus’s file and established that he had been assigned to the 25th Tactical Fighter Wing at Al Kharj Air Base, Saudi Arabia, on February 25, 1991, had flown a combat mission on that date, and was awarded a Distinguish Flying Cross for engaging and stopping a large enemy convoy on Mutlah Ridge. Natividad closed the thick folder and handed it to the clerk.
“Has anything been deleted from the defendant’s file or modified in anyway?”
“As best I can tell, no.”
Denise handed the folder to the clerk. “The prosecution enters into evidence August Tyler’s personnel file.” The six TV commentators in the booth hastened to explain to their audiences that the prosecution had placed Gus at the scene and proven that he had attacked the convoy.
Bouchard looked at the defense table, waiting for an objection. There was none. “August Tyler’s military record is entered as prosecution exhibit two. Monsieur Sutherland, your witness.” Hank came slowly to his feet and picked up his leather folder. He glanced at Natividad and then back at his folder, ratcheting up the tension even more.
Gus came to his feet. “Your Honor, may I speak with my counsel for a moment?”
“Do you require a recess?”
“No, your Honor.”
Hank walked slowly to the dock, still carrying the folder, and spoke in a low voice. “Be sure the cameras can focus on your face.”
Gus turned slightly toward the cameras. “Everything she said was true. Leave her alone.”
On cue, Hank froze. Then he slowly nodded and returned to his table. He thought for a moment as the audience waited. He handed his leather folder to Melwin and stepped to the podium. “Where’s Henri?” he asked, sotto voce. Bouchard ignored him. “Good afternoon, Ms Gomez.”
The fear in her voice was painful, a living reminder of what had happened to de Rijn on the stand. “Good afternoon.”
Hank’s voice was gentle. “I only have a few questions. When did you remove Mr. Tyler’s file from the records section?”
“I don’t remember the exact date, but it was mid October of this year.”
“Are personnel files classified in anyway?”
“They’re for official use only.”
“Whom did you give the file to?”
“Jean Philippe.”
“Do you know Jean Philippe’s last name?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Was he French?”
“He said he was born in Paris.”
“Were you paid money or given any presents in return for the file?”
“Oh, no.”
“Have you seen Jean Philippe since then?”
Tears filled her eyes. “No.”
“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.