Peter Robinson - The Tribunal

All Rights Reserved © 2004 by Peter B. Robinson

Many people helped make this, my first book, possible.

Jeanne and Jennifer Robinson had to live with me while I wrote it, and suffer through my endless readings and revisions.

Bruce Henderson, a fabulous author, helped turn my amateur writing style into something more acceptable. My friend and agent, Shana Keating, a great lawyer in her own right, offered me many useful suggestions and unfailing optimism.

At the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, Christian Chartier, Chief of Public Information Services, was most gracious with his time and arranged a tour of some parts of the Tribunal that even defence lawyers don’t get to see. Jan Maarten Terwiel, the Director of Education of the Scheveningen prison complex, where the Tribunal keeps its inmates, gave me a wonderful tour and showed me his own, impressive book.

Judge Ewald Behrschmidt of the Court of Nuremburg, Germany, graciously gave me a bird’s-eye perspective of the Nuremberg trials and let me sit in the very chairs occupied by those who defended at Nuremberg almost 50 years ago.

My good friend and colleague Tomislav Visnjic of Belgrade taught me what it was like to be a defence lawyer at the Tribunal, and gave me the opportunity to try it out myself.

To all of these people, I will be forever grateful.

The Security Council, expressing once again its grave alarm at continuing reports of widespread and flagrant violations of international humanitarian law occurring within the territory of the former Yugoslavia, and especially in the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina, including reports of mass killings, massive, organized and systematic detention and rape of women, and the continuance of the practice of “ethnic cleansing”, including for the acquisition and the holding of territory,…decides hereby to establish an international tribunal for the sole purpose of prosecuting persons responsible for serious violations of international humanitarian law committed in the territory of the former Yugoslavia.

– United Nations Resolution 827 (1993)

Since its inception, the Tribunal has become a fully operational legal institution rendering judgements and setting important precedents of international criminal and humanitarian law. Many legal issues now adjudicated by the Tribunal have never actually been adjudicated or have lain dormant since the Nuremberg and Tokyo trials.

The Rules of Procedure and Evidence guarantee that Tribunal proceedings adhere to internationally recognised principles of a fair trial.

– International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia document (2001)

“All rise! Veuillez vous lever! ” the black-robed usher bellowed in English and French, the two official languages of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.

Trial lawyer Kevin Anderson leapt to his feet. The adrenaline from the impending verdict flowed hard and fast inside his well-conditioned body. He had tried more than two hundred cases and lost only a handful. Waiting for a verdict was always a heart thumper. With what he had at stake here, this one was a heart stopper.

The three judges filed solemnly into the courtroom. They wore black robes with bright red satin covering the chest and shoulders and striping the cuffs. Crusty old William Davidson of Great Britain led the procession, carrying an old leather book in which he had made notes during the trial.

Kevin studied Judge Davidson’s face for some indication of the decision, but the judge’s eyes were impassive behind his thick glasses, his mouth fixed in its usual scowl.

Next came the President of the Trial Chamber, Juana Orozco of Chile, with jet-black hair pulled tight behind her head. She looked down; the normally pleasant smile absent from her face. Finally, Francisco Linares of the Philippines marched in, wearing the same blank expression that he had maintained throughout the month-long trial.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Orozco began when everyone had been seated. She looked out at the visitors’ gallery, separated from the courtroom by a wall of bulletproof glass. Normally empty, the gallery was standing room only.

Journalists and court watchers had flocked to The Hague to see the result of the War Crimes Tribunal’s most notorious case yet; the prosecution of the infamous Serbian warlord known as “Draga”, leader of the Black Dragons. Draga was accused of leading his paramilitary group on genocidal attacks in Bosnia at the behest of Yugoslavian President Slobodan Milosevic.

“Will the accused please rise?” Judge Orozco ordered.

A tall, clean-shaven athletic-looking man wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit rose to his feet. In America, he would have been mistaken for one of the lawyers. However, at the Tribunal here in Holland, all the lawyers wore robes.

Kevin’s gaze met the deep brown eyes of the woman he loved, seated next to him at the counsel table. He took her hand and squeezed. With his other hand, he reached inside the pocket of his robe and rubbed the lucky stone that their eleven-year-old daughter, Ellen, had given him. Ellen had sat in the audience for many of his verdicts, and now, her life depended on this one.

A wave of panic engulfed Kevin. He looked up at the judges. The proceedings were moving in slow motion. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“The Trial Chamber has reached a verdict in this case,” Judge Orozco intoned. “It is a majority verdict, as required by our rules, but it is not unanimous. The verdict on all of the counts of the indictment is the same.”

Kevin struggled to process this information. A 2-1 verdict. But for acquittal or conviction?

Judge Orozco continued. “Separate majority and dissenting opinions will be filed in due course. Only the result will be announced this morning.”

Kevin looked around the courtroom, desperate for a clue. If any of the court personnel knew what the outcome was, they didn’t show it. The clerks, guards, and interpreters all had their eyes fixed on Judge Orozco, her black and red robes framed by the sky blue background of the United Nations flag.

Kevin gave up his attempt at cognitive analysis.

Instead, he closed his eyes, rubbed the stone, and prayed.

“I can’t believe we’re moving to Holland tomorrow, Daddy.”

Kevin Anderson beamed at his eleven-year-old daughter, Ellen, as they huddled together over a two-scoop vanilla sundae with chocolate sauce and whipped cream.

She was beautiful, with her long brown hair gathered into a ponytail by a purple scrunchy; fun-loving, liquid-brown eyes, and a batch of girlish freckles on her nose.

“It’s going to be an adventure,” he said, smiling.

Her expressive face had morphed from a smile into a frown. “I’m really going to miss my friends. And my new school is so big. How will I ever find my way around?”

“You have plenty of experience finding your way around,” he said, nodding toward the Game Boy that sat on their white marble table at the soda fountain. “You get around Super Mario Land real well.”

Ellen’s face broke into a wide grin. “Can I play while we finish our ice cream?”