“His name was Victor Vidic.”
“Was he a member of the Black Dragons?”
“He claimed to be. He came to Omarska wearing a black beret and black uniform like the Dragons. He and his friends, who dressed alike, would beat prisoners during the day, then get drunk and rape the women at night.”
Kevin didn’t need to know the details of the rape, and for that he was grateful. He changed the subject, asking the woman about her life before she was arrested, about the ethnic cleansing of Prijedor by the Serbs, and her confinement at Omarska. By the end of the interview, Kevin’s heart went out to her, and he felt terrible about how she and the others had suffered. He told her how sorry he was for what she had gone through.
Part of him was also sorry that he had come to interview her. It was much easier to cross-examine witnesses when they remained impersonal. He dreaded having to cross-examine this woman in court. What could he say? She was obviously telling the truth.
“I have just one more question,” he said at the door when he and Nihudian were leaving. “As a judge, you have seen lawyers do their jobs for many years. Is there anything I should know to do my job?”
The woman hesitated. “There is one thing you might want to know,” she said finally. “After the war started, many Bosnian Serbs were infatuated with Draga and his Black Dragons, but they couldn’t be Dragons themselves. For one thing, they couldn’t stay sober for a day. I heard they had their own black uniforms made up by a tailor in Sokolaz and wore them around pretending to be Black Dragons. I think your client was ruthless, but perhaps he is being blamed for more things than he is responsible for.”
Kevin felt his heart beat faster. Ellen’s preposterous Draga-impersonation defense had come alive. “Would you happen to know where in Sokolaz they got the uniforms?”
“It would have to be Stigic’s Sewing Shop. Josef Stigic is the only tailor there.”
“You must have been an excellent judge,” Kevin said gratefully as they stood to leave. “Thank you for being so fair.”
When he and Nihudian were back on the street, Kevin’s spirits had soared.
“That’s a great lead,” he said to Nihudian. “Where is Sokolaz?”
“It’s a town about 30 miles northwest of Sarajevo. But it’s in Republika Srpska.”
“I want to talk to that tailor.”
“It’s dangerous,” Nihudian replied. “Sokolaz is the headquarters of the old Drina Corps of the Bosnian Serb Army. They’re the ones who massacred 7,000 Muslims at Srebrenica. A Muslim and American would not be welcome in Sokolaz.”
Kevin nodded, but he kept thinking how important conformation from the tailor could be as they walked back to Nihudian’s car. “Where to next?”
“Our next witness is a damaging one. He saw Draga shoot his friend here in Sarajevo.”
Kevin’s heart sank. If what the witness said was correct, Kevin knew it meant that he was defending a murderer. Beyond that, he realized that his “Draga impersonation” defense wouldn’t fly too well if someone saw Draga commit murder himself.
“But he lied about some things in his statement to the prosecutor,” Nihudian said. “I just put some reports and photographs about him in the mail to you before you came. It will be interesting for you to talk to him. It might be difficult though. He was reluctant when I asked him to see you.”
They drove to another section of Sarajevo, up a hill overlooking the city from the west. Kevin saw apartment buildings with gaping holes in them and some buildings that had not yet been repaired from the war. “This looks like a rough area,” Kevin said.
“It was close to the front line of the fighting. The people who lived here almost never ventured out of their houses.”
They got out of the car and walked up to a three-story building that had sniper holes in its walls. “Let me do the talking at first,” Nihudian cautioned. “This guy doesn’t like your client.”
Nihudian knocked on the door of a first floor apartment. When the door was opened, a policeman appeared from inside. He spoke to Nihudian in Bosnian, then waved his arms.
Suddenly, four policemen came up from behind Kevin and Nihudian. They were yelling something Kevin did not understand. “What are they saying?” Kevin asked Nihudian as his arms were jerked behind his back.
Nihudian’s face had gone pale. “They are saying that we are under arrest.”
CHAPTER 13
The policemen handcuffed Kevin and Nihudian and led them to a police car. Kevin felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead, though it was a brisk December afternoon. “What’s happening?” he asked Nihudian.
The policeman pushed Kevin’s head down as he placed him in the back seat of the car while another officer shoved Nihudian in from the other side. Kevin was breathing hard, and his thoughts flashed to the beatings and executions he had heard about in Bosnia. “Can you ask them why we’ve been arrested?”
Nihudian spoke in Bosnian to the police officer in the passenger seat.
“We’ll be told that at the station,” Nihudian reported.
Kevin blanched at the thought of going to a police station. He didn’t trust police in third-world countries. He had seen one too many movies like “Midnight Express,” a frightening story about an American in a Turkish prison.
They drove in silence down the hill into the center of Sarajevo. Kevin tried to sort out his thoughts. “Tell them I demand to see someone from the American Embassy.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Kevin. Let’s wait until we get to the station.”
They arrived at the back of the police station, and the policemen pulled Kevin and Nihudian out of the car. They led them through a hallway, which was crowded with families. The people all looked poor. Kevin guessed they were either families of people who had been arrested, or victims of crimes. He thought of his own family. He was glad he hadn’t brought them on this trip, which Ellen had lobbied hard to make him do.
The officers left Nihudian and Kevin alone in a windowless room. The handcuffs were beginning to dig into Kevin’s skin.
“What should we do?” he asked Nihudian.
“We have to find out what the problem is. We might be able to pay them a bribe.”
Kevin would gladly have paid a bribe to have the handcuffs removed and to get out of there, but he didn’t want bribery added to the charges. He thought the interview room was probably bugged, so he said nothing.
A few minutes later, a short, plain-clothed man in his forties with a thin black mustache entered. He said something in Bosnian and unlocked the handcuffs from Nihudian and Kevin. Kevin rubbed his sore wrists. He saw Nihudian reach into his pocket. Kevin thought he was getting money for a bribe, but Nihudian turned to him and said, “He wants to see our identification.”
Nihudian took out his Bosnian driver’s license and Kevin produced his American passport. Without saying anything, the man began copying the information onto a form that looked like a police report. Kevin wanted to demand an explanation, but thought it better to wait until the man was finished.
After writing down the information, the man spoke gruffly. Nihudian translated. “He wants to know what you are doing in Bosnia.”
Kevin spoke directly to the policeman. “I am a lawyer for a person being prosecuted at the War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague. I’m here to interview witnesses who will be testifying at his trial. Nihudian is my interpreter.” He tried to downplay Nihudian’s role.
“Did you register with the Ministry of Justice before you began conducting an investigation in Bosnia?”
“No, was I supposed to?”
“Yes,” the policeman replied through Nihudian. “It is required under our law.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“We cannot have foreigners coming to Bosnia and bothering our citizens,” the man said, shaking his head for emphasis. “This is a serious matter.”