Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (31 page)

“Why is this so important to you? Why do you care so much?”

He took a deep breath and sighed. “This is about us as a country, Andrea. It’s what we’re about. If we’re just another country trying to get and keep power, to dominate the world regardless of the cost, count me out. But if we stand for something different, something good, then we have to choose between the expedient and the right. And there’s a difference. These kinds of moral fights aren’t won in one big battle, they’re won in a million little battles, and attitudes, and winks. I for one won’t wink at this kind of thing.” He picked up his bag and headed for the door. “Take care.”

“Have a good trip,” Andrea said.

“Thanks. I will.”

“Taking it kind of personally, aren’t you?”

“You bet I am. He killed my patient.” Satterly studied her face to see if she was making a game of him. “Gotta go catch the helo,” he said and turned to hurry out the door.

“Tim, can I use your computer while you’re gone? Mine doesn’t do e-mail yet.”

“Sure, no problem.”

As soon as he was gone she walked directly to the administrative offices on the second deck and asked for a chit to request leave.

The admiral’s wardroom was packed and hummed with anticipation. Forty-eight hours earlier the Department of Defense had notified the world that Wahamed Duar was to be put on trial in a military tribunal aboard the
Belleau Wood
. The scramble among journalists to get aboard to report on the tribunal had been astonishing. They all wanted to see the trial and report it. They had needs—satellite feeds from the Indian Ocean, dedicated fax lines, high-speed Internet access, staterooms for all their reporters and technical people and unfettered access to all the participants including Duar himself. Stuntz, though, had anticipated it. He had set
rules—
only a limited number of reporters would be allowed to go to the ship to observe the trial in person. He had established a “pool,” much as they would have done if they were suddenly going to war and called reporters to go with them.

The journalists who had been selected sat in the converted wardroom, exhausted from the scramble to get to the trial in the middle of the ocean. They sat in metal armchairs three rows deep. Interspersed among the journalists were the few sailors and Marines who were allowed to watch the trial, selected every day by a lottery of those aboard the ship. They were required to wear their dress uniforms to preserve the integrity of the court.

One journalist who had been excluded from the select group had threatened to lease a helicopter, fly out to the carrier, and land on the flight deck. The captain of the ship thought it would be quite colorful to watch a leased helicopter fly three hundred miles out into the open ocean and try to find the carrier. It was hard enough for those trained to find ships. A pilot not trained in naval flying, who did not know what the carrier might look like on radar—if the helicopter even had radar—had no chance of finding the carrier, and very few helicopters would have the range to fly to the carrier and make it back without refueling.

Sitting to the AP artist’s left was Josephine Block from the
Washington Post
. She had immediately decided to go to Duar’s trial when it was announced. She debated with herself and her editors whether her time would be better spent at sea with Duar or in D.C. watching Rat’s trial. She hoped to watch them both.

She had had no trouble being accepted as a pool representative and had flown immediately to Kenya to catch the first available Navy helicopter to the ship. She looked worn and disheveled. She had gotten aboard the night before and had “settled in” to her stateroom. She had been up almost all night from the odd noises aboard the ship, and hadn’t yet persuaded herself that she should walk down the too public passageway in her bathrobe and two-dollar flip-flops to the communal shower. So far she had confined her cleaning to the sink.

She waited for the trial to begin with her pencil poised over her notepad, the same kind she had used for decades. The judge had made it clear that laptops weren’t welcome in the courtroom. He didn’t want the distraction of clicking keys.

Josephine found it amusing that the judge was concerned about the noise of nearly silent keys on a computer when her ears were constantly assaulted aboard the ship by the deafening noise of helicopters and Harrier jets, innumerable announcements, bos’n’s pipings and fire drills. The judge had ensured that the speakers in the wardroom had been silenced, but the speakers in the passageway were still clearly audible.

There had been a great deal of controversy when tribunals were first set up under President Bush. But after the first few trials in Cuba the novelty had worn off and the public stopped paying attention. But those trials, it was now realized, were dry runs, attempts to ensure the process would work, that the rules were acceptable, and that the tribunal would function. Each of the men tried was an underling, a foot soldier, no one anyone had heard of, no one who was part of the inner circle of people who planned the destruction of the United States and the rest of the Western world.

Josephine noted everything significant in the courtroom, everything interesting about the people involved, the hum of the ship, the judge, and the gallery. She was excited, truly energized about a story for the first time in perhaps five years. She detected the faint sweet smell of a Pulitzer. This might be her last chance at journalistic glory.

The attorneys were sitting at the counsel table. The judge was announced and everyone in the room stood enthusiastically except Duar, who had to be pulled to his feet by Stern. Josephine strained to see Duar’s face but could see only the back of his head. He carried himself like a beaten man. His hair was cut roughly, as if he had done it himself with scissors and no mirror.

“This court is now in session, the honorable Captain Gerald Graham presiding. Please be seated and come to order.”

Everyone sat.

The judge spoke. “This tribunal is now in session. We will begin proceedings immediately unless any of you has further pretrial motions.” The attorneys shook their heads. “Very well. As has been outlined in the notebooks that you have been given each side will be given an opportunity to present an opening statement. We will then turn to the prosecution for its case. Are you ready to proceed?” he asked Commander Elizabeth Watson.

Elizabeth looked very proper in her white uniform with skirt. She had the mandatory gold ball post earrings and white pumps. She had cleaned her uniform—or rather had it cleaned—the week prior and kept it in her closet untouched to ensure that when the day came her uniform would be perfect.

She stood and paused for a moment. “The United States is ready, Your Honor.”

“You may proceed with your opening statement.”

Elizabeth pushed her chair back and walked slowly to the lectern between the two tables, trying to control her heart rate. She addressed the court of five military officers: three Navy captains, and two Marine colonels selected by the admiral in charge of the Fifth Fleet, of which the
Belleau Wood
was a part. They sat beside Judge Gerald Graham, two on his right, and three on his left. They wore their tropical dress uniforms with short-sleeve shirts, the Navy officers in their distinctive whites, and the Marines in olive trousers and khaki shirts, all with impressive arrays of ribbons and warfare specialty pins.

She began. “May it please the court, this is a case about the terrorist who has conspired to attack the United States.” Her voice sounded to her like it was coming from across the room. It sounded thin and tentative. She forced more air from her lungs through her pinched throat. “Wahamed Duar is the most sought-after, most wanted terrorist in the world. Through his writings, through his declarations to people both within his circle and to the general public, Duar has repeatedly threatened to destroy the United States. While the destruction of the United States is clearly outside of his power, his intention is clear—to do as much harm to the United States as he is capable of doing. He has enlisted numerous followers to assist him in that goal, several of whom were killed in the attempt to capture Mr. Duar in the Sudan.

“So what exactly are the charges? Mr. Duar is being charged with murdering American citizens and conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. The evidence will show that Duar has conspired to attack the United States on several occasions. We will produce his own writings, audiotapes of his conversations, documents captured from his operation, and testimony about his attempt to purchase weapons grade plutonium on the night of his capture. He intended to use the plutonium to create nuclear weapons to use against the United States. We will bring witnesses who will so testify.

“The evidence we will bring to this court is conclusive and irrefutable. At the conclusion of the evidence, the only possible outcome will be a vote of guilty. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Counselor,” Graham said, his face showing his surprise at the brevity and inadequacy of her opening statement. He looked at Stern. “Would the defense like to make an opening statement at this time?”

“We would, Your Honor,” Stern said. The judge nodded and Stern stood. Stern looked at the officers who were studying him; he wondered what they thought of an ACLU attorney defending a hated terrorist on a Navy ship. He was sure they wondered why Barry Little wasn’t good enough, what he brought to the case that Barry Little couldn’t bring. They could understand Little defending Duar. It was the job to which he had been assigned. But to volunteer? Or at least accept the job of defending Duar? Why? Stern figured they thought it was for money. How wrong they were.

Stern began. “This case is actually quite simple. The prosecution claims to have irrefutable evidence against Wahamed Duar. They may be right. They may have all the evidence needed to convict Wahamed Duar of conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. We are anxious to hear that evidence; because that which has been cited in the opening statement is totally unpersuasive. They simply declared that they have such evidence, they did not tell us what that evidence will show. But let’s take the prosecutor at her word. Let’s assume that she has the irrefutable evidence to convict Wahamed Duar. The prosecution’s case will still fail. It will fail miserably. It will crash to the ground in a heap.”

Stern stopped. He looked at the skeptical faces of the court and the judge. He turned around and looked at the equally skeptical faces of the journalists and others in the gallery. “The man sitting at the defense table, the man that they are attempting to put in prison forever—or worse yet, execute—is not Wahamed Duar. Not only is he not the terrorist that they believe they are attempting to convict with this so-called irrefutable evidence, but he has been telling them so ever since he came aboard the ship. From the time he arrived until today, he has repeatedly and consistently told them that his name is Mohammed al-Wadhi. He is a taxi driver from Khartoum in Sudan. But the Americans, the United States Navy, even the CIA, refused to believe him. They insist that he is Wahamed Duar. Well, one of the many good things about the American system of justice is that the prosecution has the burden of proof. She must
prove
that the man sitting at the defense table is in fact Wahamed Duar. We’re here to tell you that they cannot so prove, because he is
not
Wahamed Duar. If necessary, we will put on evidence to prove that. We will be asking the court to dismiss this case when it is appropriate to do so. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Counselor,” the judge said. He looked back at Elizabeth Watson, whose face was hard and showed concern. She had obviously not anticipated difficulty in identifying the defendant. She knew of course it was her burden of proof to show that the person being charged, the one who had committed the crime at issue, was the defendant. She had never had any difficulty proving identity before. They always knew who was before them. She quickly reviewed what identification evidence she had contemplated, and tried to think of ways she could buttress the evidence that to her now seemed thinner than tolerable.

The judge continued. “Call your first witness.”

“Good morning, chief. Is the XO in?” Andrea asked the surly chief petty officer in the ship’s admin office.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s got several appointments, though. Can I ask what this is about?”

“I need to submit a leave request.”

“Yes, ma’am. Just put it right over there in the leave request box and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I want him to get it right away. This morning.”

“That I can’t guarantee, ma’am.” The chief looked back down at the paperwork he had been working on before she interrupted him.

“Then I want to see him right now.”

“I’m sorry, but like I said, he’s busy all morning. Then he has to go do an inspection—”

“Then I’ll just tell him myself.” She walked past the chief and knocked loudly on the XO’s door. She knew she was over the line, past where protocol ended, into the high-risk area of annoying a superior officer.

“What!” the XO yelled from behind the door.

Andrea opened the door and stepped into the XO’s office. She quickly realized she had stepped into a meeting of the department heads of the ship. “Excuse me, XO. I’m sorry. The chief told me you were in a meeting, and I just didn’t listen to him. I’m sorry. I have a leave request that I wanted to give you.”

The XO frowned over his reading glasses. He had a hard face that betrayed his complete lack of sympathy. “Emergency leave? Somebody
die
?”

“No, sir, it’s ordinary leave. A friend—my boyfriend, I guess . . . is going on trial. He’s the one who was involved in that incident in Sudan? The terrorists who died?”

“The one who tortured that poor man to death?” the XO asked.

“I guess that’s what they’re trying to find out.”

“Hell, we ought to give him a medal. We ought to torture every one of those assholes. Maybe that would get their attention. Nothing else seems to. I mean after all, it was just the water board.
I
had to go through that. Damned unpleasant, but it won’t kill you—or at least not usually. So you just want to go back to hold your boyfriend’s hand?”