Peter Robinson - The Tribunal

Nihudian and Kevin shook Jacobson’s hand and sat down.

Jacobson produced a notebook and passed it across the table. “Do you recognize your handwriting in this?” he asked Nihudian in accented English.

“Before we get to that,” Kevin interjected, “my client has some concerns about his safety and employment that we would like to clear up.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Stone,”

Kevin turned and saw that Bradford Stone had left the room.

The investigator opened a page of the notebook.

“Is that your writing?” Jacobson asked Nihudian.

Kevin couldn’t believe these people. “I’m sorry,” he interrupted, “but I’ll need to speak with Mr. Stone before my client answers any questions.” Borrowing a famous line from Brendan Sullivan, the lawyer for Colonel Oliver North in the Iran-Contra hearings, Kevin added, “I am not a potted plant.”

Jacobson shook his head slowly.

Kevin was perplexed. Either he was doing something wrong or these prosecutors had no respect for people’s rights.

Jacobson frowned, got up from his chair, and left the room without saying a word.

“I hope I’m not getting you in trouble, Nihudian.”

Nihudian rubbed his forehead. “I hope I’m not getting you in trouble, Kevin.” He looked at the notebook on the table. “Do you want me to see if this is my writing?”

“No. Interview rooms are often bugged with hidden microphones. I don’t think we should talk about anything here.”

Kevin and Nihudian sat in silence.

After a few minutes, the door opened and Jacobson walked in with another man. “This is Charles Oswald. He’s the Chief Deputy Prosecutor.”

Oswald offered his hand to Kevin. He was an older man, mid-fifties perhaps, with white hair, a jowly face, and glasses. He spoke with an accent that Kevin thought was from Australia or New Zealand. “Mr. Anderson, what seems to be the problem?”

Kevin explained Nihudian’s concerns about his family and his job at the Bosnian embassy. He tried to be as friendly as possible. After all, Oswald might be his future boss.

When Kevin had finished, Oswald replied, “We deal with these things all the time. There is no problem. It is most unusual for a witness to have counsel, however.”

“I’m really just trying to help him out,” Kevin said in a conciliatory tone. “Perhaps you can explain how you will address his concerns and we can get on with the interview.”

“Yes, well, I’ll have Mr. Stone come back here and do that. Good day.”

With that, Oswald turned and left the room.

Bradford Stone appeared a few minutes later. “I understand I’m to give you a lecture in witness procedures,” he said sarcastically to Kevin. He sat down and explained that Nihudian’s identity would not be revealed to anyone other than the defense lawyers and that he would be referred to in court by letter and not name. There would be no need to tell the Bosnian Embassy that Nihudian was testifying.

Kevin was anxious to smooth over any feathers that were ruffled, and Nihudian appeared to be satisfied with the prosecutor’s assurances.

Jacobson again opened the notebook. “Can we go ahead now, counselor?” he asked Kevin, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“Sure.”

Nihudian identified his writing in the notebook and explained how the notebooks were prepared simultaneously while he was listening to the Bosnian Serb Army radio communications.

Jacobson and Stone seemed satisfied, and ended the interview in half an hour.

“You cannot go back into Courtroom 2 until after you’ve testified,” Stone instructed Nihudian. “You’ll be testifying a week from tomorrow. In the meantime, the defense attorneys might contact you for an interview. There’s no need to talk to them.”

Kevin bristled. Where he came from it was unethical for a prosecutor to discourage a witness from talking to the defense.

“We’ll make that decision if and when he’s asked,” Kevin asserted.

Stone shot him a cold look. “Be in the lobby promptly at 8:30 in the morning next Wednesday,” he said to Nihudian.

Kevin hoped that now that Nihudian had proven to be a useful witness, his own standing with the prosecutor would improve. He wanted to end their meeting on a good note. “I’ll just watch Nihudian’s testimony from the visitors’ gallery,” he told Stone as they were leaving.

Stone stopped and turned to Kevin.

“Yes, do that,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn. “You won’t be seeing the inside of the courtroom anytime soon. Your career here as a prosecutor is over before it even started. Pity.”

With that said, Bradford Stone stormed away.

That night, Diane hurried to get ready to go out with some of her new friends from the library, so Kevin said nothing to her about his disastrous day at the Tribunal.

After Diane left, Ellen insisted that they play Harry Potter. For more than an hour, Kevin pretended to be an eleven-year-old English boy, accent and all, while Ellen played the role of Harry’s friend, Hermione. After many miscues on Kevin’s part, which Ellen patiently corrected, they once again defeated the forces of the Dark Lord just in time for bed.

“Daddy!” Ellen cried excitedly as he tucked her in. “The new Harry Potter book comes out tomorrow. You’ve got to get it for me! It’s over seven hundred pages!”

Ellen was a voracious reader and the Harry Potter series was her absolute favorite.

“I guess we won’t be hearing from you once you get your hands on that.”

“Let’s have father-daughter talk,” Ellen said, snuggling under her covers.

“Okay. What about?”

“Let’s talk about how our days went.” Ellen bounced up in the bed. “I’ll go first. At camp, we made cranes and bats by folding paper. It was cool. It’s called origami. And we played a game called wood crick. It’s kind of like cricket. Then Mommy picked me up and took me to get some school clothes. I like Nordstrom better.”

“Now, what did you do today?” she asked, fluffing up her pillow.

“I didn’t exactly have the greatest day,” Kevin said, wearily plopping on the edge of the bed. He told Ellen about his efforts to help his new friend, Nihudian, and his encounter with prosecutor Bradford Stone.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, as if hearing an exciting bedtime tale.

“I don’t know.”

“Dad, that guy Stone is nothing more than a big bully.”

“Ellen, you’re absolutely right.”

“You tell me not to let bullies boss me around.”

“I do.”

“Then just forget about the creep.”

Kevin smiled at the utter simplicity of the sound advice he’d just gotten. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He rose from her bed. “Now go to sleep, my angel.”

Ellen was yawning, but continued stretching out her bedtime. “The song. You have to sing me the song.”

Kevin started singing their new favorite bedtime song called “Butterfly Kisses,” and soon heard Ellen’s rhythmic breathing.

The next day, Kevin rode the second-hand bike he’d bought from a neighbor to the American Book Center in The Hague. There, he picked up the latest adventures of Harry Potter. Then, he met Nihudian. He wanted to go over the testimony Nihudian would be giving in court. If he was going to be his lawyer, he was going to do it right.

“Come on,” Nihudian said when they met near the bookstore. “I’m going to take you for another Dutch delight.”

He led Kevin through the Binnenhof, an old, walled enclosure of stone buildings that housed the Dutch Parliament. They walked under an old brick arch. Nihudian pointed to part of the building shaped like a cylinder with a turret-like roof. “That’s where the Prime Minister of the Netherlands has his office.” Behind the building was a huge fountain of water in the large pond that bordered the Binnenhof.