A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  Toby ripped off his night vision goggles as the first light of dawn etched the eastern sky. “Dawn comes up fast in the tropics,” he told Jason. He pointed to the knife on Jason’s belt. “Would you have?”

  “Almost did,” Jason admitted. Toby nodded, accepting the truth of the situation. In the distance, they could hear a vehicle coming down the road. It came at them fast with D’Na standing in the back with Paride, the taller of the two Dinkas. The truck slowed and the waiting men barreled into the back. “How did it go?” Jason asked.

  “Not good,” D’Na admitted. “They wanted to discuss it, which means they wanted the truck. I threw a roll of money at them but they needed a little more persuasion.” Paride laughed and patted the machine gun mounted over the cab.

  D’Na rode with them a few more miles before pounding on the roof of the cab signaling the driver to stop. “Hon’s a good driver,” she said. “He and Paride will go with you and bring the truck back.” She and Toby climbed down. Again, they stood close and touched hands. Then they gently kissed. “Go,” she commanded.

  Toby never took his eyes off her as they sped away. “Will she be okay?” Jason asked. Toby didn’t answer.

  The Hague

  Gus entered the dock at exactly 9:55 Monday morning and studied the audience. Most were still wet from waiting outside in the driving rain howling in from the North Sea. His rooting section was there and had grown. That’s encouraging, he thought. He stood when the judges entered and waited to see if Della Sante looked at him. She didn’t, which was an indicator of the way it would go. Bouchard called the court to order. Go ahead, you prick.

  “The court,” Bouchard began, “has reviewed defense counsel’s petition to exclude the sworn statement of Tobias Person taken by Watban Horan, an officer of this court. As Monsieur Horan was acting in his official capacity, and as the statement was entered into evidence consistent with Article Sixty-eight of the Rome Statute, there is no cause to exclude the statement. Petition denied.”

  Gus stared at Bouchard. No surprises there, asshole.

  Hank was on his feet. “Your Honor, the defense must take exception.” He hesitated for a moment, reluctant to openly cross the Rubicon. The lawyer in him urged caution but another voice said it was time. “Such an interpretation strikes at the very heart of admissibility of evidence.”

  Denise was ready. “My learned colleague has been trained in common law with its complex and technical rules for presenting evidence to a jury of laymen. But we are not dealing with a jury of common citizens, but with a panel of preeminent jurists fully trained in the law and experienced in the weighing of evidence.”

  Hank turned to her and entered the waters. “But as the prosecutor cannot provide the original recording of Reverend Tobias’s statement, the court’s ruling not only is prejudicial but it is inconsistent with the rights of the accused to a fair and impartial trial.”

  Bouchard’s face turned bright red and his breath came in short bursts as the full meaning of Hank’s accusation hit home.

  Shack! Gus thought.

  The judge’s mouth opened but no words came out. Della Sante came to his aid and handed him a glass of water. Slowly, his breathing slowed. Della Sante shot Hank a withering look and sat down.

  Gus worked to keep a concerned look on his face. Gotcha there, didn’t he?

  “Your exception is so noted,” Bouchard finally managed to croak. “Is there any other business for the court to consider?”

  Denise stood. “There is none, your Honor.”

  Hank came to his feet; now well into the waters of open conflict. “If it may please the court. The defense is in the process of establishing contact with the Reverend Tobias Person in the hope that he can appear in this court. We have reason to believe that the defendant’s son, Jason Tyler, has reached Mission Awana in that endeavor.”

  Denise popped to her feet. “Your Honors, we must take exception. The defense cannot be permitted to ignore the rulings of the Victims and Witnesses Unit whose sole concern is for the safety and protection of the Reverend Person. The court’s procedures must be adhered to if we truly value human life. To recklessly send a private individual in such an attempt is nothing more than cowboyism and a blatant disregard of the will of the court.”

  Now we’re cowboys? Gus thought. Oh, I hope so.

  “Perhaps,” Hank said, now swimming hard in the current, “the court should employ more cowboys if it wants to accomplish anything in the real world.”

  “The prosecutor’s exception is also noted,” Bouchard said, still having trouble breathing. “What is your point, Monsieur Sutherland?”

  “The defense respectfully requests a two-week recess to allow time to safely bring the Reverend Person to The Hague. This would coincide with the court’s recess over the holidays and extend it a few days to Monday, January third.”

  Della Sante, now concerned with Bouchard’s blanched look and ragged breathing leaned over to talk to him. Richter leaned in from the other side and listened. Bouchard’s lips moved and both jurists nodded in agreement. Della Sante turned to her microphone. “As the holidays are upon us, the court will adjourn early; however, we will reconvene as originally scheduled on Wednesday, December 29.”

  The clerk called for everyone to stand as Della Sante helped Bouchard out the door. Hank followed Gus into the holding cell and closed the door for privacy. “Well, we’ve got eight days to get Toby here,” Hank said.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Hank. I thought Bouchard had a heart attack when you accused the court of being prejudicial.”

  Hank’s face turned rock hard. “That was the idea.”

  Marci Lennox checked her hair in the mirror and decided to go with the wind-blown look, not that she had a choice. The storm off the North Sea was starting to build again, and she envied Catherine Sutherland’s hairstyle that seemed to defy the weather. Marci nodded at the cameraman and he switched on the lights, illuminating that corner of the forecourt of the ICC’s palace. “Today left little doubt that Hank Sutherland was on the attack as he accused the judges of violating Gus Tyler’s rights to a fair and impartial trial.” She turned to Catherine. “Mrs. Sutherland, what exactly is your husband trying to accomplish?”

  “He’s stating the obvious. What we are seeing could never happen in a court stateside or in England. The admission of Reverend Person’s statement into evidence violated Colonel Tyler’s right to confront the witnesses against him in court, a right that is guaranteed every American citizen.”

  “But this isn’t the United States,” Marci said “and Colonel Tyler does not enjoy the rights provided by our constitution.”

  “Which is exactly why the United States is not a signatory to the Rome Statute.”

  Marci changed the subject. “Will you stay here over the holidays to be with Colonel Tyler?”

  “No. I’ll be going home to be with our boys. Hopefully, Hank can join us for a few days.”

  Marci ended it. “This is Marci Lennox from The Hague signing off until January 29, when I’ll be back for the next round of fireworks.” Her director gave her the cut signal and she lowered her microphone. “Catherine, who is your hair stylist?”

  Southern Sudan

  “We’ve come a hundred miles,” Toby said. “No one could have done it better. Well, done.” Hon, the heavyset Dinka driving the truck, smiled at the compliment. Although it was the dry season and the swamps had receded, it had been difficult navigating through the open savannah and avoiding mud holes while staying clear of the rut that passed for the main road. “We need to pitch camp before it gets dark.”

  Hon nodded and inched the truck through the drying grass. He found a low mound as night fell and guided the truck to the center. The four men got out and stretched, walking around the remains of an old campfire. Jason bent over and studied a pile of dung. The Dinka were cattle herders and placed great value on their animals, but this was different. He found a flashlight in the truck and walked around the area while Hon and Paride gathere
d up dry dung to make a fire. The smoke would help keep the insects away. At one point, Jason squatted and traced a distinctive print. It all came together. “I didn’t know you had horses down here.”

  Toby’s face froze. “We don’t. The climate is too unhealthy for them.”

  “Janjaweed,” Hon and Paride said, almost simultaneously. The fear in their voices was obvious. Jason shook his head, not understanding.

  “The Janjaweed are Bagara horsemen,” Toby explained. “The Bagara are Arabized cattle nomads from Kordofan and Dufar. About fifteen years ago, the Sudanese Army recruited them as a militia and turned them loose on the Dinka and Nuer villages in the oil concessions, all well to the northwest of here. But they’ve been quiet for the last few years.”

  “Are they Muslim?” Jason asked.

  “More or less,” Toby replied. “They belong to the Ansar Sunni sect and are very warlike.”

  “So what in hell are they doing down here?” Jason wondered.

  “Slavers,” Paride answered.

  Toby shook his head. “They’d have trucks if they were doing that. It’s a raiding party.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Southern Sudan

  The sun was rapidly sinking when Hon stopped the truck. “Good place, Boss,” he said. Toby nodded. Like the others, he was dead tired. They had been traveling since sunup, pressing ahead as fast as they could but on constant alert for the Janjaweed. They only had a few minutes before it was dark and Jason stood on the cab of the truck and scanned the flat grasslands with his binoculars.

  Jason pointed to a heavy plume of smoke drifting in the still air. “According to the map, that smoke is coming from a village.” He motioned for Hon to pull behind a thorn tree for cover while he quickly camouflaged their tracks in the rapidly fading light.

  “We might get some uninvited guests,” he told Toby. “We need to spread out and set up mutually supporting fighting positions. You and Hon next to the truck, and Paride and me over there.” He pointed to a pile of heavy brush.

  “You’ll need to rig mosquito nets,” Toby warned.

  “And don’t sleep on the ground,” Jason added. Africa was a stern teacher and he was learning very fast.

  They set up camp and ate a cold meal. The night was amazingly noisy with insects and strange sounds, and, in the distance, the burning glow that marked the village. Toby tried to get some rest, but sleep wouldn’t come. He sat in the cab of the truck and stared into the night. Finally, he woke Jason. “I want to check on those villagers.”

  Jason hesitated, considering the wisdom of it. But there was something in Toby that could not be denied. “Let me do it while it’s still dark. Hide in the night.” He spoke to Paride, who spoke excellent English, and explained what he wanted to do. The tall Dinka instinctively understood and readily volunteered. The two men charged their Heckler and Kock MP5 submachine guns, and adjusted their night vision goggles. With everyone in radio contact, they moved out in the early-morning dark. Jason took the point with Paride slightly behind and to his right. Toby and Hon stayed behind to guard the truck.

  The burning smell grew stronger as the two men approached the village. Jason motioned Paride to a halt and studied the village through his NVGs. Little was recognizable and what had been a village of huts gathered in family compounds was now a pile of debris. Two fires were still smoldering and giving off a terrible stench. Jason keyed his radio. “No signs of life.”

  “We’re coming up,” Toby replied.

  Jason and Paride waited and before too long, they heard the approaching truck. “Stop where you are and come on foot,” Jason radioed. “Leave Hon to guard the truck.” Moments later, Toby emerged out of the shadows carrying the truck’s first aid kit. “I don’t think you should go in,” Jason cautioned.

  Paride agreed. “Only death is there.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” Toby said. His voice was soft but Jason heard the resolve. He knew when to follow.

  The three men moved through the remains of the village and skirted a pile of dead bodies. Women, children and men had been herded together and cut down with submachine-gun fire. Two dogs were ravaging the remains, their muzzles bloody. Jason swung his MP5 around and fired a short burst, killing the dogs. He motioned Paride forward, and they worked their way towards the smoldering fires on the far side. Jason got there first and froze. Two bodies were staked out spread-eagled over beds of charcoal. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “They burned them alive. Who would do something like this?”

  “Janjaweed,” Toby said from behind them. “Now you know our enemy.” He turned to leave but movement caught his eye. Jason also saw it and whirled around, raising his MP5. “Don’t shoot,” Toby commanded.

  The Hague

  Hank’s footsteps echoed down the empty corridors of the palace. “Two days before Christmas and the place is like a tomb,” he said to himself. He pushed through the doors into his office where Aly was waiting for him. “Sorry,” he told her, “there’s no word on Jason.” She nodded without a word and handed him a mug of freshly brewed coffee. “Thanks. I need three to jumpstart my heart.”

  She tried to manage a smile but failed. “How is Catherine?” she asked.

  “Made it home safe and sound and is in overdrive with the boys getting ready for Christmas. I’m booked out on a flight at noon but wanted to see you and Gus before I left.”

  The phone rang and Aly answered. “It’s Winslow James, the American Embassy.” An image of the effete little man flashed in Hank’s mind. He pulled a face and took the handset.

  “This is Winslow James, the deputy charge of mission speaking. Are you aware that the State Department has restricted travel to the Sudan and military personnel are specifically prohibited from entering? I’m calling to inform you that your actions have forced us to lodge an incident report with the Pentagon, and with the Department of Justice.”

  “Jason Tyler is going after the one witness who can keep Gus from going to prison for a very long time. A witness, I might add, that the State Department hasn’t done squat-all to help bring here.”

  “That does not justify your actions,” James retorted. “I cannot tell you how you have humiliated your country with these cheap tricks of yours in court, and your feeble attempts to embarrass the French foreign minister.”

  “Really? I cannot tell you how embarrassed I am that my country allowed Colonel Tyler to be put on trial.”

  “There is a distinct possibility that the Netherlands will declare you persona non grata at the conclusion of the trial. Another embarrassment that I must deal with.”

  “Relax. They’ll only do that if we win. Have a merry Christmas.” He slammed the receiver down. “What a prick. Well, I’ve pissed off the State Department so I must be doing something right.” He gathered up his gloves and briefcase. “Let’s go see Gus.”

  Southern Sudan

  Toby bent over the young woman in the early-morning light and performed triage in the middle of the destroyed village. Even with a modern operating room and a team of skilled doctors, he doubted she would survive her horrendous wounds. He spoke quietly and made her as comfortable as he could. There was nothing he could do. Then he squatted in front of her four-year-old daughter. He cooed to the little girl in Dinka as he closed the deep gash in her left arm, and, for a brief moment, there was hope in her eyes. Then the fear was back. Toby stood. “How many?” he asked.

  “Five all told,” Jason answered. “We found three more.” A seven-old-girl stood beside him holding an infant. A little boy peaked from behind Hon and then ran to Toby, his hand over his right eye. “They were small enough to hide,” Jason said. Toby bent over and gently moved the toddler’s hand aside. He examined his eye, flushed it as best he could, and gently removed a splinter. “What now?” Jason asked.

  “They go with us in the truck.”

  “We haven’t got enough room,” Jason replied, gesturing at the woman.

  “We’re not taking her,” Toby said. The pain in his voice rea
ched into Jason, tearing at his humanity. It was a decision he could not have made.

  Gunfire echoed in the distance and they heard the sound of the truck’s racing motor. “Janjaweed!” Hon’s voice shouted over the radio as the distinctive clatter of an AK47 reached them.

  “Paride!” Jason ordered. “Get them to cover. Over there.” He pointed to the far side of the village and a dense stand of brush. Toby scooped up the infant and toddler with the wounded eye as Paride hustled the two girls to safety. Jason picked up the woman and started to follow. He felt the life go out of her and gently laid her beside the ruins of a mud and wattle hut. He hoped it had been her home.

  The gunfire was much closer and he saw the cloud of dust kicked up by the speeding truck. Jason keyed his radio. “Hon, what’s happening?”

  “Janjaweed behind me. Seven, maybe eight. They ride horses and yell they only want truck. I no believe and outrun them.”

  “Drive straight through the village and pick me up.” Jason checked his MP5 and moved to one side. His eyes narrowed as the sound of the approaching truck grew louder. A short burst of gunfire split the air and he knew the Janjaweed were not far behind. “If they want the truck, they’re gonna have to earn it,” he said to himself. The truck barreled into the village and Hon slammed on the brakes. Jason piled into the rear. “Go! Go! Go!” Hon mashed the accelerator and the truck sped ahead as Jason loaded the heavy machine gun mounted over the cab. He slapped the receiver closed and chambered a round. He fire a short burst, clearing the weapon. “Go back!” he roared.