The TRIBUNAL (16 page)

    When he finished, Kevin called Nihudian and thanked him for his work.

    “I don’t feel successful,” Nihudian replied. “I’m not sure I found anything helpful to you.”

    “It helps to know what to expect. What are these witnesses like? Believable?”

    “You ought to come and see for yourself, Kevin. Most of them would talk to you. Maybe you can get a better idea what to ask them in court if you meet them in person. There are quite a few witnesses in Sarajevo. Why don’t you come for a few days?”

    “That’s not a bad idea. My client won’t tell me anything and if I don’t come up with some cross-examination material, I’m going to look like an idiot at the trial.”

    A few days later, Kevin was on his way to Sarajevo. He anxiously looked out the window as the pilot announced over the intercom that they would soon be landing. He was looking forward to seeing Nihudian and meeting witnesses, but was unsure what to expect in Bosnia. Although the war had been over for five years, he knew that feelings still ran high among the Muslims, Croats, and Serbs.

    Sarajevo had been awarded to the Muslims in the Peace Agreement, and Kevin wondered how safe he would be, although he had told Diane and Ellen there was nothing to worry about. But what if he was recognized from TV as Draga’s lawyer?

    The skyscrapers of the city came into view in the distance. Sarajevo looked like a big city in a bowl, with tall office and apartment buildings, and the pointed towers of Muslim mosques jutting into the air from a valley surrounded by large hills. When the plane got closer, Kevin saw that some of the buildings were just shells, with no glass in the windows and burned out interiors. One skyscraper was partially collapsed; a twisted rubble of steel and cement rising about five stories in a grotesque heap.

    Kevin was reminded of a movie called “Welcome to Sarajevo” that he had seen back in the United States. It portrayed a bloody, dangerous place where people ran between buildings to avoid the constant snipers.

    He was glad to see Nihudian’s smiling face when he walked into the airport terminal after clearing Customs.

    “Welcome to Sarajevo,” Nihudian said warmly, extending his hand.

    As he offered his own hand, Kevin shuddered.

    Nihudian led Kevin to his car, an old red Volkswagen Golf. “I want you to meet my family. Then, we will start working. I have arranged meetings with six witnesses.”

    “Good work. Do you think we’ll have any – security problems?”

    “Well, we might if you are recognized. But most people here are too busy rebuilding to watch much TV. So, we’ll just keep a low profile and you should be okay.”

    Kevin felt only slightly reassured.

    Nihudian drove north from the airport, along the Miljacka River, which ran along the east side of downtown Sarajevo. Kevin saw the bright yellow and red tower of the Holiday Inn, where he would be staying. The hotel had been relentlessly shelled and sniped at during the war, but now, with a fresh paint job, it stood looking like any Holiday Inn in a major city.

    As they drove, Kevin saw 19
^th
century buildings that looked to be untouched by the war, such as an old post office, an opera building, and parts of Sarajevo University. The streets were filled with people hurrying about as in any American city.

    “There’s the old National Library,” Nihudian said, pointing to a stately brown building with its windows blown out. “The Serbs shelled it during the war, and we lost many historical works. Then they claimed the Muslims did it themselves to look like victims.” Nihudian shook his head sadly.

    He pointed out Old Town Sarajevo, a mixture of stone mosques and small shops resembling a Turkish bazaar. “This is from the Ottoman Empire,” Nihudian said. “It’s what makes Sarajevo unique, and why the Muslims fought so hard to keep it.”

    Soon they parked in front of a large, gray apartment building. “This is home,” Nihudian said. “My wife and daughters are anxious to meet you.”

    They walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. When they reached the apartment, Nihudian introduced Kevin to his wife and two young daughters, none of whom spoke English except, “Hello, Kevin,” which they said in unison and had obviously practiced. The table was set with shiny silverware and fancy porcelain plates and cups. When they sat down for lunch, Nihudian interpreted as Kevin asked the girls how old they were, if they liked their school, and what they did for fun.

    “We like to play with our dolls,” the oldest said, “and ride our bikes.”

    Kevin thought of how little difference there seemed to be between these Bosnian girls and his own all-American daughter. Many Bosnian children had lost their fathers or both parents during the war. Fortunately, Nihudian’s girls – bright, healthy and well-mannered – looked as if they had survived the violence with no outward signs of trauma.

    After lunch, Nihudian and his family took Kevin for a walk around their neighborhood. They pointed out some buildings nearby that were riddled with holes from shells fired by the Serbs from a football stadium near the hills. Kevin watched as the girls played on the swings and climbed on monkey bars at a small neighborhood park.

    “Your girls are wonderful,” Kevin told Nihudian. “I’m glad you and your family can live here safely now.”

    “It is a shame that they cannot grow up like I did,” Nihudian said, “side by side with Serbs and Croats. The war deeply divided this country and too many bad things happened for people to be able to forgive and forget so soon.”

    “What surprises me is that you can’t tell who is a Serb, Croat, or Muslim by just looking at someone,” Kevin said. “They’re all Caucasians, and they look basically the same. I pictured Muslims as darker skinned people, like those from Iran or India. How did people know who was Serb, Croat, or Muslim during the war?”

    “Their neighbors. The war turned neighbor against neighbor. When the Serbs invaded a town, they left the Serb houses standing and burned the Muslim houses, then looted them. You could see a street with some houses perfectly normal, and the ones on either side of them completely destroyed.”

    “Why did Serbs turn against their Muslim neighbors?”

    “I think most did it out of fear. Fear that they would be treated as a Muslim if they did not go along. Fear that the Muslims would do the same thing to them if given a chance. That was the kind of propaganda Slobodan Milosevic put out all over Serbia.”

    Kevin looked at the children playing together in the park, and then up at the hillside where snipers had taken aim. It gave him a sudden shiver.

    “You’ll have four days to get to know Sarajevo,” Nihudian said as if he could read Kevin’s mind. “You’ll learn to like it more.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get going to our first interview. It is with a judge, so we don’t want to be late.”

    Kevin watched as Nihudian hugged his girls and kissed his wife goodbye. Then he led Kevin through his neighborhood until they came to an old shabby apartment building a few blocks away.

    “A judge lives
here
?” Kevin asked.

    “This judge is a refugee from another part of Bosnia. She was a judge in the northern municipality of Prijedor before the war. Many people fled to Sarajevo after the Serbs expelled them from their villages. When the war ended, the Dayton Peace Agreement divided Bosnia in two. The Serbs now govern the territory they took during the war, forty-nine percent of the country. They call it Republika Srpska. The Muslim and Croat Federation governs the remaining fifty-one percent of Bosnia. The Muslims are still afraid to go back to their homes in Serb territory.”

    As they climbed the stairs to the judge’s apartment, it looked like this judge was living as a peasant. But the middle-aged woman who answered the door, with jet black hair streaked with grey, had a competent, intelligent air about her. She and Nihudian spoke in Bosnian for a minute, then she motioned to Kevin to come in.

    She led them to a small table in the main room of what looked like a two-room flat. Kevin could see four other people sitting inside the other room, which looked to be a bedroom. “I know you are working for Draga,” she said to Kevin as Nihudian translated. “I also know that you will be looking for some way to discredit me or use my testimony to help your client. But go ahead and ask your questions.”

    Kevin tried to break the ice. “I’m not trying to discredit you. That would serve no purpose. There are too many others like you who will testify. I just want to know some of the details of what you saw the Black Dragons do, and who in particular was doing it.”

    “Do you want to know the name of the man who raped me at Omarska?”

    The judge looked Kevin directly in the eye without a hint of bitterness or shame.

    “You were at the camp in Omarska? I thought only men were kept there.”

    “They kept a handful of women to work in the restaurant, prepare the food, clean the offices, that kind of thing.”

    “I do want to know the name of the man who raped you, if you don’t mind.”

    “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.”

    

    

    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?”