by Tom Saric
“Yes.”
One of the judges groaned. Pink rubbed his hand across his face. Nicole stared at the ground. Ratko looked at Braun, smug. Braun didn’t move.
“I motion for this entire testimony to be removed from the record,” Ratko said to the judges. “We do not have the actual witness here to testify to the events on the date in question, the witness with us today has serious credibility issues, and there is ample evidence that the testimony presented was false.”
Pink said something half-hearted and was told to sit down. The three judges leaned into a huddle and then stated that they would have to deliberate. They would deliver their decision after a brief recess.
Braun could feel Ratko slipping away from the murders. Ratko sat at the defense table, collecting his papers into a neat pile, a satisfied expression on his face. He tucked his glasses into his jacket pocket and looked at Braun, then smiled and winked.
Braun’s thoughts went dark. He pictured the corpses of the men and women in Barimo that had been dug up from a mass grave. This monster was going to escape justice, avoid responsibility for what he had done. Ratko didn’t feel bad; he felt vindicated.
The bailiff motioned for Braun to walk off the stand, and he stared at Ratko as he passed.
Without hesitating, Braun turned around and lunged at Ratko, grabbing the other man’s collar and heaving him onto the table. Ratko’s head thudded against the oak. Braun kept hold of his collar, lowering himself until he was at Ratko’s eye level.
“You will pay for what you have done, Ratko.”
Braun felt the marshal’s hands pulling his arms behind his back. Ratko wasn’t fazed. He laughed as the bailiff escorted Braun out of the courtroom.
7
The mist was turning to rain, and as a result everyone who had been on the Tribunal’s westside patio had gone inside. But Braun remained outside, sitting on a bench beneath a birch tree, its leaves just budding, not enough to provide any real cover from the rain.
Rain usually bothered Braun; he wouldn’t normally be caught in it without a large umbrella. The snow was worse—in that case, he wouldn’t leave his house. But the rain seemed secondary now. He’d let his vigilance down and opened himself up. Ratko hadn’t won. Braun had lost.
His phone buzzed. A text message from Juan:
Tough luck. I’ll keep banging on doors until I find a witness who will talk. We’ll get the bastard.
The judges were deliberating, trying to figure out what to do with the testimony. They might bring Braun back in for more questioning, ask him if the witness seemed credible. He would answer yes, that he had seemed credible, his fear was genuine, and his story rang true. But Braun’s credibility had been destroyed; he didn’t think he would be seeing the inside of a courtroom for a long time.
He suddenly felt like he was being watched. Glancing around, he saw the outline of a man standing with his arms crossed behind the glass façade of the main lobby.
The man walked through the sliding glass doors towards Braun.
He slid an umbrella open and moved across the deck, trench coat slung over his arm, wearing a navy wool suit with a red paisley tie and matching pocket square, and black shined shoes. Rimless glasses hung on his nose. Salt-and-pepper hair, meticulously combed into a three-quarter part.
“Europeans think you catch colds from sitting in the rain,” he said in a Midwestern American accent. He put his coat down on the bench next to Braun and sat on it, then leaned in. “The rest of us know better.”
Braun gave him a pained smile and slid a couple of inches away, hoping that he would take the hint and leave. But the man didn’t even seem to notice the rebuff.
“Walter Flaherty,” he said, extending his hand.
Braun took it, and Flaherty’s strong, verging-on-painful grip enveloped his hand.
“Shame what happened in there with Banovick,” he said, ignoring the proper pronunciation. “The guy went around with his paramilitaries killing whoever the fuck they felt like, and everyone knows it. You know it. I know it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Flaherty, but—”
“You’re probably wondering who I am.”
Braun nodded and raised his eyebrows. Walter seemed completely comfortable talking to Braun, a stranger. He didn’t seem thrown off by Braun’s disinterest. Yet Braun didn’t feel that Flaherty was selling him a line; he seemed genuine in a fatherly sort of way.
“I’m the US special envoy to the Tribunal. Started a month ago.”
Braun hadn’t expected that. The United States hadn’t ratified the Rome Statute, which recognized the Tribunal’s authority. General opinion was that the United States worried that signing the agreement could open them up to investigations related to events in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“You’re probably wondering what an old Wisconsin farm boy is doing here,” Flaherty said. “The stance in Washington on the Tribunal is softening.”
“The United States is going to ratify the agreement?”
“I don’t think they’re going that far yet. But Senator Vance has been leading a lobby for the United States to have a more active presence in the investigation of war crimes. That’s who I report to.”
Braun had heard of Senator Bart Vance. A former soldier and military contractor, he had gained notoriety for pushing bills to reduce the size of the military. Considered a dove by many Republicans, he had ruffled a lot of feathers with his anti-war stances. Braun had seen an interview where Vance had cited the atrocities he had witnessed as a Navy SEAL as being the driving force for his views.
“So your job here is…”
“I liaise and advise with the Tribunal, when asked. We’ve also been helping with some investigative work in hard-to-reach places.”
What Flaherty meant was they used US spooks to track down war criminals who were violating American interests.
“We have considerable resources at our disposal, as you can imagine,” he said, then lowered his voice. “We want to get Banovick. Things didn’t work out today, but we can help take another shot at him. Convincing witnesses can be almost impossible. But our people sometimes have luck where others don’t.”
Braun stared at Flaherty, intrigued at the possibility. The CIA could offer a witness protection, or maybe a financial incentive, which might convince him to testify against Banović.
“I would need to know his identity, of course,” Flaherty added.
There were a few barriers to disclosing the witness’s identity. First, as far as Braun knew, the United States had no jurisdiction over matters of international war crimes. Although that might not matter to the CIA, it mattered to the courts. They delivered the verdicts. They made the rules. The second barrier was his own. As friendly as Flaherty was, as salt of the earth as he appeared, he wanted something. Deception had to be part of the play. But Braun didn’t know which part.
Above all, though, Braun had given the witness his word. As much as he wanted to see Banović jailed for life—pitiful punishment for the lives he took, but punishment nonetheless—Braun had promised the witness that only he would know the voice behind the testimony.
“Walter,” Braun said. “Thank you for the offer. But I will not reveal the witness’s identity.”
Flaherty nodded as though he had expected it. “I understand. Pleasure to meet you.” He pointed towards the glass door. “I think there is someone here to see you.”
Nicole emerged from the sliding glass doors and slid open her umbrella. She stopped and said something briefly to Walter, who touched her shoulder and then walked away. She had let her auburn hair down from its bun, and it touched the beige shoulder of her skirt suit. She wore high heels, walking carefully so as not to get a spike stuck between one of the patio slats.
He slid over on the bench, making space for her and sweeping rain droplets off with his hand, but she stopped and stood a few feet away. She held onto the umbrella tightly with her left hand, showing her wedding ring, the big diamond pointing at Braun.
�
��We have Americans in the court now?” he asked.
“They advise on certain matters.” She stared at him, completely neutral. “Your testimony is out.” She blinked twice. Hard. “They’re also holding you in contempt of court. They’re working out the amount of the fine.”
Her voice was professional, but he could sense the anger behind it. She had said this would happen, but the team had insisted. She didn’t have to say anything more.
“So…”
“You should take leave until this gets sorted out.”
“For how long?”
“We’ll make it open-ended for now. We have to see how this all turns out.” Her voice held a tone of finality, leaving no room for discussion. Nicole was like this at work, supremely professional, and if Braun didn’t know her better, he would say she was cold. It was how she did things; she had a set of expectations, and if those around her didn’t meet them, she would find people who could. The criminals were treated with the same matter-of-factness.
Outside, she was different. If they were at dinner, at this point in the conversation he could make a joke, and it would break through her hardness. But now, here, jokes were futile. The mask was on.
“Okay,” he said, nodding, resigned.
She had started walking back towards the glass door and was a few steps away when she turned. “And Robert, there’s going to be a media shitstorm over this. You might want to leave the country.”
8
Three Weeks Later
Mass had ended, the final Amen spoken, and the congregation was permitted to leave in the peace of Christ. The parishioners flocked to the back of the church, which was buzzing with laughter and gossip, everyone eagerly wishing each other “Happy Easter.” Luka pressed through the crowd, smiling while carrying Natalie on his hip, Sara just behind. On either side were the people in the community he’d grown to love: Mrs. Jurić pulling strawberry drop candies out of her purse and stuffing them in Natalie’s palm; Mr. Horvat squeezing his hand and thanking him (again) for replacing the alternator belt at no cost; his wife, Mrs. Horvat, presenting him with a Ziploc bag of homemade strudel as a thank you; Rudi Blažević asking him if his twisted ankle had healed and if he’d be ready for the summer soccer season.
These were the people that built Saint Nikola Tavelić Church, all immigrants and refugees that escaped to Canada in the sixties, all running from something. All with their own secrets. This was the community that accepted him with open arms.
Well, they accepted Branko.
Sara put her hand on his shoulder and leaned in. “Father said he will let us go for confession now, since we were late this morning.” She looked at him with pleading eyes. “You sure you don’t want to?”
“I’m sure.”
She turned, shoulders slumped, and made her way to the confessional.
She asked every Easter and Christmas Eve, and his answer was always the same. He knew it frightened her, ever since her mother had died in a head-on collision three years earlier. When they met with the priest to prepare the funeral, he asked when her mother had last confessed. When Sara said she didn’t know, the priest responded, “Let’s hope for her soul it hasn’t been too long.” Ever since then, twice a year, she asked.
The truth was that he wanted to confess. He wanted to tell someone about his secrets. His lies. Once he had gone with the intention of completing a full and honest confession. Maybe, he’d thought, maybe if I tell someone, I’ll be able to sleep through the night. He had knelt behind the wood screen, looked across at the priest’s silhouette, and opened his mouth. He felt hot, and then a massive, immovable lump in his throat blocked it all off.
And that was that.
Luka put Natalie down and they walked down the front steps to the parking lot, where people were gathered in small circles to catch up. Natalie saw her godmother in the crowd waving her over, pointing to a chocolate bunny, and immediately she ran to her. Luka smiled to himself as he watched her move so fluidly. The Rebonex was a godsend.
“Branko, where’s my car?” Alen waved at Luka from the crowd. He wore his usual short-sleeve dress shirt, untucked, with his wallet shoved in the front pocket. No jacket as he enjoyed the unseasonably warm afternoon. But a cold front was forecast to move in early in the evening and dump fourteen inches of snow on the city.
Luka slowed down when he saw the stranger next to Alen. A trench coat hung off the man’s shoulders, overkill for the unusual warmth. It was easily a size too big, and did little to disguise his muscular frame, his solid, square shoulders. A reddish-brown dye job stained his forehead a millimeter below the hairline. Early fifties, trying to look ten years younger. The stranger’s eyes took Luka in, registering, recognizing, glancing for only a split second before he looked at the ground. But long enough. Too long.
Luka approached Alen and focused on his breathing.
“I’m waiting for a part,” Luka said, and cleared his throat. “It should come in this week, and then I can fix the synchronizer.”
Alen laughed. “Well, get it done before summertime, would you?” He turned to the stranger next to him. “I even had a customer for you, but with this delay I’m not sure I can recommend you.”
The stranger smiled, though it looked more like a sneer, extended his hand, and said, “Jurica Gavrić.”
Luka took it. The man’s hand was soft, unlike his own. Fingernails were manicured.
“Jurica just moved here,” Alen said.
“Where from?”
“Toronto. I was there for six months, but it is too big for me. So I moved here last week.”
“Working?”
“Looking.” The smile left Jurica’s face. “Do you know of anyone hiring?”
“What do you do?”
“Welding.”
Luka’s jaw tensed. He often needed the help of a welder when repairing exhaust systems. He glanced at Jurica’s hands, which he promptly shoved into his pockets. This man was no welder. He didn’t have the bulky, rough hands of one. He was lying.
Luka curled his bottom lip and shook his head.
“Branko, Jurica’s having trouble with his car,” Alen said. “Maybe you can have a look at it?”
Luka nodded stiffly. “What sort of problem?”
“I think there must be a hole somewhere in the exhaust or something. I keep smelling fumes when I drive.”
A welder would fix it himself. But why the lies? Perhaps Jurica didn’t have the equipment. Luka stared at Jurica, at the scar on his cheek. He was suddenly aware of all his senses. People chattered all around him. Car engines revved up and pulled out of the parking lot. Exhaust fumes filled his nostrils. Laughter boomed.
“Branko, are you feeling unwell?” Alen waved his hand in front of Luka’s face.
Luka blinked three times. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“So can you take a look at it for me, maybe today?” Jurica said.
“Today?” Luka smiled.
“If that works for you, of course.”
A hand pressed his shoulder and he whipped around. Sara stood there, smiling, holding Natalie’s hand.
“I think I should go see my dad. It’s Easter.” After Sara’s mother had died, her father had moved to Gull Harbour, which was two hours away. They had offered to take him in, but he insisted on living a distance away so as not to be a burden. However, driving to visit him took the better part of the day.
Sara smiled. “I can take Natalie with me, if you want. It’s just that she looks like she needs a nap.”
Natalie hugged his leg. “I want to go home with you, Daddy.”
Luka nodded stiffly, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
“So when can I drop off the car?” Jurica leaned in between them. He stretched out his hand and bowed his head. “Jurica.”
“Well, in that case,” Sara said, taking his hand. Her eyes lit up at the sound of a potential customer. “Why don’t you take Natalie home and I’ll go up. Maria said she could drive me; her cottage is near Dad’s. I�
��ll be back before the snow starts.”
Luka nodded. He could almost read Sara’s thought process. He had told her he’d secured a loan from the bank to pay for Natalie’s medication, so more business was always welcome. Sara kissed Natalie on the forehead and walked over to Maria’s car.
“So, can I bring it by?” Jurica said. “I can drop it off now.”
Luka nodded and told him the address.
9
Luka sat on the edge of Natalie’s bed as she slept, her back pressed against his thigh. He took care not to move too suddenly and wake her.
He turned over in his mind whether or not he was overreacting. He could believe the story that Jurica was a simple welder who immigrated to Toronto in search of a better life and, when prospects weren’t good, moved westward to Winnipeg. And that he didn’t lug his equipment with him, and because he hadn’t worked for six months, his hands had softened. And that he wore a large, heavy coat on an unusually warm day because he hadn’t yet learned the drastic ups and downs of the Canadian climate.
And yet the split-second glance said so much. Jurica’s eyes had locked onto him, cataloguing Luka’s image. He knew something.
“Daddy?” Natalie rolled over and looked at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Then why’s your hand shaking?”
Luka looked down and saw that his hand was trembling. He squeezed it into a fist until the knuckles turned white. “Just thinking, sweetheart.” He leaned over and pressed his lips to her warm forehead. “Go to sleep.”
The doorbell rang and Luka tiptoed out of the room. He walked to the back door and looked through the window. Jurica stood, trench coat now unbuttoned, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette. He had his back to the door, gazing at the fenced-in backyard, trees bare and dormant, grass yellowed and still covered with patches of snow. Natalie’s toys were scattered, left out in the fall and now emerging from the melting snow—an orange slide, a red Mickey Mouse ride-on car, the once bright plastic now faded.
