Michael objected repeatedly to every document, and he was overruled every time.
“Sit down, Mr. Garrity,” O’Connell finally barked. “I am going to receive any and all documents that even appear to be genuine, and then I will decide whether they should be considered real. I’ll hear no more objections on that point.”
“My Lord,” Campbell said at last, “with your permission, I should like to show the court the videotape in question.”
Michael was on his feet instantly. “My Lord, please.”
“What now, Mr. Garrity? Surely you’re not going risk a contempt citation by entering yet another objection contrary to my orders?”
“My Lord, the truth regarding the inadmissibility of this proffered videotape is being wrongly sequestered by My Lord’s orders forbidding me to object. I would beg the court’s leave to apply for a writ of habeas corpus to release that truth.”
O’Connell shook his head in disgust. “Good heavens, Mr. Garrity! That’s a precious and somewhat entertaining attempt, but the process of habeas corpus, as you well know, for approximately six hundred years, has been used to release human beings, not the truth as you see it. Overruled.”
“My Lord,” Michael continued, “had you not banned me from objecting to the showing of this tape, I would be pointing out at this moment that our code of criminal procedure prohibits the use of illegally collected evidence, and this tape under U.S. law is illegally made, and thus inadmissible in Irish proceedings.”
“But, in fact,” O’Connell said, leaning partially over the bench and shaking a gavel at him, “I have banned you from doing so, and thus I’ve heard not a syllable of what you’re not supposed to have said in the first place. Now SIT DOWN, Mr. Garrity, so I can view this tape before we all die of old age.”
FORTY-FIVE
EuroAir 1020, in Flight—Thursday—10:40 A.M.
While Sherry Lincoln had been in the cockpit using the satellite phone, neither Craig nor Alastair said anything about the tight fuel status or their return to Dublin. She spoke a few words into the phone, sighed, and handed it back to Craig.
“Couldn’t get through?”
“He’s in court. I’m sure he can’t answer it. I left a message.”
“Come back up anytime if you want to try again.”
“Thanks, fellows,” she said, moving out of the cockpit and closing the door behind her.
Alastair had been working a separate air-to-air radio frequency and quietly polling other aircraft flying the North Atlantic Track System for the latest winds displayed on their onboard flight computers, precisely accurate readouts not immediately available to weather forecasters. Craig was monitoring Shanwick Control and listening as well to the other frequency Alastair was on. He heard the copilot thank another flight crew, then sit up and look left. “I think we’d better try flight level three one zero,” Alastair said quietly.
“Why?”
“That was an eastbound flight about two hundred miles ahead of us. A seven forty-seven. He’s at three one now and getting winds of zero six five true at thirty knots. There’s an Airbus A340 at three seven zero just twenty ahead of him bucking headwinds of zero six six at fifty-four knots.”
The expression on Craig’s face was one Alastair did not want to see, but it was clear that the captain understood.
“Alastair, we had a tailwind coming out here! We still have . . .” Craig looked at the wind display on his flight computer. “Uh, oh . . . almost zero wind.”
“The low is coming south, Craig, and we’re flying into the counterclockwise flow.”
“My God, how fast is it moving?”
“Fifty to sixty knots at least, maybe faster. This wasn’t forecast.”
There was an eternity of silence before Craig spoke again. “So, what does this do to our fuel projections?”
“Nothing pretty. If those winds are correct, we can’t make it back to Dublin, even with dry tanks.”
“It really is Galway, then?”
Alastair nodded. “And getting a bit tight at that.”
Craig’s face turned dead serious. “Alastair, you’re not telling me we’re going to have trouble making the coast of Ireland now, are you?”
The absence of an immediate demur froze Craig’s blood as he watched the copilot sigh and hold a hand out, palm up. “I think we’ll make Galway, but without a lot of reserves. We . . . turned around a little late.”
“Oh my Lord!” Craig said, almost under his breath.
“That’s why we should go down to flight level three one zero, Craig. We gain more speed than we lose fuel economy.”
Craig nodded. “Call Shanwick Control. Let’s do it. We have to make this work, old buddy.”
The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland
Stuart Campbell had already connected his video camera to the television monitor. At a nod from Mr. Justice O’Connell he pressed the “play” button, just as several reporters filed into the back of the court to watch the black-and-white images of the Oval Office unfold on the screen.
Jay sat in painful silence and endured the replaying of the exchange between Reynolds and the President, glancing at his watch as surreptitiously as possible.
They should be past the halfway point by now, he calculated. He could imagine Sherry’s relief at the thought of actually touching down on U.S. soil.
When the tape ended, Campbell carefully pressed the “stop” button and turned to face the judge.
“My Lord, based on the sworn statements of Mr. Reynolds as to how this tape was made and whose voices and images are on it, I submit to you that the words of President John Harris himself irrefutably establish a prima facie case that not only fully supports the issuance of the Peruvian Interpol warrant, but mandates under the Treaty Against Torture that this court must issue an immediate arrest warrant under Irish jurisdiction, and must enter an immediate order of extradition of the defendant to Peru, subject to the normal appeals process.”
“My Lord,” Michael Garrity said, getting to his feet.
“Mr. Garrity,” Judge O’Connell said in a more subdued fashion. “What could you possibly say to refute what we just saw?”
Michael glanced down at the lengthy note Jay was pushing across to him and read it quickly before continuing.
“My Lord, I’ll readily admit that what we have just seen purports to be a scene in the Oval Office of the White House in Washington and a scandalous exchange between President Harris and Mr. Reynolds. I’ll also admit that the possessory chain of this tape from Mr. Reynolds’s hands to the present moment has been clearly and satisfactorily established. But in this day and age, not all that we see and hear can be believed. Electronic means exist to alter images and sound, and I submit to you that a very real possibility exists that the sound track on this tape is not the original sound track, but a substitute, carefully and cynically dubbed onto this tape cassette for the purpose of railroading an ex-president. After all, My Lord, we have the government of Peru directly involved in seeking to secure John Harris for purposes of criminal prosecution. With the power and resources of a sovereign nation involved, anything that is electronically possible could have been used to alter this tape.”
“Do you have evidence of alteration, Mr. Garrity?” O’Connell asked.
“No, My Lord. But the defendant should not bear the burden of proving that this tape is false. It is Mr. Campbell who should bear the burden of proving that it is authentic, yet he offers the tape with no firsthand witnesses and no means by which we can be sure whose voices we have heard.”
Stuart Campbell rose to his feet. “My Lord, as to the matter of who has the burden of proof, I beg the court recognize that this is but a hearing on the sufficiency of the warrant. The opportunity for President Harris to contest in detail or even wholly impeach the validity of this videotape will be afforded in the criminal trial in Lima. This is not the forum for testing the tape, but merely for showing that there is a prima facie reason to believe that Mr. Harris may have committed
the crime as charged.”
“My Lord,” Michael countered, “are you prepared to rule, as Mr. Campbell desires, that the authenticity of this tape may not be questioned in this forum?”
“No, Mr. Garrity, I am not,” Mr. Justice O’Connell replied. “I’m reserving that judgment for the moment.”
“Then, My Lord,” Michael continued, taking a breath, “I offer into evidence what may well be the real videotape taken clandestinely, and illegally, by Mr. Barry Reynolds on the date in question.”
The judge looked confused for a moment as Stuart Campbell turned with a blank expression.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrity, I don’t understand,” O’Connell said.
Jay pushed the videotape cassette across the table to Michael, who held it up.
“We have here a videotape of the same encounter, and I request My Lord’s leave to play it.”
“The same tape?” O’Connell replied with ill-disguised irritation. “Why?”
“My Lord, the reason for this will become very clear if you’ll grant leave to present it.”
“Have you any documentation supporting the authenticity of this tape?”
“Indeed, I do, My Lord,” Michael said, following the script they’d agreed to. “This tape was delivered to Mr. Reinhart last evening, and we have the affidavit of the hotel desk clerk bridging the possessory chain between Mr. Campbell’s people and Mr. Reinhart. Mr. Campbell represented that this tape was identical to one he just displayed in this court.”
“It is the same tape, then?” O’Connell said.
“Well, yes and no, My Lord.”
“Enough games, Mr. Garrity! Is the bloody thing the same or not?”
“My Lord, the videocassette is precisely the same one provided by Mr. Campbell and his team, and the images are the same, but there is another sound track of which Mr. Campbell is undoubtedly unaware, and by using a different format, we can play that sound track.”
“A different sound track? I see,” O’Connell said, his irritation suddenly subsiding into puzzlement. “I am aware, Mr. Garrity, that in some cases there are multiple sound tracks on videotapes.”
“My Lord!” Stuart Campbell said in a pained voice. “This is nonsense. I have played for you the original tape, and there is but one sound track on it.”
“Are you certain of that, Mr. Campbell?” O’Connell asked. “Are you an expert in the electronics of such instruments?”
“Well, no, My Lord, but . . .”
“Then I’m sufficiently curious to want to see and hear this. Proceed, Mr. Garrity.”
Michael handed the tape to Jay, who came forward and inserted it into the larger videocassette player hooked to the television. He pressed the “play” button and returned to the table as the screen came alive again with the same images.
EuroAir 1020, in Flight
“It’s getting better, Craig,” Alastair said after a flurry of new calculations at thirty-one thousand feet.
“Thank God!”
“We’re not out of the woods yet, but I’m estimating arrival at Galway with one thousand five hundred pounds of fuel remaining, and that’s in . . . an hour and ten minutes.”
“The winds are holding, then?”
Alastair nodded. “So far, so good. The problem is the weather at Galway. There’s an ILS, but right now the field is beset by fog and it’s right at minimums.”
“Galway’s on the coast, right?”
He nodded. “On Galway Bay. They get sea fog.”
“If we have to bust minimums to get in, we’ll bust minimums.”
“The decision height is two hundred feet above the surface.”
“Roger that. If necessary, we’ll take it all the way to the surface, provided we’re precisely on centerline,” Craig said. “We’ll use category three-A procedures as if the field was good to fifty feet. We’ll use both autopilots, brief a monitored approach, you’ll fly the approach, and I’ll take over to do the landing.”
“Instead of my doing a missed approach at fifty feet if we can’t see the runway?”
“At fifteen hundred pounds remaining, we won’t have the fuel for a safe go around. We’ll get one shot at it.”
The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland
Jay Reinhart pushed the “play” button, sending the voice of President John Harris over the TV’s speakers against a scratchy background of ambient noise, the words seeming to be the same at first, but then becoming markedly different, even though the pictures on the screen were identical.
“Okay, Barry, where are we? Are we set?”
“Well, sir,” a voice closer to the microphone and correspondingly louder began, “we’re ready to go, but it’s going to be costly.”
“How much . . . want?”
“They’re asking for a million dollars in U.S. funds.”
“. . . already agreed to that.”
“Yes, Mr. President. I remember the instructions.”
“Now, Barry . . . critical question to ask you. Are these people controllable?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you absolutely sure that they understand . . . orders here, that there be no excessive force . . . absolutely no violence beyond the minimum necessary to destroy the factory?”
“They do, sir.”
“I’m . . . concerned . . . harm no innocent civilians. I don’t care how many witnesses there are, I don’t want the workers harmed unless . . . shooting, that sort of thing.”
“Understood, sir.”
Stuart Campbell was shaking his head in amazement with his hands held out in frustration as he queried his team and came up with no explanations.
On the tape, the President sighed and crossed his arms with his head still not in view.
“. . . go ahead.”
“We expect there will be sixty or seventy people in that factory and in the compound, and some of them will be civilian.”
“The workers?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir. It’s heavily defended outside, and that’s where most of the combat will likely occur. If we commission this force we’re ready to hire—these mercenaries who are ex-Shining Path, ex-Peruvian Army—they should be able to neutralize resistance rapidly and then empty the facility before they blow it up.”
“My Lord,” Campbell protested, but O’Connell waved him down as he kept his eyes on the screen.
“Sit, please, Mr. Campbell.”
On the TV set, the same shot as before played out, the hidden camera riding Reynolds’s coat as he got to his feet and walked back toward the fireplace before turning, showing the President in full form at the other end of the office.
“Sir,” Reynolds’s voice intoned, “these guys are good. They’ll get the job done, without question, and they’ll follow orders.”
“. . . vital, Barry. I won’t authorize this unless . . . surgical as we can make it.”
“It will be, sir.”
“. . . recommendation?”
“Depends on what you want to accomplish, sir. If you want to shut down that factory once and for all, devastate the leadership, frighten away anyone else who would set up such a large drug-making facility, and massively impact the heroin flow all at once, then I’d say let’s pay them and get it done. Seems a small sacrifice to make.”
As before, the President pushed away from his desk and disappeared out of the frame. Reynolds apparently sat back down on the couch and swiveled toward the desk, raising the level of the frame and revealing the chief executive with his back to the camera standing at the window overlooking the Rose Garden.
The frame lowered once more as the President turned, his head just out of the shot at the top, his voice suddenly clearer as he faced Reynolds. “Okay, Barry. You’ve got the green light. Officially this meeting never occurred, of course.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Now. Bring . . . over here and show me the details.”
The rest of the tape was an identical recitation of the logistics of the plan, a handsh
ake, and Reynolds’s exit back through the west door of the Oval with a brief shot of the hallway beyond.
Jay stopped the tape, ejected it, and returned to his seat wholly distracted by the final frames of the tape, the same fleeting scene that had snagged his interest on the first viewing. He now recognized it.
Michael Garrity rose slowly to his feet, gesturing in the direction of the television.
“My Lord, this recording is obviously in direct opposition in meaning and import to the one Mr. Campbell first played. In Mr. Campbell’s version, President Harris is clearly guilty of ordering an act of torture and murder in his official capacity as President. In our version, he is clearly concerned about making certain no such actions are taken. Which one is correct, then?”
“Indeed, Mr. Garrity,” O’Connell said, “that appears to be the question.”
“Both of them,” Michael continued, “contain the very identifiable voice of the President, and both of them have the same voice identified as Mr. Reynolds, and therefore, it would seem, one must be real, and one must be fake. The point is, however, if one can be fabricated, so can the other. It is not a matter, My Lord, of which one is the real one so much as it is a matter of the demonstrated reality that either could be faked that should be important to the court. The extremely serious nature of what this Interpol warrant seeks to accomplish . . . namely the arrest of a former president . . . demands that supporting evidence be beyond serious question, and yet we have a clear demonstration that the voices can be faked, and thus neither can be accepted as conclusive without independently verifiable evidence.”
Mr. Justice O’Connell’s eyebrows suddenly came together as a flash of anger clouded his face.
“Mr. Garrity! Are you saying, sir, that the tape you’ve just shown this court was a fake?”
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