Headwind

FORTY-FOUR

“And this would be the lion’s den,” Michael Garrity said, leaning close to Jay’s ear as they walked into courtroom three.

Only one of the court staff – the registrar – was in position beneath the bench at the head of the courtroom, arranging papers and fussing with her files. Stuart Campbell was still outside the courtroom in the Round Hall in animated discussion with no fewer than seven other support solicitors, barristers, and staff.

Jay looked at his watch with eyes rendered bleary by less than four hours of sleep. 9:50 A.M . I’ve got to focus.

“Now, Jay,” Michael was saying, “Judge O’Connell is well known for temper tantrums when people talk in his courtroom. You’ll be sitting just behind me, so you can lean forward and whisper in my ear, but two warnings, if you please.”

“Sure.”

“First, make absolutely certain no living soul can hear any sound from the whisper beyond the radius of a foot or two, or he’ll surely bellow at us.”

“Okay.”

“Second, please don’t knock my wig off.”

Jay laughed. “That happens?”

“Oh, it’s very embarrassing to have a client lean over to whisper something to you, and pull back, taking your wig along with him, or leave it at an odd angle on your head. The judge will definitely comment.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“He won’t let you speak, as we’ve discussed, although Campbell will be a full participant, since he’s already been called before our bar at least once in the past.”

“I understand.”

“Also, I am what we call an SC, or senior counsel, so I’ll be assisted by another barrister from my office, Tom Duggan, who had better be here pretty soon. I’ll introduce you.”

“SC is like QC, Queen’s counsel?”

Michael smiled wryly. “We have no queen, lad. This is the Republic of Ireland.”

“Sorry.”

“Mind you, we think Liz is a dandy old girl, we just have no allegiance to her, let alone any desire to be her lawyers.”

A male staff member wheeled a large television set on a metal stand into the courtroom and placed it near the end of the jury box, plugging in the TV and the video equipment below it. Both Michael and Jay watched the adjustments without comment, knowing full well what Stuart Campbell would be using it to show. The ominous presence of the TV left a cold, black feeling of apprehension in Jay’s gut.

“How are the winds holding, Alastair?” Craig asked.

The copilot had been chewing his lip as he scribbled calculations and used a pocket flight calculator to double-check the aircraft’s flight management computer.

“The tailwind’s almost gone, Craig, and the latest weather report has that low really galloping south.”

“Should we consider Reykjavík, Iceland?”

Alastair shook his head no. “We’d be right into another monstrous headwind at this altitude, and we don’t dare descend into higher fuel consumption rates.”

“We’re right on maximum endurance?”

“Right on. It’s all a function of winds right now, but…” He looked up at Craig and sighed. “I have to tell you, Craig, I’m not showing us arriving in Dublin with much fuel. We may want to consider Galway.”

Craig shook his head and laughed ruefully. “You had to go and tempt Murphy a while ago by mentioning Galway, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” Alastair said, lowering his head into his calculations again. Craig realized with a small jolt of adrenaline that Alastair had met a joking comment with a sincere apology. That wasn’t like Alastair, which meant, Craig decided, that the copilot was really scared.

And that fact alone raised Craig’s apprehension to a new level.

“Better get Galway weather just in case,” Craig suggested.

Alastair nodded. “I am. In the meantime, don’t change those throttles from maximum endurance. We need to stretch every drop of fuel we have.”

Jay glanced nervously at his watch again and tried to force himself to calm down. He looked around, recording the details of the ornate old courtroom that had obviously seen much wear and tear over the years.

The rug, to begin with, intrigued him. It was a heavily faded green with white dots, or what might have been meant to resemble small flowers. There were no pathways worn into the fabric, but the rug was at least a decade beyond its useful life.

The shape of the courtroom was generally rectangular and approximately fifty feet in depth from the back doors to the bench. The woodwork in the chamber was ornate, but worn as well, with heavy use of molding known as dental work on the many layers and courses of crown molding overhead. The bench, as well as all the other fixtures and furniture in the room, was stained a dark fruitwood. The judge’s seat was elevated above the registrar and stenographer, backed by a faded burgundy curtain that cascaded down from an elaborate paneled header some twenty feet above the bench crowned with a harp in carved relief, the symbol of the Irish Republic.

The witness stand was a simple chair to the judge’s right, more in keeping with an American court than a British one, and the jury box ran along the wall to the judge’s left, with benches provided behind the tables used by the instructing solicitors. Opposing counsel – the barristers – sat opposite their respective solicitors. The bench for the public was in the back.

The courtroom was heated with old-style radiators, and a recessed series of glass panels, some artificially lighted from above, adorned the middle of the ceiling twenty-five or thirty feet overhead.

A door opened loudly in the rear of the court, and Jay turned to see Sir William Stuart Campbell and his entourage enter, Campbell already wearing his barrister’s robe and wig, accompanied by two other barristers among his group. He moved to his chair and turned briefly to smile and nod at Jay and Michael as more people trooped in the back and took their places on the various benches.

And suddenly the clerk was calling the case, and Judge O’Connell had swept in from his chambers to convene the court.

“Mr. Campbell, I recognize you, sir, with pleasure,” Justice O’Connell said as he sat down. “I have been continuously impressed with your tireless efforts on behalf of international jurisprudence and the writing and acceptance of the Treaty Against Torture over the years.”

Campbell bowed slightly in pleasant surprise. “I thank you, My Lord, for your gracious words.”

“And Mr. Garrity, welcome back. I certainly recognize you.”

“Not with displeasure, I hope, My Lord,” Michael said with a smile.

“Certainly not,” O’Connell said, adding no more.

Campbell took the floor first, laying out the pedigree of the Interpol warrant as Michael Garrity and Jay Reinhart listened and made notes, waiting for the chance to counter him.

“Mr. Campbell,” O’Connell asked, “is President Harris, the defendant, present in the Republic of Ireland currently, or do you have reason to believe he will be in the immediate future?”

“The answer to both questions is ‘yes,’ My Lord. Mr. Harris arrived Tuesday night in Dublin.”

The President had decided to let Sherry sleep a bit longer, but she stirred now and opened her eyes, smiling as she stretched, before noticing the dour expression on his face.

“What’s going on, John?”

He sighed. “We’re going back, Sherry. The winds were too high.” He relayed what Craig and Alastair had told him when he came to the cockpit after Jillian relayed the message.

“Oh, Lord.”

“It’s okay, Sherry. It’s probably for the best. I’ve been having great doubts about this escape attempt anyway.”

“I haven’t,” she said.

“Well… we’ve no choice now.”

She stood up and pointed to the cockpit. “I’m going to have to use the satellite phone. I promised to let Jay know if this happened.”

The realization that Stuart Campbell might not know that John Harris was airborne and streaking away from Ireland was a surprise. Surely, Jay had assumed, Campbell would have arranged for someone to monitor the EuroAir 737. Was he really unaware, or was he going to officially ignore it to keep it from becoming an issue?

Jay leaned over to whisper directly in Michael Garrity’s ear. “Michael, should we admit he’s not here? Would that delay things?”

Michael shook his head and whispered back. “Not unless we’re one-hundred-percent sure John Harris is not coming back. If we raise the issue, he’ll question us, and we’ll have to admit there’s a chance the plane could turn around. There’s nothing to be gained.”

“There’s everything to be gained if we can avoid showing that tape,” Jay whispered back.

“Mr. Garrity!” Judge O’Connell snapped.

“Yes, My Lord?” Michael replied, startled.

“Would you care to join us in this action, or would you prefer to take your client outside and have a jolly chat where you’re not interrupting these proceedings?”

“My Lord, I beg your pardon, but this gentleman is Mr. Jay Reinhart, the American lawyer representing Mr. Harris, and it is proper, I believe, for me to converse with him quietly, is it not?”

“The key word is ‘quietly,’ Mr. Garrity! I don’t like a lot of whispering in my court. I have sharp ears, sir. I can hear that disgusting psst psst psst sound from yards away, and I will not have it!”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Proceed, Mr. Campbell,” O’Connell ordered.

Jay knew the dangers of challenging Campbell’s assertion that the warrant was valid on its face. Campbell would immediately offer the videotape of John Harris into evidence, a tape that would prove, Campbell would say, that the charges against Harris were obviously substantial enough to justify an Irish warrant and an order to send John Harris to Lima for trial.

But if Michael didn’t challenge the validity of the charges, the Irish warrant would be granted almost automatically. It was a form of catch-22 that Michael and he had discussed carefully, and he was thinking about that discussion as Michael Garrity rose to his feet.

“My Lord, may it please the court…”

“Proceed, Mr. Garrity,” the judge said.

“Thank you, My Lord. Mr. Campbell asserts that the Peruvian Interpol warrant seeking the arrest of a former President of the United States of America is valid simply because it was issued through normal legal process in Peru. I say that this High Court should have full jurisdiction over the simple and vital question: is the Interpol warrant based on real, rational, and reliable prima facie charges? Or, are the charges underlying this warrant a sham, as we maintain? What if the warrant was issued without justification simply because the government of Peru illegally directed a judge to do so? If there is any possibility whatever of that, My Lord, you must require proof that the charges are more than a fantasy, and that proof should be beyond question.

Justice O’Connell literally snorted and leaned toward Michael.

“Mr. Garrity, I love a good flowery rhetorical dance as much as the next overburdened judge with time to burn, but stick to the point and state it in plain English.”

“Indeed, I am attempting to do exactly that, My Lord.”

“You’re not succeeding.”

“Then I shall try again. My Lord, this court must examine the sufficiency of the evidence, not just rely on the Interpol warrant, before issuing an Irish warrant,” Michael replied.

“Good!” O’Connell replied sarcastically. “See there? You can do it if you try to get to the blasted point. Very well. You are challenging Mr. Campbell, here, to provide some reliable proof that the Interpol warrant is based on substance, and I happen to agree with you. Mr. Campbell? What evidence exists that would justify an Irish arrest warrant and extradition order, beyond the fact that an unknown Peruvian judge wants Harris arrested?”

Stuart Campbell rose smoothly to his feet, his six-foot-four frame towering over the table and dominating Jay’s field of vision. He introduced the existence of the videotape, where and how it had been made, and offered document after document to validate it with sworn statements from Barry Reynolds, along with evidence of who physically possessed it and how it had been kept under tight control.

Jay scribbled notes furiously during the presentation and passed them in a constant stream to Michael Garrity as copies of each document were handed over by Campbell’s staff. He could feel the GSM phone vibrating at one point, but he had no time to answer it, and the subsequent small vibrations told him a message was waiting, which he’d have to get to later.

Mike… pls object to this!!! The tape was illegally obtained.

This sworn statement he’s offering merely states that he swears he’s making the statement, not that it’s true!

B.S.! He wants the judge to accept the idea that the technology for this kind of tape existed during John Harris’s term. He needs an expert for that! We don’t know if it did or not, and the presumption should not be our burden.

Michael objected repeatedly to every document, and he was overruled every time.

“Sit down, Mr. Garrity,” O’Connell finally barked. “I am going to receive any and all documents that even appear to be genuine, and then I will decide whether they should be considered real. I’ll hear no more objections on that point.”

“My Lord,” Campbell said at last, “with your permission, I should like to show the court the videotape in question.”

Michael was on his feet instantly. “My Lord, please.”

“What now, Mr. Garrity? Surely you’re not going risk a contempt citation by entering yet another objection contrary to my orders?”

“My Lord, the truth regarding the inadmissibility of this proffered videotape is being wrongly sequestered by My Lord’s orders forbidding me to object. I would beg the court’s leave to apply for a writ of habeas corpus to release that truth.”

O’Connell shook his head in disgust. “Good heavens, Mr. Garrity! That’s a precious and somewhat entertaining attempt, but the process of habeas corpus, as you well know, for approximately six hundred years, has been used to release human beings, not the truth as you see it. Overruled.”

“My Lord,” Michael continued, “had you not banned me from objecting to the showing of this tape, I would be pointing out at this moment that our code of criminal procedure prohibits the use of illegally collected evidence, and this tape under U.S. law is illegally made, and thus inadmissible in Irish proceedings.”

“But, in fact,” O’Connell said, leaning partially over the bench and shaking a gavel at him, “I have banned you from doing so, and thus I’ve heard not a syllable of what you’re not supposed to have said in the first place. Now SIT DOWN, Mr. Garrity, so I can view this tape before we all die of old age.”