Peter Robinson - The Tribunal

“Since it’s not raining, I think I’ll bike today, too,” Kevin said.

When he got to the Tribunal, Kevin found that he had thirty minutes to spare before court started. He went into to the holding area to visit Draga. He told Draga about the conversations he had with Pete Barnes and Zoran Vacinovic.

“I feel like we’re walking a tightrope here. Your friends are unhappy because I am not fighting for you and the CIA is unhappy because I am fighting too hard.”

“When everyone is unhappy, that usually means you’re doing a good job,” Draga said. “Let’s just get the trial over with. I hate sitting here listening to that tight-ass Stone.”

“I’m still trying to win your trial.”

“That’s what I like about you, Kevin. You’re a dreamer. Just keep working on my deal with Pete and the boys. Let’s see if we can move up the date of my proposed death.”

The prosecution’s first witness was a professor of Slavic Studies at Yale University. Kevin listened as prosecutor Charles Osgood led the witness through a lengthy description of his background and qualifications, including the books and articles that he had authored on the former Yugoslavia. Kevin leafed through the professor’s thirty-page curriculum vitae as the man droned on about his numerous publications, and conferences at which he had presented papers.

Kevin looked at the judges. Judge Davidson, seated closest to him, was fidgeting with his pen. Judge Orozco, in the center, was alternately looking at the witness and down at some written materials she had in front of her. Judge Linares, seated furthest from Kevin, was staring blankly at the computer terminal in front of him, where the simultaneous transcript was being typed on the screen as the witness spoke.

By the time Oswald had completed his questions on the professor’s qualifications, it was time for the morning break. Everyone in the courtroom rose, grateful for the opportunity to stretch and break up the monotony.

Kevin walked over to Draga. “This is torture,” Draga complained. “I never did anything this cruel to any Muslim.”

Kevin saw the guards on both sides of Draga unsuccessfully try to suppress a grin.

“Do I have to be here?” Draga asked.

“Yes, you do. If I have to be here, you have to be here.” Kevin walked over to his briefcase and pulled out the sports section of USA Today. “Can I give this to him?” he asked one of the guards.

“Sure.”

“Here’s something for you to read. Maybe you can study for this week’s NFC and AFC Conference Championships. You’ve got two weeks to go and I’m still ahead by 10 Euros.”

Draga took the paper. “Bring me one of these every day. It will give me a reason to live. If I have to listen to this every day, I might kill myself.”

Kevin shook his head. His client was turning out to be a real comedian, and Kevin’s only friend at the Tribunal.

The professor’s testimony lasted the entire day, and most of the next day. He had not made a single reference to Draga or the Black Dragons. An almost audible sigh of relief could be heard in the courtroom when Oswald finally announced, “Thank you, Professor. I have no further questions at this time.”

All eyes turned to Kevin. He stood up and turned on his microphone. “Do you have any personal knowledge of any war crimes committed by my client, Dragoljub Zaric or by men under his command?” he asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Turning to Judge Orozco, Kevin said, “Thank you, Madam President. I have no further questions.”

Kevin took his seat. He could tell that everyone in the courtroom was surprised. On the other side of the glass, he saw some of the press corps turning around and conferring with one another.

“Very well,” Judge Orozco said after a moment. She turned to the prosecution. “Call your next witness.”

The next witness, and the two that followed over the balance of the week, were also academics. They painstakingly traced the social, political, cultural, and military events prior to 1992 that led up to the war in Bosnia. Kevin asked each of the witnesses the same question and all acknowledged that they had no personal knowledge of any war crimes committed by Draga, or by men under his command.

By Friday afternoon, the visitors’ gallery had all but emptied. “Trial by tedium,” one of the reporters had called it. Kevin was grateful that the week had passed without any further contact from Pete Barnes or Zoran Vacinovic. For now, all was quiet.

It was only 3:30 when Kevin packed up his briefcase and headed for home. When he reached the Tribunal lobby, a reporter came up to him. “Mr. Anderson, do you have any comment on Toma Lanko’s story?”

“I haven’t seen it.”

The reporter handed Kevin a paper. Kevin read the headline. “Draga’s Lawyer Putting up No Defense.”

“No, I don’t have any comment,” Kevin said, returning the paper to the man. His critics would just have to be patient. Revealing his defense would just tip off the prosecutors. He didn’t trust Bradford Stone to play fair.

Diane was sitting in the living room when Kevin came in. “I’m home early. How are you doing?”

“Fine. I’m still waiting for Ellen to come home from school. She’s usually home by now.”

“Well, it’s Friday. She’s probably making some plans for the weekend with her friends.”

They heard the siren of a police car in the distance. When the police car with flashing blue lights stopped in front of their house, both Kevin and Diane stood up. They saw a large woman get out of the police car and stride towards their front door.

Diane walked quickly to the door with Kevin right behind her. She opened the door before the officer could knock.

“What is it?” Diane asked worriedly.

Kevin held his breath.

“Kevin and Diane Anderson?” she asked with a Dutch accent. The woman’s eyes showed concern.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Michelle Weber of the Wassenaar Police.”

“What is it?”

“I’m afraid your daughter has been kidnapped.”

Kevin felt a wave of panic engulf him.

Diane let out a single scream; a primal burst from some painful place deep inside. Then, she burst into tears. Kevin felt like doing the same, but he knew first he should listen to the police, ask rational questions, and otherwise keep his wits about him.

He leaned against the wall near his front door, the breath taken out of him. All he could see was the beautiful smooth face of the daughter he loved so much. And then, he realized that he, too, was crying. He heard Diane say something in a voice that didn’t sound like hers. He took hold of her arm and together they led Detective Weber into the living room of their home that suddenly seemed very empty and quiet.

Kevin felt sick; a clammy, chilled feeling that made his stomach queasy. He was wracked with enormous guilt. Even without hearing the details, he knew it was all his fault. His work at the Tribunal had jeopardized his daughter’s life. Why had he done it? He wished so desperately to turn back the clock and have another chance to keep her safe.

Detective Weber, a large motherly-type woman with curly brown hair, seemed to be waiting for the stunned parents to compose themselves. She looked like a Dutch Oprah Winfrey before Oprah’s diet. “Take a deep breath,” she suggested. “We need to talk.”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin moaned, one hand now covering his face. His fingers were wet with tears. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his face. He summoned up all the will he could to be strong.

“Please, detective, tell us – what happened,” he finally got out.

The detective looked at Kevin, then Diane. She spoke slowly and deliberately. “Your daughter was riding her bike home from school with her friend, Jennifer Morris. From what Jennifer told us, a white van drove up and cut in front of them in the bike lane. Ellen and Jennifer came to a complete stop. When they did, the side door of the van slid open, and two men burst out. They grabbed Ellen, pulled her off her bike, and carried her into the van. It was over in seconds. The van sped off toward the highway.”