Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (43 page)

Wolff wanted to disappear through the floor. He had walked into a trap. “Nothing further,” he said.

Skyles fought back a grin. “Sir, did you come here willingly at the request of the U.S. Government?”

“Yes.”

“Have you told the truth to the best of your ability?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“Yes I do.”

“Did you hear Mr. Rathman threaten this Mazmin person in any way?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Thank you, sir, no further questions.”

Acacia got down from the witness chair slowly and walked out of the courtroom. As he went by Rat, he winked.

The tribunal members filed back into the wardroom. They had listened with great care to the closing arguments, which dealt almost entirely with the question of identity. Commander Watson was not optimistic. She had felt the case slip through her hands the minute Duar, or el-Mahdi, took the stand.

Stern’s heart pounded. He knew if the court believed his client was Wahamed Duar he would be convicted. But Stern was completely convinced that his client was not Duar. The journalists were on his side. They had quickly published the stories about the mistaken identity. They were accusing the United States Government of incompetence for capturing the wrong man, or for letting him slip through their fingers. They were gleefully tying the two trials together, Duar’s and Rathman’s. They made a once brilliant operation look almost comical. As much fun as it was to write the articles, there was an underlying tone of concern. If Duar wasn’t on trial on the
Belleau Wood
, where was he?

The
Washington Post
in particular was enthusiastic about the angle of the defendant being a taxi driver from Khartoum. Literally not one story about Duar, or el-Mahdi, ran in the
Post
without referring to him as a cabdriver. They recounted the extent to which the United States had gone, the efforts put forth with multiple Special Operations teams airborne, multiple jets with in-air refueling, helicopters standing by and innumerable others backing up the operation, all to capture a taxi driver.

Stern loved the image; he loved the fact that people were picking up on the heart of the defense, and that they were assuming to be true what he was trying to prove. They ran the photograph of Duar next to the AP artist’s drawing of el-Mahdi. Not only were the eyes different, but on close examination the faces were slightly different as well. Even though the photograph of Duar was of poor quality, similar to a photocopy of a newspaper photograph, it was good enough to tell the difference even allowing for the inherent inaccuracy of the drawing.

Elizabeth Watson sat at the prosecution table next to Stern in her perfect uniform with her ankles crossed and her bony hands folded. Her lips were pressed tightly together, clearly anticipating the not-guilty verdict, ready for the worst. Stern derived great satisfaction from the look on her face. The journalists were anxious for the conclusion. Several of them had satellite phones ready to transmit the result to their principals instantly once they had the news.

Judge Graham looked around the room and waited for quiet. “This court is now in session. I would like to read the verdict of the court.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “As to the charge of conspiracy to commit terrorist acts against the United States, we find the defendant . . . not guilty.”

The courtroom buzzed as if an electrical switch had been thrown.

“Quiet please,” he said, and waited. The noise died down. “As to the charge of murder of American citizens by terrorist act, we find the defendant not guilty.” He folded the piece of paper back and handed it to the bailiff.

Stern let out a sigh and smiled. The translator sitting immediately behind him conveyed the result to his client. Stern shook his hand in congratulations. He stood up and faced the judge. “Your Honor, since my client was taken from his country against his will, I request that the United States return him to his country at their expense immediately. I would like that to be part of the court’s order.”

Graham looked at Stern with a severe expression. “That is a reasonable request, Mr. Stern. But I’m afraid you misperceive the result.”

“In what way?” Stern asked.

“While the court certainly had the power to determine whether he was guilty of the charges before it, other powers are left solely to me. I will confirm the tribunal’s order regarding the charges against your client. It is the belief of the court that your client is not Wahamed Duar.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stern said, sitting down.

“But I’m not done,” the judge said, raising his hand. He then pointed at the defendant. “According to
his
own testimony, he was part of Duar’s organization, even if it was at a low level. He was present at the meeting in Sudan. He was therefore a member of a terrorist group that has the destruction of the United States as its primary goal. Further, he took up arms and fired at American forces in the performance of their duties. As such, he is an enemy combatant as that has been recently defined. I therefore order that he be sent to Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, where he is to be held until the cessation of hostilities.”

Stern felt as if he had had his legs cut out from under him. “But, sir, he hasn’t been charged with anything other than as Duar!”

“You decided to put him on the stand, Mr. Stern. You asked him questions about his participation in that organization, and he clearly voluntarily testified. That is quite sufficient to prove that he is a member of that organization and took arms against American forces. Either one is good enough. He is an enemy combatant and subject to confinement until the conclusion of hostilities. It’s as simple as that. The fact that he has not been charged with anything in that regard makes no difference whatsoever. When a German soldier was captured in World War II, we didn’t charge him with something and put him on trial to see if he had actually fired at American forces. He was part of the German Army. That was good enough. He was taken into custody and kept there until the cessation of hostilities. Combatants aren’t entitled to a trial, to a defense, to an attorney. They’re just captured and kept. Very simple. He is essentially a prisoner of war; but full prisoner of war status has not been granted, as I understand it, because he is not fighting on behalf of a country. You should have thought about it before you called him to the stand. This court is adjourned.” The judge slammed down the gavel as Stern turned to his client and asked for the translator to help explain what had just happened as the MAAs closed on el-Mahdi to take him into custody.

Little muttered, “Then why have a damned tribunal if they can just keep his ass in custody as a combatant?”

Stern looked at him with a pained expression. “Be
cause
, Mr. Little, of the penalty. In case you’ve forgotten, they were asking for the death penalty, or life in prison.”

“Well, too bad for him, huh. Good job getting him off though, I mean from the death penalty and what not.”

“Shut up,” Stern said, slamming his briefcase and watching the translator’s and el-Mahdi’s faces.

The USS
Ronald Reagan
had steamed all night. Its airplanes had flown continuously to find the
Monrovian Prince
heading west. They had marked several targets for visual identification at daylight, and had now identified virtually all of them. The list was long. Several of the ships did not need further investigation. They were too small, or the wrong kind of ship entirely—fishing boats or oil tankers. But much to the annoyance of Captain Bill Anderson, they had not located the
Monrovian Prince
. He had sent the air wing’s airplanes five hundred miles out in all directions, even back toward Africa; but no sign of the
Prince
. Nothing even close. They were now flying double cycle. Each radar contact was identified and its location marked and transmitted instantly to the remainder of the battle group and to Washington. Like a hungry lion, the
Ronald Reagan
turned further west, plowing through the ocean at thirty knots looking desperately for a container ship from Liberia.

Farther to the west, closer to Florida, the USS
Louisiana
, the Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, was on the track projected for the
Prince
to take it to Jacksonville. Captain Pugh had crept up on numerous merchant ships, studied their acoustic and electronic signatures, and viewed many through his periscope. But none was the
Monrovian Prince
.

Pugh leaned over the chart table studying the expected track of their target. They should have already seen the ship. He knew there were other submarines that had left base after him that were setting up a barrier in front of Jacksonville to stop the ship when it came near. It left him the freedom to head east at a much higher rate of speed than would be normal. But no
Monrovian Prince
.

“Captain, we have another sonar contact bearing three-six-zero at thirty thousand yards.”

Captain Pugh glanced at the chart. This contact would take them well north of the projected route of the
Monrovian Prince
, but he had already viewed all the sonar contacts in the immediate vicinity. He could check this contact out and return to the projected track without losing too much time. He turned to the Officer of the Deck. “Take heading three-six-zero, set twenty knots.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The large submarine turned slowly from east to north and began its pursuit of the newest sonar contact.

Judge Royce Wiggins spoke to Skyles, “Mr. Skyles, do you plan on calling any witnesses for the defense?”

Skyles rose slowly. “Yes, Your Honor. The defense would like to call Andrea Ash.”

The gallery, which had been readmitted, turned as one to look at her. The marshal went into the hallway and called her name. She walked into the courtroom and lit it up. Her shimmering white uniform and bright look brought energy to the entire procedure. It was something she had encountered for so long she barely noticed. But this felt different. She didn’t know what the signals were that people were giving off. She had been unable to watch the trial because of the judge’s rule excluding witnesses until they had testified. She had waited for Rat at the end of each day though. She had been warned by Skyles not to because it would put her testimony in jeopardy. The jury would assume that she was testifying because of her relationship with Rat. She said she would take that risk. Rat didn’t seem to mind.

Her shoulder boards were different from Rat’s only in that she wore the medical insignia that Satterly had worn instead of Rat’s five-pointed star.

Skyles asked, “Do you know Dr. Satterly?”

“I work with him aboard the
Belleau Wood
.”

“Do you know him well?”

“I haven’t been aboard that long, but I see him frequently throughout the day.”

Wolff wasn’t going to let Skyles have much room. “Objection, Your Honor. What is the possible relevance of any of this testimony?”

“Mr. Skyles?”

“It is to show the
bias
of the witness on whom Mr. Wolff has relied so heavily in his otherwise nonexistent case. If Dr. Satterly’s testimony is—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Skyles. Overruled,” Wiggins said to Wolff, annoyed by Skyles’s editorializing.

Skyles looked at Andrea. “Have you ever heard Dr. Satterly say anything that made you believe he was out to get Lieutenant Rathman?”

“He used those very words. One time he said to me that he was going to get Lieutenant Rathman if it was the last thing he did.”

“What did you take that to mean?”

“He seemed to take the death of that terrorist personally. He was really offended by the fact that he died. He blamed his death on Lieutenant Rathman. He wanted him to be punished.”

“Did he say these things to you?”

“Several times.”

“Did he ever call Lieutenant Rathman any names in your presence, anything critical?”

“Well, he called him a murderer. He said he was a murdering barbarian, and that he was cold and amoral.”

“Do you know Lieutenant Rathman?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?”

“When I was the flight surgeon for the Blue Angels he was assigned to the team to defend one of the pilots from an attempt to assassinate him, to shoot down the team. I met him in California and got to know him.”

“Did you form a personal relationship with him?”

“Yes.”

“Have you maintained that personal relationship with him?”

“Yes, we continue to date.”

“Are you the kind of person who would lie or make things up to protect him?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that.”

Skyles paused. “You sure?”

“Yes. Quite.”

Skyles nodded, letting her testimony sink in with the jury. “Did Dr. Satterly do anything else that made you think he was out to get Lieutenant Rathman?”

“He told me he’d done a tour with NATO in Belgium. He loved his tour of duty there, and made friends with one of the European lawyers assigned to NATO headquarters. I don’t recall his name—I’m not sure he told me. He stayed in contact with him. He e-mails him maybe once a month.”

Skyles waited, letting the tension build. He then asked, “Why does that matter?”

“That European lawyer is now assigned to the International Criminal Court in Holland—the court set up to try international war criminals. As soon as the terrorist died on board the
Belleau Wood
, Dr. Satterly e-mailed his friend and told him the ICC should put Lieutenant Rathman on trial. As a war criminal.”

Skyles looked at each of the jurors. He wanted them to smell the conspiracy that lurked behind the curtain somewhere. A conspiracy so deep he couldn’t get to it, but he knew it was there, and he knew the jury would smell it if he let them. People loved to believe in government conspiracies. All it would take was one juror to think something was wrong with this trial, something they couldn’t see, some reasonable doubt, and he would have a hung jury. Good enough. But if enough bought it, Rathman would walk. “Did he tell you he had e-mailed this European attorney?”