The TRIBUNAL by Peter B. Robinson Read Free Book Online

arrogantly.
        “No.”
        “Then you’re not authorized to be his lawyer, are you? The man is a witness. He doesn’t need a lawyer.”
        Kevin looked at Nihudian. Should he just back off? He didn’t want to hurt Nihudian’s standing, nor his own. Nihudian looked scared.
        “I want this man to help me,” Nihudian said in a weak voice.
        “He’s not authorized to help you. He’s not on the list of assigned counsel.”
        Stone reached the door and opened it for Nihudian.
        “Nihudian,” Kevin asked, “Do you have a Euro?”
        Nihudian and Stone stopped. Nihudian reached into his pocket and produced a Euro coin. Kevin took it from him, and said to Stone, “The man has just retained private counsel. He won’t be needing assigned counsel from the list.”
        Stone’s face was crimson; he was clearly agitated. “Both of you – wait right here.” He slammed the door behind him.
        Kevin looked at Nihudian.
        “The prosecutors here are a bunch of bullies,” Kevin said, shaking his head.
        “You are so powerful, Kevin. Just like Johnnie Cochran.”
        Kevin groaned. Apparently the O.J. Simpson trial had made its way to Bosnia.
        “I am so grateful to have you on my side,” Nihudian said.
        “Well, you just got my services for one Euro. Let’s hope you didn’t overpay.”
        A few minutes later, Bradford Stone returned.
        “Right this way,” he said brusquely, opening the door for Nihudian and Kevin.
        They followed him upstairs to an interview room.
        “This is Allen Jacobson. He’s one of our investigators.” Stone spoke to Nihudian, ignoring Kevin.
        Nihudian and Kevin shook Jacobson’s hand and sat down.
        Jacobson produced a notebook and passed it across the table. “Do you recognize your handwriting in this?” he asked Nihudian in accented English.
        “Before we get to that,” Kevin interjected, “my client has some concerns about his safety and employment that we would like to clear up.”
        “You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Stone,”
        Kevin turned and saw that Bradford Stone had left the room.
        The investigator opened a page of the notebook.
        “Is that your writing?” Jacobson asked Nihudian.
        Kevin couldn’t believe these people. “I’m sorry,” he interrupted, “but I’ll need to speak with Mr. Stone before my client answers any questions.” Borrowing a famous line from Brendan Sullivan, the lawyer for Colonel Oliver North in the Iran-Contra hearings, Kevin added, “I am not a potted plant.”
        Jacobson shook his head slowly.
        Kevin was perplexed. Either he was doing something wrong or these prosecutors had no respect for people’s rights.
        Jacobson frowned, got up from his chair, and left the room without saying a word.
        “I hope I’m not getting you in trouble, Nihudian.”
        Nihudian rubbed his forehead. “I hope I’m not getting you in trouble, Kevin.” He looked at the notebook on the table. “Do you want me to see if this is my writing?”
        “No. Interview rooms are often bugged with hidden microphones. I don’t think we should talk about anything here.”
        Kevin and Nihudian sat in silence.
        After a few minutes, the door opened and Jacobson walked in with another man. “This is Charles Oswald. He’s the Chief Deputy Prosecutor.”
        Oswald offered his hand to Kevin. He was an older man, mid-fifties perhaps, with white hair, a jowly face, and glasses. He spoke with an accent that Kevin thought was from Australia or New Zealand. “Mr. Anderson, what seems to be the problem?”
        Kevin explained Nihudian’s concerns about his family and his job at the Bosnian embassy. He tried to be as friendly as possible. After all, Oswald might be his future boss.
        When Kevin had finished, Oswald