John Nance - Headwind

The ambassador ended the call and Jay toggled the phone to try Geoffrey Wallace’s office again. Wallace was still out, he was told, and Jay left a terse message before replacing the receiver and jumping to his feet to pace and think.

An entire delegation of heavyweights was inbound from Washington. Why had no one bothered to tell the President’s lawyer? A small administrative oversight, or a pointed one? He couldn’t decide, and the positive prospect of acquiring bigger guns for the fight ahead was being diminished by the prospect of losing control to the servants of a sitting President who had already made the decision to distance himself from John Harris’s dilemma.

Jay checked his watch, envisioning the EuroAir 737 already in the air and headed toward London. Should he phone them? Should he even consider turning them around or sending them to some other capital?

Jay moved to the largest room of the suite, where he’d spread out his three legal pads on an elegant mahogany dining table. The track of his thinking so many hours ago in Laramie and over the Atlantic was clearly visible on one of the pads, the various candidate capitals crossed out one by one until only London remained.

Am I wrong about this? Good Lord, the stakes are too high to be wrong!

Jay moved into the kitchenette and loaded the coffee maker with his mind a half continent away. If the Prime Minister decided to throw the weight of government in the direction of rapid extradition, could he essentially override the legal process? And if so, to what degree?

I’ve got to know the status of the warrant, Jay thought.

There was nothing he could do to stop that process, of course, but once the President had been arrested, Geoffrey Wallace could move instantly to challenge the legality of the arrest, the legality of the warrant, and the legality of any decisions made.

Calm down! There is no way the British PM would send John Harris off in chains to Peru without months of hearings and appeals.

He was sure of that. He was almost sure of that.

The phone rang and Jay moved to sweep up the receiver, relieved to hear the prodigal solicitor on the other end.

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Reinhart. But it’s been a bit of a cock-up getting this figured out, and now that I have, you’d better get yourself down here.”

“Where is ‘here,’ and what are you talking about? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

“Indeed. I’m at the Bow Street Magistrate Court near Covent Garden. I’ll give you the address. Campbell has already arrived, but the matter isn’t slated for a half hour. You have time to get here.”

“This hearing is to perfect the Interpol warrant?”

“Righto. I’m ashamed to say that it took me a while to discover that only the Bow Street Magistrate Court handles extraditions. Then, when I checked the Bow Street docket, I was wrongly informed the matter wasn’t set yet. But it was, you see. In fact, it was set this morning for a hearing at three-thirty this afternoon, which is thirty minutes from now. Could have been an administrative error, I suppose, but the earlier misinformation smells like a favor to a crony.” Wallace passed the address quickly, adding, “You realize there may be little we can do to oppose this first step?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I rang up someone who knows this magistrate, and I’m told he’s unlikely to do anything but quickly issue the arrest warrant. The extradition warrant will take a later hearing.”

“May I speak at all in court?”

“It’s rather informal, so I doubt if the magistrate would toss you in the Tower of London for interjecting a few words. Whatever you might be able to say, however, will most likely have no legal significance at this stage. This is merely a formality to translate the Peruvian Interpol warrant into a provisional British arrest warrant. You can oppose it if the judge allows, but on a very narrow basis. You know, did Peru really send it? That sort of thing.”

Jay rang off and raced to the elevator with his briefcase. He punched the button repeatedly, then gave up and ran to the stairway, descending the six flights to the lobby, where the doorman whistled up a taxi. The ride to the court took less than fifteen minutes, and Geoffrey Wallace was waiting for him at the curb as he climbed out of the cab.

“Mr. Reinhart?”

“Yes. How’d you know?” Jay asked.

“You look appropriately stressed,” Wallace said, introducing himself and ushering Jay through security into the small and somewhat scruffy lobby and off to one side. The solicitor was probably sixty and just under six feet tall. Jay memorized his cheerful features, round face and a full head of sandy hair that almost looked like a rug.

“Let me introduce you to our QC,” Geoffrey Wallace said, as a spectacled man approached. “Nigel White, this is Jay Reinhart, the American attorney representing President Harris, who is your client.”

Jay and White shook hands as Wallace raised his finger and gestured toward the far side of the hall. “That’s Campbell over there,” he said, inclining his head toward Stuart Campbell, now huddled with several other men in dark suits.

“It’s been a long time, but I recognize him,” Jay said.

“Really? So you know the old bugger?” Wallace said, surprised.

Nigel White had begun consulting his notes and was paying no attention as Jay nodded. “How much time do we have before the matter’s called?” he asked White.

“Perhaps ten minutes,” the senior barrister replied without looking up.

“Wait here, please, gentlemen,” Jay said, squaring his shoulders and moving toward Campbell, mindful of the small flutter in his stomach.

Sir William Stuart Campbell, QC, was the adversary, but he was also a legend in international law, and it would almost be an honor to lose to such a man.

Almost.

The thought left him momentarily amused, even with a squadron of butterflies now performing airshows in his stomach. He had no intention of losing John Harris to Stuart Campbell.

“Gentlemen, excuse me,” Jay said in a metered tone as he reached the group. The three men talking with Campbell turned and parted slightly when they saw Jay’s eyes locked on the big Scot.

“Yes, hello?” Stuart said pleasantly, his eyebrows arched slightly in an unspoken question.

Jay offered his hand and Stuart took it firmly, saying at the same time, “I’m sorry, I failed to catch your name.” He leaned over slightly as if needing to bring his ear down to a lower flight level to accommodate Jay’s shorter stature.

“Why, Sir William, you don’t remember me?”

The broad smile that had mesmerized and conned innumerable jurors and witnesses flashed across Campbell’s face, masking his deepening confusion, as he let go of Jay’s hand.

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m very much afraid I don’t.”

“Really? Let me refresh your memory. The year was nineteen seventy nine, and you were representing British Airways and trying to keep an upstart little airline from Texas named Braniff from flying to Gatwick. Ultimately, you lost.”

“Oh, yes! Mrs. Thatcher ran roughshod past the law on that one. I recall the case, but…”

“Do you, perhaps, recall the young American attorney from a Washington firm who came over to assist the primary counsel?”

“Yes, but you couldn’t be that same young man,” he said. “That chap later became a judge somewhere in the States and was thrown off the bench and disbarred, as I recall.”

“One and the same, Sir William, although I was never disbarred. Merely suspended. The license is reinstated now.”

“Really? And your name is…”

“Reinhart. Jay Reinhart.”