The Accused (6 page)

“What?”

“As we go into this, I've determined a level of acceptable losses.”

“And—what level of loss are you willing to accept in your case?”

Colonel Marlowe did not hesitate.

“None, counselor. None.”

8

I
N
T
HE
H
AGUE
, N
ETHERLANDS
, Francine Les Forges, prosecutor of the United Nations International Criminal Court, was meeting with her deputy prosecutor, Atavar Strinsky. The prosecutor had her back turned and was speaking on the phone at her large, gleaming, stainless-steel desk. She smoothed her black hair with one hand.

Atavar was a young, pale-faced international law prosecutor in his second year at the ICC. While he waited for his boss to finish her telephone conversation, he glanced around her room. He had seen the pictures and plaques many times before. The framed photograph of her before the French Supreme Court of Appeals. Several framed newspaper clippings from the
London Times
and
Le Monde,
as well as articles from the
New York Times
and the
International Herald.
They all described the war crimes trial of Slobodan Milosevic, where she had been the youngest deputy assistant prosecutor on the case. On the other wall there was a large framed calligraphy in multiple colors saying the same thing in ten different tongues:

THERE WILL BE NO GLOBAL PEACE

WITHOUT GLOBAL JUSTICE

A few minutes later, Les Forges hung up and swung around in her large executive chair, facing Atavar.

“So,” she began, “you said you have a referral for me.”

“This is the matter,” he began, “that I told you about. From Mexico. The incident down in the Yucatán. I sent you over the e-file on this.”

“Yes, I took a look at that. I think this is premature. But I have to tell you I am very intrigued. Quite interested. This could be a superb case for the ICC. Don't you see? This was an unparalleled act of
aggression by a small combat force of American marines—I believe they were marines. I'm not sure. Do you know whether they were?”

Atavar shook his head. “Ms. Les Forges, we are not entirely certain about that. We believe that the commanding officer is an officer with the U.S. Marines. But as to whether or not this was a unit of the marines…for some reason the information isn't very clear on that.”

“Well, never mind—that is not important. The United States decided to penetrate the borders of the sovereign State of Mexico in pursuit of what it has described as a cell of terrorists. But
without
permission—before committing an assault on a civilian house. The result?”

Atavar started to rustle through the papers on his lap, mistaking the prosecutor's rhetorical statement for a question.

“The result?” she continued, her hands waving in the air as if she were conducting a small orchestra. “Four Mexican nationals killed in an attack that certainly appears barbaric.”

“There is something you should know,” her deputy spoke up.

“What?” the prosecutor snapped.

“This really isn't a formal referral. It's more like an inquiry.”

“Please explain that to me. What are you saying?” she demanded.

“The state party—here, Mexico—has not formally referred this matter to our office for possible prosecution. The Deputy Minister of the Interior called and merely wanted to find out whether we would be willing to look into this if it
were
formally referred.”

Les Forges' face grew animated. She snatched a cigarette out of her desk and lit it with a silver lighter, ignoring the no-smoking regulation in the ICC building.

“You see?” she began, standing up and straightening her suit brusquely. And then she started walking around the room as she talked. “The state party bureaucrats, they are cowards. They don't want to commit to making a formal referral. So they call us—you see how they call us this way? Prying. Insinuating. Implying. Asking us whether we would do
this,
if they refer
that.
Would we prosecute this case if they refer the following facts to us? And I ask them to verify with a formal referral. And they turn me down because they lack the political courage to send these formal charges to the ICC. They're afraid that the ICC may just begin doing its job to police the world—and begin punishing the atrocities of bully nations.”

Les Forges was off on her favorite diatribe—impugning “bully nations” and seeking to expand the power of the ICC to prosecute war
crimes. Strinsky had heard it all before. He wouldn't mind it if he thought—deep down—that the prosecutor really believed what she said. But he didn't think that. She would chain-smoke her French cigarettes, strutting and lecturing her staff—without moral conviction. It all seemed a little like a schoolgirl who recited her Latin lessons from Virgil's
Aeneid
with gusto…but failed to understand, or even care, what she was reciting.

Atavar was suddenly aware that the prosecutor was standing and staring at him, one arm across her chest and the other straight up in the air, her fingers wriggling the cigarette nervously.

“I told him that I would talk to you,” he said, breaking the uncomfortable pause. “And that's what I have done. I told him we likely could not do anything without a formal referral with the formal backing of the president of Mexico. And of course, there's that situation of instability in the Mexican presidency—”

“Of course. Exactly. That is exactly what I am talking about!” Les Forges broke out again, flicking her ashes on the carpet. “Like so many other countries, there is a fractured political base in Mexico. President Alienda is hanging on by his fingertips. The insurgent party is clamoring for him to get tough. For him to tell the United States that Mexico is no longer its poor little pack donkey south of the border. It is a full-fledged member of the international community.”

“What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him…” she began, pausing to pick a piece of tobacco off her tongue and flick it with her painted nails, “tell him that we need a formal referral from the office of the president of Mexico. Tell him that. Until then—we do not give impromptu opinions about what we might do if a hypothetical set of facts is referred to us. I want a formal referral. And then we will act.”

“Well,” Atavar added, “we would also need the jurisdictional prerequisite before we could act anyway.”

“Of course. Certainly. That goes without saying,” Les Forges replied curtly. “And as for that—we will simply wait and watch.”

As she strolled to the large glass window overlooking the plaza below, she took a long drag of her cigarette and then exhaled slowly before she spoke again.

“Before too long, we will see, I trust, the true face of American arrogance.”

9

W
ILL WAS MOTORING DOWN THE LONG
avenue that was flanked by thick woods. After a secluded stretch of roadway he approached the guard shack bordering the Marine Corps base at Quantico. He pulled up and produced his identification.

“I'm on my way to the Legal Defense office,” the lawyer explained.

The armed sentry glanced at his clipboard. “Who are you here to see, sir?”

“Major Douglas Hanover.”

The sentry nodded and waved him on.

After more woods, Will drove slowly uphill through the maze of barracks, administrative buildings, and winding streets that compose the self-enclosed military compound. After making his way up the hill to the vicinity of the parade deck, he parked in front of the building that housed the Judge Advocate's office.

Snatching his briefcase he trotted into the single-story building. As he entered the lobby he noticed a glum-looking marine seated on one of the plastic lobby chairs with his hands folded in front of him. He reported to the information desk.

“Sir, Major Hanover will be with you shortly,” the marine at the desk said.

Will glanced around the lobby and saw the large sign over the entrance:

WHEN JUSTICE IS DONE

THE GOVERNMENT ALWAYS WINS

The lawyer waited ten minutes, and then a marine officer in a crisp tan-and-green uniform strode over and shook his hand firmly.

“I'm Major Doug Hanover. I'm detailed defense counsel for Colonel Marlowe.”

Hanover appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had a marine “high and tight” haircut and wore glasses.

“If you'll follow me,” he went on, “Colonel Marlowe is waiting in my office.”

Will followed the major down a short hallway, and the two of them ducked into a small, cramped office with stacked boxes of files, a small bookcase with a handful of books and manuals, and one small window that overlooked a physical-training field.

Seated in a chair in front of the desk was the colonel. He stood to his feet immediately and gave the lawyer a bone-crushing handshake.

Will studied Marlowe's square, rugged face. He had dark circles under his eyes, but gave him a slight smile.

As the colonel released his vise grip, Will sat down next to him in front of Hanover's desk. Marlowe was the first to speak.

“Mr. Chambers, you and I have something in common.”

“Oh?”

“That snake Abdul el Alibahd.”

Major Hanover had a quizzical look on his face.

“Mr. Chambers here has earned my respect as a civilian combatant,” Marlowe explained to Hanover. “About two years ago he was captured by Abdul el Alibahd. Held hostage in connection with some case he was handling. Mr. Chambers escaped to tell the tale.”

“I hate to interrupt a highly decorated marine, particularly when he's in the process of pinning medals on me,” Will said, smiling. “But the truth is—I didn't really escape from el Alibahd. He released me. It was all part of this bizarre situation—he wanted me to deliver a message for him. Because I held some value, he released me to be a messenger boy. That's basically it.”

“You're being modest, Mr. Chambers,” Marlowe countered. “I have some inside information about this character.”

“Oh?” Will said. “What information?”

The colonel leaned toward Will and gave him a slow, enigmatic smile. “I was on the mission, along with some Delta Force boys and another specialized unit, when we apprehended el Alibahd and carried him off on a stretcher. He was dying of cancer at the time we captured him. He died shortly after that. We killed his bodyguards during the
capture. I was later debriefed by the FBI. Your name came up because they were following up on your story about being released by el Alibahd. Apparently you told them that he had wanted you to deliver some
jihad
message to billionaire Warren Mullburn.”

“Yeah, that's right,” Will said. “And I did. And as between el Alibahd and Mullburn…I don't know who was scarier.”

Major Hanover redirected the conversation.

“Mr. Chambers, do you do a lot of military defense?”

“Hardly any,” Will admitted without hesitation. “And that's why I was reluctant to get involved in this case. These are horrendous charges.”

Then the lawyer looked Marlowe in the eye.

“Colonel, this is a potential capital case. If you're convicted of premeditated murder you could be facing the death penalty.”

The colonel straightened up quickly.

“I know you told me you hadn't handled many military cases. That's not the first consideration. It was more important to me what kind of man you were.”

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled magazine article, and started reading. “This is an article published last year in the
Trial Court Digest
—about a case you handled down in Delphi County, Georgia, last year:

Virginia lawyer Will Chambers has established an impressive record of winning difficult civil liberties cases against imposing odds. But recently, he has also added a new qualification to his list of credentials—survivor of bizarre episodes of incarceration and kidnapping.

While representing a mother wrongfully charged with child abuse, Chambers was jailed for contempt of court by a local circuit judge. The Georgia Supreme Court wasted no time reversing the contempt order and ordering Chambers' immediate release, but not before he had been inexplicably transferred to an auxiliary jail facility that resembled something out of Cold War Russia. While there, Chambers was subjected to electric shock by a sadistic guard, as well as a severe beating at the hands of an inmate.

Fortunately, he escaped without permanent injury and went on to win an acquittal for his client.

Prior to that, while representing Angus MacCameron, a fundamentalist preacher, in a defamation case brought by the late, renowned Harvard scholar, Dr. Albert Reichstad, Chambers was tracked down and captured by henchmen of the Middle Eastern terrorist mastermind Abdul el Alibahd. Chambers managed to survive that brush with death also.”