The Tribunal

CHAPTER 32

“Mr. Zaric,” Judge Davidson boomed. “The Trial Chamber finds you guilty as charged. You are hereby sentenced to imprisonment for the rest of your natural life.”

Kevin felt his body sag from shock, then fear. He just managed to steady himself by leaning his hand on the table. Sweat popped out of his pores as he struggled to maintain his composure. He felt sick to his stomach. He had lost. Ellen was in extreme peril. How could this have happened?

Kevin couldn’t bring himself to look at Draga or anyone else. He kept his eyes down on the table in front of him. He had failed. Somewhere far in the distance, Kevin heard Judge Davidson continuing to speak. “Mr. Zaric, you have the right to appeal this judgment. I am notifying you that you must file a notice of appeal within thirty days.”

Kevin concentrated on trying to draw a breath. He was jolted out of his stupor by Draga’s strong voice.

“I will not appeal your verdict,” Draga said firmly. “It comes as no surprise to me. I committed no war crimes and you know it. But this court has nothing to do with the truth and even less to do with justice. I shall proudly serve my sentence as a prisoner of war.”

Draga continued, as Judge Davidson sat uncharacteristically silent. “I want to say a final word to those who have kidnapped my lawyer’s daughter. Release her at once. My lawyer did all he could in this kangaroo court. He is my friend. If you so much as harm a hair on her head, I will see that you are hunted down and shot like animals. That is all I have to say.”

Draga sat down. His mention of Ellen had caused everyone to look at Kevin.

Tears welled in Kevin’s eyes as he struggled to keep the dam of emotions inside him from bursting in the courtroom. He felt weak, on the verge of collapse.

Judge Davidson’s gruff voice filled the courtroom. “Mr. Zaric, I find that you have knowingly and voluntarily waived your right to appeal this verdict. You shall be transported to begin serving your sentence forthwith. I am advised that the Registrar has determined that your country of confinement shall be the United States of America.”

Judge Orozco then addressed Kevin. “Mr. Anderson, I want you to know I dissented from this verdict. I am praying for your daughter. Court is adjourned.”

Kevin slowly rose to his feet as he held Diane’s hand. She showed no outward reaction to the events. When the judges had filed out, the courtroom guards came up to Kevin one by one.

“You did a fine job, counselor.”

“Tough luck, sir, you deserved to win.”

“I’m ashamed of this place.”

Kevin only nodded. Diane had already walked out the door toward the defense offices. He ran to catch up, and put his hand on her shoulder. When she turned around, he hugged her. They said nothing for several seconds as they clung to each other, desperately, in the corridor of the Tribunal.

“I’m so sorry,” Kevin said, tears streaming down his face. “You were right all along – about everything.”

Diane said nothing. She was not crying, and she did not make eye contact.

“Come on,” she said, “I’ve seen enough of this place for a lifetime.”

“Me, too,” Kevin said haltingly.

They walked quickly down to the lobby and out the door before any reporters could see them. Still wearing their black robes, they got into their car in the underground parking garage.

“What do we do now?” Kevin asked.

“We pray for Detective Weber.”

Kevin still felt weak and shaky. He knew that Diane had summoned her strength and resolve to fill the void, but all he could think of was that he had lost. He had failed Ellen, Diane, Draga, and himself.

“I let Ellen down,” he moaned. “I pray to God they don’t kill her.”

Diane looked straight ahead, her face set with determination as she made her way through the traffic in The Hague. “They’ve kept her alive this long. There’s no point in killing her. It won’t accomplish anything.”

“I want to believe that so much.”

In a gray building in the center of Belgrade, a white-haired man turned off the television and summoned his aide. “Get Zoran Vacinovic on the line,” he ordered in Serbian. When the call had gone through to his country’s embassy in The Hague, he spoke firmly.

“Zoran,” he said, “Call it off.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Vacinovic replied. “Our man is here in The Netherlands. I will try and contact him at once. But may I ask why?”

“Draga knows too much,” the President replied. “We don’t want him singing like a bird. And he still has dangerous friends here. I think it is best if we accept his wishes in this matter.”

“Yes. Well, everyone knows that his trial was a farce. Perhaps having the American lawyer and the fact that he did nothing was a good thing. It is just more evidence of the continuing atrocities committed against the Serbian people.”

“That is what will be said on television and radio here,” the President replied. “You do the same on your end.”

The conversation ended. In another brick building, this one in Wassenaar, Detective Weber whooped as she put down the phone after an urgent call from the CIA’s Pete Barnes.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, thrusting her fist in the air. “They’ve called it off.”

Sitting in the van he had just rented, Mihajlo Golic loaded his Beretta. He filled the chamber, although he was certain only one bullet would be needed for the job. He took his cell phone and threw it in the glove box. He would leave it off. There would be no more calls.

He looked at the card of the hotel that Hans had given him, found the address on the map, and headed to pick up the girl.

After the call from his president, Zoran Vacinovic looked in his address book and found the number for Golic’s cellular phone. He punched the numbers in right away.

There was no answer.