Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

The principal judge, Alain Bouchard, took the elevated seat at the center of the back row. He had black skin and white hair and looked to be in his late fifties. I’d read about him: he was a criminal court judge in his home country of Belgium, with a background in criminal defense.

Bouchard exchanged a few whispered words with his colleagues, then spoke to the bailiff, saying, “Please bring in the prisoner.”

Chapter 116

I thought I was prepared to see him, but when the side door opened and Slobodan Petrović was escorted by guards into the courtroom, I felt sick.

Tunnel vision, light-headedness, dropping-through-the-floor sick.

Joe gripped my arm. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh. I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine. I was enraged.

When I looked at Petrović, I saw his gun pointed at my face. I had other images in my mind, ones I’d absorbed from hearing Susan’s tearful rendering of rapes and beatings. I thought about meeting Anna that first time when she was semiconscious in the ICU. And I would never, ever forget the mutilated bodies of Carly Myers and Adele Saran.

Petrović had done all of that and much more. And he hadn’t paid for any of it.

I’d relied on the ICC to return Petrović to his cement-block sarcophagus. My mind had rested on that image of him, a cockroach in a block of concrete.

Seeing him on his feet, well dressed, put a new picture in my head. I saw the clever, undefeated military officer who might have found another loophole. By the end of the day, he might get released for time served.

Petrović smiled at the judges as he passed the benches, before taking his place in the dock.

Joe took my hand, and together we stared at the master killer who had once been our focused obsession. Petrović looked much as he had when we’d seen him last. Yes, his hair was grayer, and he’d lost weight. But he still looked like Tony Branko in a good blue suit, a white shirt with a tie.

There was a buzz in the gallery, exclamations in many languages, muffled sobs, and his name, a sound like clearing one’s throat. Petrović.

I’d researched the trials of Serbian war criminals before coming to The Hague. I knew that over the last four months this court had heard appeals from seven previously convicted former top-level officers of the wartime Serbian Army, all of whom had been betrayed by Petrović.

Six of the seven appeals had been rejected. One sentence had been reduced, owing to an error made at trial.

Today was Slobodan Petrović’s turn.

I looked at him standing in the dock, his face radiant with confidence. I quickly switched my eyes across the room to Anna Sotovina. She looked resolute.

I thought that Petrović and Anna were evenly matched.

Judge Bouchard spoke, saying, “Slobodan Petrović, you were formerly a colonel in the army of Republika Srpska. When you were tried, you were found guilty of killing, and ordering your troops to kill, over fifteen hundred civilians—men, women, and children—in Djoba, Bosnia. In addition, it was proven that prisoners were tortured and raped before execution. Afterward they were buried in mass graves.”

“Your Honor—” Petrović said.

Bouchard cut him off. “I will let you know when it is your turn to speak.”

Judge Bouchard summarized Petrović’s testimony against his superiors, and his reward, a commuted sentence, and the terms of his release.

Bouchard’s face was inexpressive when he said, “Because you violated the agreement, Mr. Petrović, your sentence was reinstated and justice was done.

“But you are appealing your sentence, requesting that the charges against you be dropped and that you be released immediately. Beyond your stated facts that you don’t feel safe in prison, you did not state a reason for why you should be acquitted.

“Now, sir, if you’re ready, the court would like to hear what you have to say.”

Chapter 117

Petrović took a moment to tighten the knot of his tie, secure his microphone, and sweep his gaze across the glass wall sequestering the press and interested parties.

He took a quick look at the witnesses’ area, a bench similar to the judges’ benches. Beside it was a bank of folding chairs, every one of them occupied by a witness.

Petrović paused for a fraction of a moment when he saw Anna among the witnesses. He may have gasped, or was that a wink? But his gaze continued past those men and women, and he turned so that he was looking directly at the judges.

He said, “Greetings, Your Honors.

“Judge Bouchard mentioned that when I was brought back to this prison, justice had been done. I find this surprising that he would make such a statement on two counts.

“First, I was arrested and thrown into an airplane to Sarajevo. I was not tried. I had no trial. I did not face my accusers. I was not presented with evidence, and I did not have a lawyer present. I was arrested, restrained, flown to prison. How is this justice?

“Justice. You speak of justice? Perhaps you should consider as well the absence of justice, or its selective application.

“Let me ask you, jurists. Where was the justice for Dragan Ilić? Murdered by Bosniaks, on his son’s wedding day, walking in procession to the church.

“Where was the justice at Sijekovac, where eleven of our people—civilians—were fatally struck down by Croat and Bosnian units?

“There was no justice. No UN or ICC retribution. Were you sleeping?

“These were unprovoked crimes caused by the tragic and unlawful breakup of a country in an attempt to thwart the destiny of Greater Serbia. These were attacks on our people— my people—that could not remain unpunished.

“These acts, you seekers of justice, were acts of war.”

He had the gallery and the courtroom transfixed. I was also in his grip. If I’d thought he might be slippery, manipulative, begging for his liberty, I was wrong. He was angry.

Petrović continued.

“I am a soldier. My father was a soldier. He was murdered in the Ustaša genocide, a crime against humanity perpetrated mainly against Serbs. Was I to allow the allies of those who killed my father—enemies for centuries and attackers of our beliefs and traditions—to repeat, with impunity, their crimes?

“No. You judges have been deceived if you think that any man could do that. I could not, because I am a man who believes in justice. I. Not you. I.”

There was an outcry in the room—an exhalation of emotion, outrage, grief, throughout the gallery. An older woman wearing a head scarf, sitting in the row in front of us, shook her head, No, no, no, and cried into her hands. Before us in the courtroom, one of the witnesses, a woman of about my age, got to her feet and cried out.

The judge slammed down the gavel until the sounds ceased. The witness who had gotten to her feet sat down.

Judge Bouchard said, “Mr. Petrović. You’ve been heard. Please step down from the dock and return to the table with your attorneys.

“Witnesses to the military operation in Djoba will give testimony about the actions of Mr. Petrović’s troops on the town’s people.

“Anyone, anyone at all, who cannot control their emotions will be escorted out of the courtroom.

“Mr. Petrović will have an opportunity to rebut witness testimony after all the witnesses have spoken. After which,” said the translation of his words in my ear, “the court will decide if his appeal should be granted or refused. The tribunal’s determination shall be final.”

Bouchard turned and spoke to the bailiff.

“Mr. Weiss. Please call the first witness.”

Chapter 118

I was stunned by Petrović’s speech.

If I had not witnessed his savagery in San Francisco, I might have been moved by his story. Even so, I was rocked by his defense. He felt justified in what he’d done in Djoba, and had shown no remorse when he was brought down in San Francisco.