The Accused (26 page)

Walford confirmed that the State Department already had gotten the heads up on the ICC charges. He indicated that the department was preparing to lodge a protest through formal diplomatic channels with both the UN and Mexico.

“What about formal representation of Colonel Marlowe?” Will asked the State Department lawyer. “Doesn't the United States government have a vested interest in defending him before the International Criminal Court in The Hague?”

“Difficult question,” Walford responded cautiously. “A very complicated issue. We're sorting that through. We're not quite sure, at this point, how extensive the U.S. government's involvement is going to be in the actual case.”

“Why not?” Will asked with a note of irritation in his voice. “This man was operating as part of the United States military in an American-sanctioned combat situation in Chacmool, Mexico. Why wouldn't our government intervene in this case? At least as amicus curiae in support of our defense, if nothing else?”

“That's certainly a possibility,” Walford said, still vague in his response. “But Will, you have to remember that Marlowe is now retired from the Marine Corps. As I understand it, that's the deal that was worked out. When the charges were not referred up to court-martial, he immediately resigned his commission. I know that's somewhat standard in the military. It keeps any further charges from being lodged and makes the whole thing res adjudicata. The point is, he is not active military right now.”

“I see that as a distinction without a difference,” Will shot back. “What else is there?”

On the other end the lawyer from State shifted the phone a little and cleared his throat.

“Other considerations. I don't have the whole story on it. This is classified stuff. I'm really not privy to everything. That's all I can tell you right now. We're looking at it. We're pursuing the diplomatic angle. Just hang in there for Colonel Marlowe. We'll do everything we can.”

After Will hung up he felt that he had just entered another maze. Like an ancient labyrinth out of some long-forgotten mythological tale. And if he took the wrong turn in his strategy, in the procedure he pursued or his defense of the case, he would encounter—rather than victory—a fierce, bloodthirsty creature with an insatiable appetite for destruction.

41

O
N HIS WAY TO
R
ICHMOND
, Will phoned Fiona to tell her he wouldn't be home for dinner. He hoped to catch Len Redgrove at the tail end of his lecture and set a little time with him to try to convince him he should assist Will in the defense of Colonel Caleb Marlowe before the International Criminal Court. But he couldn't get Fiona on her cell phone or at home. So he left a voice mail at both places.

The attorney pulled into the wooded parking lot of the University of Richmond, parked his car, and then walked quickly across the plaza toward the law school building. Reaching the lecture hall, he slipped into the back and sat down.

On the dais for the symposium were several scholars and law professors, along with a moderator. Len Redgrove was at the podium. He was the final speaker.

The professor was sixty, with short, pure-white hair and bifocals perched on the end of his nose. He was dressed casually in a tweed jacket, but with a plaid shirt that clashed with his tie. He had a familiar, almost folksy way about him as he spoke, though his content was erudite, even lofty. Typical Len Redgrove. He was just ending his talk.

“…No matter how elegantly these global institutions of justice, like the International Criminal Court, are constructed—and no matter how eloquently they may articulate the international standards of law—without restraints, or competing checks and balances, they will succumb to the natural principles that apply to any political institution. If not restrained, they will become unrestrained. Though they may wear the respectable robes of jurisprudence, beneath those robes lie the same old straining, muscular ambitions of a brute—and if not soundly
limited by national sovereignty, those ambitions will become unstoppable.”

The audience gave Redgrove mild applause, and then the dais was surrounded by members of the audience.

Will stayed at the back of the room until the milling audience thinned out. A few college students who passed by were deriding Redgrove's “right-wing supernationalism.” The professor was ambling out of the lecture hall when he caught sight of Will and gave him a hearty wave.

The two clasped hands warmly.

“Will, my friend, I certainly didn't expect to see you down here. How have you been?”

As they left the law school building and headed for the parking lot, as always, Redgrove wanted to find out how the younger man was enjoying marriage, and he asked to be brought up to speed on Fiona's singing career.

As the two approached the professor's Land Rover, Will finally got to the point.

As they stood at the car, he described the International Criminal Court charges against Colonel Marlowe, and the Chacmool incident, and then led Redgrove through a quick summary of the Article 32 hearing that had been conducted at Quantico. His friend listened intently and asked a few pointed questions. Then he responded.

“I have to tell you, Will, honestly—this is an amazing case you've got. For some time I've been predicting a major clash—a confrontation between the ICC's grab for global power and American sovereignty. And now—here it is. Do you realize what you've got here?”

But Will wasn't really interested in Len Redgrove's imaginative criticisms of international law. Though he greatly respected his friend's brilliant mind, he did consider him a bit over the top in some of his jurisprudential theories.

“Len, listen. I appreciate all that. But what we really need to do is focus on an aggressive defense of Caleb Marlowe. Let the diplomats and politicians argue about the rest.”

Redgrove, however, was not really listening. His mind was on his schedule—and on how he could fit in this remarkable opportunity to strike at the ICC's audacious claim to world jurisdiction.

“You know I'm on sabbatical—I'm supposed to be finishing my book.”

Will nodded. “I was hoping you could fit this case in—helping me as co-counsel. You'd still be able to make the deadline for your manuscript, don't you think?”

“You know the editors—taskmasters to the end!” the professor said with a chuckle. Then he grew solemn, and his eyes drifted downward as he thought over the timing.

Then he straightened up and put his hand on Will's shoulder.

“I wouldn't pass up this case for the world.”

He suggested that Will follow him over to a late-night diner where they could catch some pie and coffee and lay out an agenda for immediate preparation of the defense.

Will was about to turn toward his own car when Redgrove spoke up again.

“You know, Will,” he said thoughtfully, “I can imagine only one reason why the prosecution is pushing a case like this—a unique, small-impact combat-type case. Where you're
not
talking about hundreds or thousands of people being butchered—the typical war-crimes situation. Really, I can think of only one reason why your client has been charged before the ICC.”

Will eyed him expectantly and waited for the punch line.

“Not to be too hasty, of course,” the professor interjected. “But I think this is a test of strength—of the superiority of ICC jurisdiction. The elegant, eloquent brute is flexing its muscles.”

42

T
HE BALLROOM IN
C
ONSTITUTION
H
ALL
was crowded with military officers, members of Congress, Capitol Hill staff, diplomats, a few foreign dignitaries, representatives of military organizations and veterans groups, many spouses of the foregoing, and a handful of reporters and television news anchors.

Fiona was sipping a glass of punch. Then she noticed something. Reaching over, she delicately adjusted her husband's bow tie and tugged gently on his black tuxedo to straighten it. Will looked at her and smiled. She was dazzling. Her raven-colored hair was swept back expertly, and her eyes sparkled like the diamonds on her ears and around her neck. She cocked her head a little and smiled broadly enough to show both of her dimples.

By now Will was staring at her…grinning like a high-school kid.

Earlier that night the two of them had agreed to a peace treaty—to end the little border skirmish brewing between them. Fiona had said she just loved Will too much not to cut him a healthy slice of grace. He, in turn, had pledged to put his
whole
mind and heart into communicating his feelings.

“What?” she asked as she noticed the lovestruck look in his eyes.

“You're absolutely stunning tonight,” her husband said. He discreetly slipped his hand around her waist, and pulling her slightly toward him, whispered in her ear, “You're absolutely dazzling—brighter than the light on the Capitol dome—and you're all mine. Am I blessed or what?”

Amid the noise of the crowd she bent over and whispered in his ear, “Keep dishing out the compliments, big boy—you still have a lot of territory to make up!”

Will chuckled. Then he spotted an officer striding toward them in full dress uniform. He introduced himself as Lieutenant General Cal Tucker, United States Marine Corps.

He nodded politely to Fiona, and then he turned to Will and extended a big right hand.

“Counselor, I appreciate what you did for Colonel Marlowe. And what you're going to do.”

As Will clasped the general's hand firmly and studied him, he had the distinct impression that this terse comment was not just idle conversation. In a strange way, Will felt as if he had just received a direct order.

“Thank you, General. I'm going to do everything I can for the colonel. You can count on that.”

“About this ICC thing,” Tucker continued, “have you tried back-channeling this to the administration?”

“I've been in touch with the State Department. They're playing it coy. I'm really not sure what their position is going to be in terms of joining us in the defense…as strange as that seems to me.”

The general nodded. “Yes—that sounds just about right. Well, keep up the good effort.”

Then he turned to Fiona and said, “Mrs. Chambers, I haven't had the pleasure of listening to your music. But I want you to know that my daughter's a big fan of yours. She's got a number of your CDs, and I believe she's caught at least one of your concerts. She wanted to make sure that I said hello.”

Fiona smiled warmly. “I'm so pleased that she appreciates my music ministry. Please give her my warmest regards. And thank you, General, for your service to our country.”

Tucker smiled and turned to leave.

“And thank you also, General, for the invitation,” Will added.

The general gave a quick wave as he strode away and disappeared into the crowd.

Will led Fiona over to the long table of hors d'oeuvres in the middle of the hall. She waved it away, but her husband picked off several Swedish meatballs and a few shrimp. Munching on his booty, Will glanced vaguely at the sea of faces around the room. Then something caught his eye. A familiar face.

Will's riveted expression caught Fiona's awareness. She tugged at his sleeve and gave him a quizzical look.

But his attention was not diverted. He was staring across the room…into the eyes of Senator Jason Bell Purdy. Surrounded by a small group, Purdy had stopped talking in mid-conversation and was staring back at Will. The senator lifted his glass and tipped it toward the attorney.

Will half raised his glass of ginger ale and tipped it in Purdy's direction.

There was a broad, confident smile on the other man's face. Then he turned back to his small group of well-wishers and continued his conversation.

“Who is that?” Fiona asked. “He looks familiar. Who is he?”

“Senator Jason Bell Purdy. From Georgia.”

“Oh, so that is Jason Bell Purdy,” she remarked. “You met him during that custody case in Georgia.”

Will nodded.

“And he's the one with the young niece. The one who reminded you of Audra,” she added. “You also met her, didn't you?”

Her husband nooded again and was about to change the subject when Fiona continued.

“The pretty, young, blond niece. The one who flirted with you in Purdy's mansion?”

Will did not reply diplomatically. “Fiona, you're not jealous, are you?”

He smiled and studied his wife's face, which was now in full blush.

“You know, my dear,” he said, whispering in her ear again, “you're always beautiful. But when you blush like that, you're absolutely indescribable.”

Fiona's eyes narrowed. Her lips twisted a bit into an odd little smile.

“I am
not
jealous. I am…okay, yes. That was a hurtful time. I remember that phone call, and how you told me about spending time with his niece. How you were so attracted to her—”