The Sixth Station(13)
Bagayoko was the most public jurist in the world, a woman who was such a media hound she would probably have gone on Dancing with the Stars if she thought it would help her gain more exposure. Still, her reputation was so stellar she instilled fear in everyone around her.
When she was seated, the officer called out, “The Tribunal of Demiel ben Yusef for Crimes against Humanity is now in session.”
To the consternation of the sitting judges, without warning or provocation the Reverend Bill Teddy unsteadily rose from his wheelchair and began an invocation.
Bagayoko’s angered face said it all. But who in her right mind was going to stop an eighty-nine-year-old legend who had managed in his supposedly frail state to organize all the world’s religious leaders and have them here sitting side by side like fraternity brothers?
“May God bless this assembly,” Bill Teddy began in a clear, strong voice.
“Frail, my ass. The God fraud strikes again,” I mumbled.
“May You, dear Lord, help us to find the truth,” he continued, “and bring justice to those who have been martyred—be they Christian, Jew, Muslim, or Hindu—for their beliefs! God bless the United Nations and God bless America, the land upon which this proud institution stands!” The shocked assemblage broke out into spontaneous applause.
“Order! I will have order in this courtroom,” Bagayoko declared as all the lenses in the world trained back on her.
“Was he supposed to stand up and do the God thing?” I asked Dona. “How inappropriate was that?”
“Or maybe how appropriate,” she answered.
Next, four United Nations security officers led in a handcuffed and shackled Demiel ben Yusef. They unlocked the handcuffs, but the leg shackles remained in place as he was seated between his attorneys at the front of the room facing the judges. His back was to the press area but sideways to the dignitaries.
Bagayoko, clearly annoyed that the reverend had tried to steal her moment, plowed on as though he didn’t exist.
She stood to address the courtroom, resplendent in her black robes, and began in her strong, slightly accented English:
“The privilege of presiding over this trial is a responsibility so grave that it weighs heavily upon all the justices seated here today.
“The crimes for which the defendant has been accused are global in nature, crimes against the peace of the world, if you will.
“But be assured that we are not here to find a quick and easy way to apply a salve on the terror that’s been perpetrated against the world these past few years. Yet we will not allow even the most august of legal minds to automatically lay at the feet of one man responsibility for the terrorist bombings that have taken place around the globe—unless these crimes are proven to have been perpetrated and planned by the defendant, Mr. Demiel ben Yusef, beyond a reasonable doubt. We cannot and must not rush to judgment seeking vengeance, not truth, satisfaction in place of proof. We must keep these things in mind despite the fact that our hearts are heavy with the pain of loss of human life and limb that has become the by-product of terrorism in the name of God.
“Let us then be guided to find the truth so that justice, not the mindless will of the mob, will prevail.”
She then looked directly at the accused. “This tribunal will now arraign the defendant, Demiel ben Yusef. Mr. ben Yusef, are you represented by counsel before this tribunal?”
Ben Yusef neither answered nor looked up, which prompted Bagayoko to ask again, “Mr. ben Yusef, are you represented by counsel?”
When again he did not acknowledge her or the court, she asked rhetorically, “Perhaps you need an interpreter, Mr. ben Yusef?”
One of the attorneys assigned by the International Criminal Court to represent ben Yusef, Randall Mohammed of Amnesty International, stood. “Your Honor, if I may speak for my client, Mr. Demiel ben Yusef? My name is Randall Mohammed, and I, along with my co-counsel, Ms. Johanna Edmonds, am representing Mr. ben Yusef.”
He was dressed to the nines in a bespoke suit, with a red-striped tie and foppish matching pocket handkerchief.
“Mr. Mohammed,” snapped the judge, her Mali accent beginning to surface, “does Mr. ben Yusef need an interpreter? And if he can’t answer for himself, then I will assume that he does not speak English.” She knew full well, as we all did, that the defendant was in fact fluent in English and perhaps as many as eight other languages.
“Well, ah, no, Your Honor, the defendant can in fact speak English—” Mohammed said, before the chief judge again cut him off.
“Perhaps you need an interpreter then, Mr. Mohammed, because if he understands, then your client, not you, is instructed to answer the question.” She bored her eyes directly into the defendant sitting calmly in his cheap suit, not displaying pride, shame, or even any indication that he was present in mind or spirit.