Страница 4 из 68
Bud Marcello and his wife, Sherry, were already seated in a booth. The burly FBI Agent had grey, curly hair that looked a bit more unkempt than usual. He seemed to also be making less of an effort to conceal his bulging waistline now that he would no longer be subject to the Bureau’s grooming rules.
Marcello rose and kissed Diane on the cheek.
“Come on,” he said to Kevin with a chuckle, “let’s take our victory lap.”
Kevin winced. As Santa Rosa’s first and only federal prosecutor, he was a bit of a legal-community celebrity. But he shied away from gloating whenever he sent someone on their way to federal prison. Tonight, Kevin decided to humor the gregarious agent. After all, Bud needed to start drumming up business after tomorrow.
“Got your new business cards printed up yet?” Kevin teased.
“Right here,” Bud said, slapping his breast pocket.
Kevin had worked with Bud Marcello for the last eight years. Bud was a tenacious investigator with a keen sense of fair play, and Kevin had come to trust him completely. He was also the most irreverent FBI agent Kevin had ever met. If Bud needed some information, he would bypass the Bureau’s cumbersome procedures and just go get it, leaving FBI supervisors and bean counters tearing out their hair.
Kevin and Bud walked around Mac’s, talking to various lawyers and politicians sitting in the booths. News of the local councilman’s conviction had spread, and the pair was roundly congratulated. Political animals always went with a wi
After Kevin and Bud had rejoined their wives, other locals frequently stopped by, talking about the trial, Kevin’s move to Holland, and Bud’s plans as he liberally passed out his new cards.
Kevin saw Diane silently steam as their meal was repeatedly interrupted.
“Are you looking forward to living in Holland, Diane?” It was Gaye LeBaron, the legendary columnist for the Santa Rosa Press Democrat. LeBaron was sharp and very perceptive, but Diane was savvy enough not to spill her guts to the local scribe.
“I’m too busy packing to think about it,” Diane said, managing a weak smile.
Shortly after di
“Stay away from the dark side,” Kevin kidded Bud, who was fully prepared to take on work from criminal defense attorneys in his new private investigation business.
There was no conversation in the car as the Andersons drove home. Kevin had enjoyed savoring his victory with his friend. Diane was so wrapped up in her anxiety over the move that she hadn’t even asked him for details about the verdict, as she usually did. As he drove, Kevin shook it off. It was time to disengage from the councilman’s trial anyway, and to look forward to his new challenge of prosecuting Bosnian war criminals. He found himself hoping once again that the move would prove to be good for Diane and their marriage.
When they got home, Kevin went to say goodnight to Ellen. He strode into her room where she had rigged a pulley system between her bedroom and Lauren’s next door. Kevin printed out the words “Good night, Love, Dad” on a piece of paper, opened Ellen’s window, and attached the paper to the rope with a clothespin. Then he pulled the rope through the pulley and watched as the note glided its way across to Lauren’s.
When they heard the sound of the rope scraping the pulleys, Ellen and Lauren appeared in Lauren’s bedroom window and retrieved the note. Ellen read it, gri
He got up and went to check his e-mail for the last time.
WELCOME, said the familiar AOL greeting. YOU’VE GOT MAIL.
He sca
We are sorry to inform you that a budget freeze has been imposed upon the Office of the Prosecutor. At this time, we must withdraw our offer of a position for you. We will keep your application on file if the funding becomes available.
Rupert Schmidt, Director of Perso
Kevin felt the air go out of him.
CHAPTER 2
“Rupert Schmidt, please.”
Kevin stood inside the guardhouse at the entrance to the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia in The Hague. He had repeatedly tried from home in California to reach Schmidt by e-mail, fax and phone – to no avail. The Tribunal official was obviously going to great lengths to avoid him. “Who may I say is here to see Mr. Schmidt?” asked a young guard wearing the sky-blue United Nations uniform.
Peering into the guard’s booth through the glass, Kevin saw control panels, closed circuit television monitors, and an automatic rifle hanging conspicuously from a rack.
“I’m Kevin Anderson from the United States. Mr. Schmidt hired me to work as a prosecutor.”
The clean-cut guard’s face broke into a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Tribunal, sir.” He picked up a phone and punched in some buttons.
Kevin hoped his name wasn’t on a list of people who had been unhired. He looked around the small guardhouse, spying a metal detector, X-ray machine, and some lockers. Another blue-uniformed guard stood near the metal detector.
After a minute, the guard put down the phone and motioned Kevin closer to the glass. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Schmidt is not in at the moment. He’s expected back soon. Why don’t I give you a visitor’s pass and you can sit in on the court this morning? When Mr. Schmidt arrives, I’ll tell him where you are.”
“That sounds good.”
Kevin was relieved that he was finally getting closer to the elusive Mr. Schmidt, to whom he pla
Kevin collected the pink visitor’s ticket that the guard passed through the slot in the glass, and then walked through the metal detector. He headed out the door of the small guardhouse, toward a large triangle-shaped building some thirty feet away. The three-story building had large brown pillars and was surrounded by a high steel fence. It looked to cover half a city block.
He entered the Tribunal building and found himself in a small lobby. To his right and left were glass doors marked “Employees Only.” Straight ahead was a white marble staircase with another metal detector and security guard.
Kevin approached the guard and showed his ticket. When the metal detector beeped, he was ordered to stand with his feet spread apart and hands outstretched. The guard ran a wand over Kevin’s body. The sensitive machine had picked up the metal in Kevin’s rubber jogging watch.
Kevin was then directed to the top of the stairs, where yet another guard greeted him. Next to her was a fresh-faced man in his early thirties carrying a reporter’s notebook.
“Follow me,” the guard said. “We’re going to Courtroom 2.”
She led Kevin and the other man down a maze of corridors. Finally, she stopped, pulled up an industrial-size set of keys hanging from her belt, and opened a large metal door on the left. Kevin followed the other man into a tiny glass booth, with four chairs, perched in a corner of a surprisingly small courtroom with a low ceiling. The door closed behind him and he heard the key turn in the lock.
On each seat was an electronic translator – the size of a small cellular phone – co
“This must be what monkeys in a zoo feel like,” he said softly.
The man smiled kindly.
On the other side of the glass, Kevin saw his first war criminal. The accused man sat to Kevin’s left. He was an older, gray-haired man wearing a worn suit. He was flanked by two large U.N. guards. In front of him were his lawyers, two tall men wearing black robes. Kevin leaned forward to get a look to his far right and saw the prosecutors, a man and a woman. In the center of the courtroom were the court clerks and ushers, also dressed in black robes.