Displaced (11 page)

“Provisions of United States law precluding
jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court are not exclusive
to United States Government or Military personnel. The United
States does not recognize jurisdiction of the International
Criminal Court over any state entity as recognized by the various
states. No such entity may be compelled to cooperate with the
International Criminal Court. Any such cooperation is circumscribed
by obligations under controlling United States law.”

Talbot even suggested where in the committee
report the language might be placed, right after the section
outlining changes for the application of the Convention Against
Torture to extradition cases. Sufficiently buried in hundreds of
pages of policy explanation where likely no one will ever read it.
And sufficiently innocuous, camouflaged in blandness, that they
wouldn’t understand its significance if they did read it.

Damn, she thought. Jennifer had willingly let
the memory of the meeting escape her hoping that an unpleasant
chore would just go away if she refused to acknowledge it. But
Talbot had not forgotten, and she was forced to face the reality of
the base side of her job, catering to every repugnant in a suit
with a claim. These were not constituents in the normal sense in
that they did not live and reside in the state, but they needed to
be served just the same. A constituency of money or more
specifically moneyed interests, who purchased a special ticket for
access, not like the Four H members, who waited in reception while
staff used the side door to avoid them. She considered Talbot in
his bow tie and suspenders, a picture of gentility masking an
underlying vulgarity.

She didn’t reply to the message and would
wait until Monday to acknowledge that she had received it. Delay
was different than avoidance, she told herself, and she would
devote no urgency to the matter. Instead she got up from behind her
desk and walked across the office. David was on the phone and she
stood lingering in his doorway. He waved at her to come in and take
a seat. Every inch of furniture space was covered with paper. She
picked up a pile of paper occupying a chair and stood holding it
and looking for some place to put it. She settled on another stack
of paper and placed it cross wise and took a seat herself.

David was finishing up the conversation. He
was mostly saying yeah and uhunh and she could not decipher what he
was talking about. He looked at her and rolled his eyes and made a
talking motion with his hands. Finally he said good bye and put
down the receiver.

“Sorry about that, what’s going on?”

“Oh not much, how are you anyway? I hadn’t
seen you today.”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“Big plans this weekend?”

“Me and the wife are planning on going to the
eastern shore.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it should be.”

“So…”

“So…thanks for coming by to say hello.”

“Well there is this other thing.”

“Uh hunh”

“I got an email from the mining group we met
with last week.”

“So you were just feigning interest in my
family life is that it.”

“No, no,” she laughed, “I’m always interested
in the family life and well being, of course, of my fellow
coworkers.”

“Right, and what did this email say?”

“Well you remember the meeting, I mean of
course you remember the meeting, it was such a ridiculous request
how could you forget? But now they’ve followed up and actually sent
us some language they want us to put in the committee report. And
it’s such an absurd request, basically extending the American
Service-Members Protection Act to corporations because they’ve got
some beef with the ICC, I’m really embarrassed to even ask you
about it. So I’ll just email them back and tell them I’m real sorry
but we can’t help them and they’ll just have to deal with the ICC
themselves. Were not here to do their dirty work and pervert a law
intended to protect the troops. So there it is – well phew, I’m
glad we got that all sorted out,” she said gesturing like she was
wiping her brow and the conversation was over. David looked at her
and crooked his mouth to hide a smile.

“You know Jennifer, I appreciate sarcasm as
much as the next guy but even for me that was a bit much.”

“Tell me we’re not going to take this
seriously,” she said.

“We’re going to take this seriously. They’re
contributors, 25 from the association and 25 from individual
members, don’t ask me how I know this, I know it. The Senator is
going to hear about this and its better that he hear it from us.
I’m not saying we’re going to agree to do this, but we have to take
it seriously.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, I’ve gotten that sense.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, look we have to deal with it.”

“It’s rotten, they’re rotten. They’re afraid
of something and they want us to provide them with cover.”

“Okay,” he sighed, “you can make the case to
the Senator.”

“It’s bad politics too,” she was ignoring
him. “Whatever this business is it will come out and we’re not
going to want to be associated with this group, not even for fifty
thousand dollars. This is one of those cases waiting to happen,
where the senator’s office issues a denial of any knowledge of
wrongdoing and then pays back the money contributed. This is
actually worse because it’s a crass use of a law designed to
protect soldiers. It looks like opportunism at the expense of the
military.”

“I get it Jen,” he said rubbing his forehead.
“I don’t particularly like the idea, but I’m saying we need to be
realistic. Look, don’t get too hopped up on this, you’re just
setting yourself up for disappointment.”

She was no longer smiling and felt herself
getting flush. “I’m not getting hopped up, I just think it stinks,”
she said turning red.

“Okay and you’re probably right but we need
to take it seriously so let’s think about how we want to go from
here. You’re gonna need to draft a memo to the Senator including
the proposed language and outlining the pros and cons of the
language and the decision to submit it. I suggest you martial all
your arguments against, but keep it matter of fact. I’d avoid any
hyperbole. In the alternative, we may want to think of our own
changes to the language.”

“I don’t want to think about changes to the
language, that would mean we’re submitting it, I want to nip this
thing in the bud.”

“Fine Jennifer,” he said resigned to her
opposition, “you do that but put it in a memo, run it by me and
we’ll take it to the Senator with a recommendation.”

“Okay, I’ll work on it next week.”

“Early next week is good.”

“Great, I’ll talk to you later then.”

“Okay, thanks Jennifer,” but he said it to
her back as she was out of her seat and through the door heading
out into the hall.

In her office, Jennifer put her head in her
hands on her desk. She was upset. Why is this bothering me, she
thought. I’ve had to compromise before, I’ve been involved in
unsavory deals before. How about the gaming lobby? You can’t get
much more unsavory than that. But she couldn’t shake the feeling
that what they were doing was wrong, not just compromised but wrong
on a fundamental level. As if any other person not constrained by
the structure of Congress would simply refuse when faced with the
choice. Don’t be naïve, she thought, you’re not in a position to
refuse. Still she had trouble rationalizing her position. And even
if she could rationalize the result, she knew it was being done for
all the wrong reasons.

You went to law school for this, she thought.
Had she become some kind of bag man relegated to subverting the
criminal court? Did this put her on the side of war criminals? She
knew lobbyists that worked for corrupt foreign governments, slimy
was the word that came to mind. This was not why she went to law
school. She rubbed her face, it was Friday afternoon, she felt like
getting drunk, maybe she would go to happy hour. In the meantime,
she was determined to procrastinate. She didn’t have to respond
until Monday. She could think about it over the weekend.

Jonathan sat on the bumper of his truck
parked at the far end of the car park in the shade. The sun was
still in the sky but the shadows were elongating and the day was
turning cooler. A breeze blew. He got up and paced a bit on the
broken asphalt and cinder. He stood at the edge of the lot bordered
by a low slung chain link fence that was partly toppled over. With
his shoe, he liberated a white plastic bag caught between the wind
and a piece of fencing, and watched as it tumbled over into the
adjacent brown sand lot caught another gust and sailed high in the
air. Fifty yards further, a Maribu stork watched him and then
turned back to the dumpster where it was picking trash. Its bill
punctured a green plastic bag and pulled out the contents like
entrails from a carcass.

Over his shoulder, he could hear the sound of
children being released from school. He turned and walked back to
the truck and saw Ronald walking toward him with determination
followed by his young daughter of ten with berets and backpack,
still concentrating on an art project. Behind them stood a modern
warehouse type schoolhouse with children in uniform spilling from
its doors.

“I’m sorry about this Jonathan,” Ronald was
saying. “It’s just that her mother couldn’t pick her up today.”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not a
problem.”

Ronald turned to his daughter, “Naima, come
on now, we are waiting for you.”

Naima picked up her head and skipped towards
them with her knapsack and braids bouncing.

“Say hello to Mr. Jonathan.”

“Hello Mr. Jonathan.”

“Hi Naima, how are you?”

“I am good,” Naima responded shyly.

“How was school?”

“Good,” she responded, still not warm to
conversation with adults.

“Thanks again Jonathan, I really appreciate
it. Her mother will be able to get her tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s on the way. Where
to Naima?” he said addressing Ronald’s daughter.

“Home,” she smiled.

They got in the truck and Jonathan navigated
the parking lot of children to the roadway. Naima warmed up on the
ride home and maintained a continuous discourse on the events of
her day. Detailing her teacher and her teacher’s habits and dress,
and that Ms. Balfour said that Nairobi was the end of the train
line from the coast and lions killed many workers and that Lake
Victoria was first discovered by a Ugandan. From there she moved on
to her classmates and someone named Penelope said something about
someone.

Ronald lived with his family outside of
Kampala to the west of town. Jonathan made their way through the
streets not badly paved but lacking any curbing and suffering from
the occasional wash where portions of someone’s front yard extended
into the roadway. He stopped in front of the small neat brick house
that he had driven to before for birthday parties and other
occasions, which belonged to Ronald. Ronald thanked him for the
fourth or fifth time and again he told him not to worry about it.
He exaggeratedly thanked Naima for the pleasure of her company and
complimented her on her abilities as a conversationalist. She
waived goodbye, pleased with herself.

Back on the secondary access road, Jonathan
shifted the truck into third gear. The sun was just setting as he
picked up speed taking the back road to Kisementi. The best time of
the day, he thought. And though he usually felt some sense of
anticipation whenever he met with Father Boniface, this evening he
felt particularly at ease. Unencumbered as he drove through the
sparse traffic, his only obligations to his work and a girl who
doubled as his cook.

Dark was beginning to fall as he pulled into
the parking lot at Kisementi. When he stepped up to the entrance at
Number 34 Cooper Street, Father Boniface had yet to arrive and he
took a seat at the bar. He felt calm sitting alone with his beer
and almost regretted the inevitable interruption of his guest.
Number 34 was open to the outside separated only when closed by a
pull down steel door. Father Boniface was unmistakable and
impossible to miss when he entered the bar. Dressed in black, he
stood in the front opening, a priest looking for his party. He saw
Jonathan and waived hello. The bar was not uncrowded and the guests
did not pay special attention to the large distinct black man with
a roman collar.

“Hallo Jonathan,” he said effusively,
greeting Jonathan with a handshake and grip of his shoulder, his
face broadening with a smile.

“Good to see you.”

“Good to see you Father, what can I get
you?”

“The beer looks good, I like the lager, is
that a lager beer? That’s what I’d like.”

“One lager beer, coming up, my treat.”

They exchanged news and greetings. Jonathan
expressed interest in the work at Church and talked about his own
work in turn.

“You know Jonathan, I wanted to see you –
it’s good to see you, you know just to catch up.”

“It’s good to see you too Father.”

“And you know before, I asked you about the
daughter of a friend, a young lady coming from the Congo, the last
I heard she is still coming, but I don’t want to bother you about
that now. I know that you will help when the time comes.”

“Well don’t get your hopes up Father, I can’t
promise anything.”

“That’s okay, I won’t make you promise.”

“Thanks I appreciate that.”

“I know that would be too much to ask.”

“Okay,” he sensed the Priest was trying to
guilt him and wanted to put a point on the subject.

“Can I ask you something,” Father Boniface
continued without waiting for an answer. “Are you happy here in
Africa?” He looked him in the eye and Jonathan refused an immediate
response. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. For myself, I often feel
a bit doubtful about being in Uganda. Maybe I’m just feeling out of
place or sentimental, I probably ought to be grateful.”