Peter Robinson - The Tribunal

“Was your house searched last night?” one of them asked.

“Yes, it was. The prosecutor’s office seized privileged communications between my client and me, as well as documents outlining our strategy for defending the case. I’m filing a motion this morning for the immediate return of those items.”

“Did you pass confidential materials to an official of the Serbian secret police?”

“No, I did not.”

Kevin noticed Judge Davidson striding briskly up the walk toward the guardhouse.

“I’ll be happy to provide you copies of what I file with the Court this morning,” Kevin said. “They contain all the true facts.”

He hustled up to the Registrar’s office to file his motions, and then went to his office. Later that morning, Kevin received a copy of an official protest lodged at the Tribunal by the government of Serbia and Montenegro.

Then, the phone at his desk rang. It was Nihudian.

“Kevin, I saw you on the news. Are you okay?”

“So far. You saw that I have a new client?”

“I did. That guy is really lucky to have gotten you. You are so powerful, Kevin.”

Hearing from Nihudian made Kevin smile.

“Thanks, but I’m not feeling real powerful right now. How have you been?”

“I am fine. I am teaching history at a high school in Sarajevo and enjoying the time with my family.”

“That’s great. Say, would you happen to know a good private investigator in Sarajevo? I need someone to interview the Muslim witnesses in Draga’s case.”

“I don’t think you could find an investigator in Sarajevo willing to help Draga. Let me think about that. I’ll ask my students. Maybe we can come up with someone for you.”

“Thanks, Nihudian. It sure is nice to hear a friendly voice.”

When he checked his e-mail, Kevin found a score of messages from concerned family, friends, and colleagues in the United States. Bud Marcello’s e-mail brought a smile to his face. It read simply: “And you told me to stay away from the dark side?”

He answered them all. “No problem,” was the gist of what he told everyone. “It’s just a small misunderstanding that will easily be straightened out.”

On his way out of the Tribunal he checked his mailbox. There was an envelope from the Registrar. Kevin opened it, hoping it was a notice of hearing on his motion. Instead, he saw the heading: “Order to Show Cause why Attorney Kevin Anderson should not be held in Contempt of Court.”

Kevin was ordered to appear in court on Monday morning for a Rule 77 hearing on whether he should be held in contempt of court for violating the protective order. The order, signed by Judge Davidson, noted ominously that Rule 77 provided for “punishment of up to twelve months in jail and a fine of 20,000 Euros” for anyone found in contempt of the Tribunal.

Kevin felt weak in the knees as he walked outside to his bicycle.

Would Judge Davidson dare to put him in jail ?

Two hours later, Kevin was in jail, visiting Draga. Kevin had picked up Chinese food, and the two men sat in the interview room, eating out of cartons with chopsticks.

“I’ll reserve a cell for you next to mine,” Draga said after Kevin brought him up to date on his legal difficulties.

“That’s a comforting thought.”

Kevin passed the chow mien to Draga. “Trade you for the fried rice.”

Draga dug at the rice one more time before handing the carton to Kevin.

“Want me to defend you at the hearing?” Draga asked.

“Oh yeah, you’ve really impressed Judge Davidson with your courtroom decorum. You’re the perfect choice.”

The two men laughed.

Talking to Draga made Kevin feel better, even if the man was absolutely no help.

“I called my contact at the Embassy,” Kevin reported, “and asked him to get your brother-in-law here for Monday’s hearing. I’m probably going to need him to testify that I had hired him as my investigator.”

Draga nodded, passing the chow mien back to Kevin, and digging into the pork.

“He’s supposed to be bringing me some reports of the investigation he’s done on your kidnapping. The version in the prosecution’s discovery just doesn’t make sense. If you were just unexpectedly handed over to the U.N. at the Romanian border, how did Allen Jacobson, the chief investigator for your case, get on the scene to try to interview you within two hours after you were found?”

“I didn’t say a word to that jerk.”

“There’s more to the story than we’re being told,” Kevin said.

“I have some business to discuss with you,” Draga said.

Kevin perked up. Had Draga changed his mind about assisting in his defense?

Draga pulled out a torn piece of newspaper. “Here’s the odds for this weekend’s NFL football games. Let’s see if you can pick the teams better than I can.”

Kevin looked sideways at Draga. “You want me to help you bet on football?”

“No, I want us both to bet on the games against each other. We can do it all season. Then, at the end, the winner pays off.”

“I’m about to go to jail for contempt and you’re facing life in prison and you want us to bet on football games?”

“I can pick the winners in your own country better than you.”

Kevin eyed his client. “No, you can’t. I follow football all year.”

Draga handed Kevin the paper. His picks were already circled.

Kevin studied the point spreads while Draga dug the remains out of the cartons.

“How much are we betting?” Kevin asked.

“How about a hundred dollars a game?” Draga replied.

“Are you crazy?”

“How about a hundred Euros, then?”

“Where would you get that kind of money? Wait, I don’t want to know.”

Draga smiled. “Okay, let’s just play for sport. Ten Euros a game.”

“That’s more like it. I’ll win enough off you this season to take my family out for a nice dinner.”

Draga laughed. “The Chinese was great. Thanks for lunch.”

“Let’s hope we’re not cell mates by Monday. Who would bring in the take-out?”

“See you in court, counselor.”

Sunday was Diane’s birthday, and Kevin, determined not to spoil her special weekend, decided not to mention the contempt order.

On Saturday, he and Ellen took the bus to The Hague and then shopped for presents. Ellen picked out matching orange sweatshirts for Diane and herself with Queen Beatrix’s family’s coat of arms on them. Ellen always managed to receive presents on other people’s birthdays. At the Royal pottery factory in Delft, an old city just south of The Hague, Kevin bought Diane a blue and white serving plate with a scene from one of their favorite Rembrandt’s, “The Night Watch.”

On Sunday afternoon, Kevin and Ellen took Diane to the Madurodam, an outdoor museum in The Hague where the scenes of cities and towns all over Holland were elaborately displayed in miniature.

“We know you like to stay close to home, Mommy,” Ellen explained thoughtfully. “This way you can visit all of Holland without leaving The Hague.”

They walked along the canals of Amsterdam, past the famous spire of the Dom church of Utrecht, and the busy port of Rotterdam. Ellen’s favorite spot was the Mars candy factory. There, if you deposited ten cents, a miniature truck would take a piece of candy from a conveyor belt and deliver it to you.

Every child visiting the Madurodam was given a passport, which contained a challenging game of locating various buildings throughout the museum. Diane and Kevin tried to keep up with Ellen as she raced around answering the questions in her passport. As they were leaving, Ellen turned in her passport at the front desk. She had gotten all the questions right, and was awarded a stamp in the passport.