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Authors: Richard Herman
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what happens next?”
“You’ll be tried by a three-judge chamber from the trial division. There’s no jury and they can convict with two votes.”
“Whatever happened to trial by jury and a unanimous decision?”
“You have none of our constitutional protections here. I’ll press ahead, but we’ll be lucky to get a court date within a year.”
Gus was shocked. “What?”
“It’s the process I mentioned. All the concerned countries that are members of the court have to be notified and given time to respond.”
“What about the evidence? The prosecutor, what’s her name, had a pile of it.”
“Denise Du Milan. As for the rules of evidence, it can get shaky. Hearsay is routinely allowed. The judges only have to consider it truthful, relevant, and necessary. So far, the prosecutor has not released any of the evidence she cited in your confirmation hearing. Her staff says it will be released at the ‘proper time.’ The good news is that her staff is mediocre when they’re having a good day. Make that a very good day and very mediocre.”
Gus sat on the edge of his bunk and stared at the floor. “Ah, shit. I’ll never get out of here. Do you know that I can’t even call my family?” He snorted. “Local calls only and I have to pay for them. Ninety dollars a call.”
“Does your family have a videophone?” Gus nodded in answer. “Good.” Hank handed Gus a cell phone and gave him an encouraging look.
Gus punched in his home number and his daughter’s image came on the small screen. “Oh, Daddy!” she cried. Hank stepped outside and closed the door to give them privacy.
FIVE
The Hague
The elevator doors on the fourth floor of the Palace of International Justice swooshed back and Denise stormed out. It was just after ten A.M. on Saturday morning and her hard leather heels resonated on the Italian marble floor, echoing down the wide corridor of the severely modern building and announcing her presence to her waiting staff. In many ways it was a first, for the ICC never worked on Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, holidays, or for six weeks in mid summer. With one exception, her staff of nineteen was contemplating filing a mass grievance for the gross inconvenience of being called in on a weekend. They took little consolation in being paid triple time for their efforts.
The double-glass doors leading into the prosecutor’s offices divided with a will of their own, and the waiting staff imitated the parting of the Red Sea, forming a corridor leading to her office. One look at her face was ample warning that filing a work grievance would have amounted to professional self-immolation of a most gruesome nature. Images of widows throwing themselves on funeral pyres hovered in their minds. They would have to settle for the triple time.
“Good morning, Madam Prosecutor,” the assistant prosecutor said. Denise considered the man a non-entity and didn’t even look at him. She sloughed off her leather topcoat, letting it fall to the floor. A secretary scrambled to pick it up.
“Coffee,” she snapped. She had made the 280-mile drive from Paris in a little over three hours and was in desperate need of a caffeine jolt. She threw the end of her scarf over her shoulder and peeled off her driving gloves. She gave the assistant prosecutor a look of contempt and dropped the gloves on the floor. “Get Melwin. Now. And the prison superintendent.”
“Monsieur Melwin is in reception,” came the answer. “With another gentlemen.”
“Who is?” she snapped.
Being braver than the average, the assistant prosecutor answered. “Sutherland. Melwin’s second chair.”
“I am aware of that development,” she said icily. She paused for a moment, containing the fury that threatened to consume her. She took three deep breaths, as Chrestien had taught her, tossed her hair into place and entered her private suite. “Ah, bonjour, Alex,” she sang. “And Monsieur Sutherland. So good to see you again. Please
“You’ll be tried by a three-judge chamber from the trial division. There’s no jury and they can convict with two votes.”
“Whatever happened to trial by jury and a unanimous decision?”
“You have none of our constitutional protections here. I’ll press ahead, but we’ll be lucky to get a court date within a year.”
Gus was shocked. “What?”
“It’s the process I mentioned. All the concerned countries that are members of the court have to be notified and given time to respond.”
“What about the evidence? The prosecutor, what’s her name, had a pile of it.”
“Denise Du Milan. As for the rules of evidence, it can get shaky. Hearsay is routinely allowed. The judges only have to consider it truthful, relevant, and necessary. So far, the prosecutor has not released any of the evidence she cited in your confirmation hearing. Her staff says it will be released at the ‘proper time.’ The good news is that her staff is mediocre when they’re having a good day. Make that a very good day and very mediocre.”
Gus sat on the edge of his bunk and stared at the floor. “Ah, shit. I’ll never get out of here. Do you know that I can’t even call my family?” He snorted. “Local calls only and I have to pay for them. Ninety dollars a call.”
“Does your family have a videophone?” Gus nodded in answer. “Good.” Hank handed Gus a cell phone and gave him an encouraging look.
Gus punched in his home number and his daughter’s image came on the small screen. “Oh, Daddy!” she cried. Hank stepped outside and closed the door to give them privacy.
FIVE
The Hague
The elevator doors on the fourth floor of the Palace of International Justice swooshed back and Denise stormed out. It was just after ten A.M. on Saturday morning and her hard leather heels resonated on the Italian marble floor, echoing down the wide corridor of the severely modern building and announcing her presence to her waiting staff. In many ways it was a first, for the ICC never worked on Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, holidays, or for six weeks in mid summer. With one exception, her staff of nineteen was contemplating filing a mass grievance for the gross inconvenience of being called in on a weekend. They took little consolation in being paid triple time for their efforts.
The double-glass doors leading into the prosecutor’s offices divided with a will of their own, and the waiting staff imitated the parting of the Red Sea, forming a corridor leading to her office. One look at her face was ample warning that filing a work grievance would have amounted to professional self-immolation of a most gruesome nature. Images of widows throwing themselves on funeral pyres hovered in their minds. They would have to settle for the triple time.
“Good morning, Madam Prosecutor,” the assistant prosecutor said. Denise considered the man a non-entity and didn’t even look at him. She sloughed off her leather topcoat, letting it fall to the floor. A secretary scrambled to pick it up.
“Coffee,” she snapped. She had made the 280-mile drive from Paris in a little over three hours and was in desperate need of a caffeine jolt. She threw the end of her scarf over her shoulder and peeled off her driving gloves. She gave the assistant prosecutor a look of contempt and dropped the gloves on the floor. “Get Melwin. Now. And the prison superintendent.”
“Monsieur Melwin is in reception,” came the answer. “With another gentlemen.”
“Who is?” she snapped.
Being braver than the average, the assistant prosecutor answered. “Sutherland. Melwin’s second chair.”
“I am aware of that development,” she said icily. She paused for a moment, containing the fury that threatened to consume her. She took three deep breaths, as Chrestien had taught her, tossed her hair into place and entered her private suite. “Ah, bonjour, Alex,” she sang. “And Monsieur Sutherland. So good to see you again. Please
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