“Look,” Vacinovic said, opening his briefcase, “some of the people in the Justice Ministry in Belgrade have drafted an opening statement for you to use.” He handed Kevin some papers.
Kevin took the papers and began reading them. They were full of anti-Muslim and Croat rhetoric, with references to the Ottoman Empire and World War II. There was not a single mention of Draga. As he read the statement, Kevin tried to think of how he was going to handle this diplomatically. “I appreciate all the work that went into this.”
Vacinovic smiled.
“But I can’t use it.”
The smile disappeared from Vacinovic’s face. “Why not?”
“Because it’s irrelevant at the Tribunal. I understand your government wanting to present their side of the story, but this is not a United Nations debate. It’s a criminal trial. I’m defending a human being, whose freedom hangs in the balance. I have to try to win within the rules of the Tribunal. Otherwise, I’d be violating my duty to my client.”
Vacinovic raised his hand to his head in exasperation. He stared at Kevin. “Mr. Anderson, I would think this over very carefully if I were you. A lot of people will be watching your opening statement and how you handle yourself in this case. I wouldn’t want the wrong people in my country angry with you.”
Kevin got up to end the conversation. “Well, you are a smart man, Mr. Vacinovic. You understand my problem. I will leave it to you to educate those in your government who don’t. Good night.”
He led Vacinovic downstairs. When they reached the door, Kevin opened it for Vacinovic.
“Say goodbye to your lovely daughter for me.”
The next day, Kevin planned his cross-examination for the first few witnesses. The prosecution would begin its case with background testimony from academics and military personnel who had studied the war in Bosnia.
Kevin was interrupted by a long-distance call from Bud Marcello. “I have bad news. Maria Jones was put in solitary confinement.”
“Damn,” Kevin said. “I feel terrible.”
“Just be careful, Kevin. You’ve got some people stirred up, I’m sure.”
“I haven’t heard from them yet.”
“You will,” Bud predicted.
Two more days passed. Kevin wondered if he would hear from the CIA, or if he would have to try and contact them. On the Friday before the trial started, he went out for his wet, early morning run on the streets of Wassenaar. He heard another runner behind him.
“Goedemorgen,” Kevin said, giving his standard Dutch greeting to those he encountered in the morning.
“Good morning, Mr. Anderson,” the man replied in English.
Looking at the man, Kevin kept his stride as he put his left hand inside his jacket pocket. Even on this main street in Wassenaar, they were alone in the dark at six o’clock in the morning. Kevin realized that he could be killed here quite easily. He hoped that the man just wanted to talk.
“Not too many of us early morning runners,” Kevin observed.
The man was wearing a baseball cap and a striped jogging suit. “I’m Pete Barnes,” he said. “Do you know who I work for?”
“Yes. You’re the CIA officer who called on my client.”
“You’ve got a great reputation in San Francisco. First class prosecutor, straight shooter.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“So you’re not going to give us any trouble over those reports are you?”
“Not at all.”
“We need them back, and the tape you made with Mr. Evans.”
“What are you going to do for my client?”
“Exactly what I told him we’d do. Relocate him and his family after the trial.”
“Do the prosecutors at the Tribunal know what Draga did for your agency?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t care anyway. He’s their big trophy. They want to nail him.”
“So how are you going to deliver on your promise to get Draga to serve his time in the U.S. and spring him from prison?”
“We have our ways. Don’t sweat it.”
Kevin kept running. He came to an intersection. “Mind if we make a left here? If we don’t turn around, I’ll be too tired to make it home.”
Barnes was matching Kevin step for step. He was not laboring at all.
The men turned left and continued their conversation. They looked like two friends out for a morning jog.
“I’m a defense lawyer now,” Kevin said. “It’s my job to sweat this kind of stuff for my clients. If you put it in writing for Draga, you can have the materials. You can understand that without something in writing, your promise to him can’t be enforced, or even proven.”
“That’s out of the question. We can’t put anything like that in writing. You know that.”
“We would only use it if you didn’t keep your promise. Otherwise, I’m going to tell the judges all about Draga’s role in my opening statement on Monday.”
“The Serbs will consider your client a traitor if this comes out. He and his family will be killed. You wouldn’t be that irresponsible.”
“I thought it was your job to protect your informants. If you won’t, my client is prepared to protect himself and his family. But I’m sure as hell not going to let him go down for a life sentence without fighting with everything I’ve got.”
Barnes looked over at Kevin. Water dripped down from the bill of his cap. “I hate running in the rain,” Barnes said.
“So do I, but in the Dutch winter, if you wait for a clear day, you wouldn’t be running much.”
“What’s it going to take to get you not to use this stuff?”
“A promise to Draga in writing.”
“What’s your second choice?”
“I don’t have a second choice. Give me a suggestion.”
“We’re really not in a position to do anything.”
“Then, how do I know you’ll be in a position to keep your oral promise to my client?”
“He’ll have to trust us. We’ve always been square with him before. We’ve already sprung him from prison once – in Germany.”
“I was a federal prosecutor for twenty years. I’ve never seen you guys spring anyone from a federal prison in the U.S.”
“It’s no problem.”
“I’ll tell you what. You get Maria Jones out of solitary confinement at Pleasanton before Monday, and I won’t use the material in my opening statement. Then we’ll talk again next week.”
“I don’t think we can do that.”
“Then you sure as heck can’t set up an escape for Draga.”
Barnes was silent. They had just about reached Kevin’s house.
“I’ve got to go,” Kevin said. “The ball’s in your court.” He turned down the path to his house, opened his front door, and entered without looking back.
When he shut the door behind him, Kevin took off his wet Gore-Tex running jacket. He reached into the left pocket and turned off the tape recorder, then hit the rewind switch.
His tape collection was growing.
CHAPTER 17
“All rise! Veuillez vous lever!”
The gallery for Courtroom 1 was packed for the start of Draga’s trial. As he looked out to the other side of the glass, Kevin saw correspondents for the major television networks sitting in the press section. The public gallery was also packed.
“Prosecutor against Dragoljub Zaric, case number IT-96-30,” the Deputy Registrar bellowed. “Counsel, your appearances, please.”
“Charles Oswald and Bradford Stone for the Prosecution.” Kevin looked over to the prosecution side of the courtroom. Their investigator, Allen Jacobson, and a paralegal flanked Oswald and Stone. Three more assistants sat in the row behind them.
Kevin stood up in his black robe. “Kevin Anderson for the accused.” He sat alone at the defense table. Behind him, Draga was in his chair, wearing a bored expression and the Oakland Raiders jogging suit Kevin had brought back as his Christmas present.
“Good morning,” Judge Orozco said pleasantly.