“I rang up someone who knows this magistrate, and I’m told he’s unlikely to do anything but quickly issue the arrest warrant. The extradition warrant will take a later hearing.”
“May I speak at all in court?”
“It’s rather informal, so I doubt if the magistrate would toss you in the Tower of London for interjecting a few words. Whatever you might be able to say, however, will most likely have no legal significance at this stage. This is merely a formality to translate the Peruvian Interpol warrant into a provisional British arrest warrant. You can oppose it if the judge allows, but on a very narrow basis. You know, did Peru really send it? That sort of thing.”
Jay rang off and raced to the elevator with his briefcase. He punched the button repeatedly, then gave up and ran to the stairway, descending the six flights to the lobby, where the doorman whistled up a taxi. The ride to the court took less than fifteen minutes, and Geoffrey Wallace was waiting for him at the curb as he climbed out of the cab.
“Mr. Reinhart?”
“Yes. How’d you know?” Jay asked.
“You look appropriately stressed,” Wallace said, introducing himself and ushering Jay through security into the small and somewhat scruffy lobby and off to one side. The solicitor was probably sixty and just under six feet tall. Jay memorized his cheerful features, round face and a full head of sandy hair that almost looked like a rug.
“Let me introduce you to our QC,” Geoffrey Wallace said, as a spectacled man approached. “Nigel White, this is Jay Reinhart, the American attorney representing President Harris, who is your client.”
Jay and White shook hands as Wallace raised his finger and gestured toward the far side of the hall. “That’s Campbell over there,” he said, inclining his head toward Stuart Campbell, now huddled with several other men in dark suits.
“It’s been a long time, but I recognize him,” Jay said.
“Really? So you know the old bugger?” Wallace said, surprised.
Nigel White had begun consulting his notes and was paying no attention as Jay nodded. “How much time do we have before the matter’s called?” he asked White.
“Perhaps ten minutes,” the senior barrister replied without looking up.
“Wait here, please, gentlemen,” Jay said, squaring his shoulders and moving toward Campbell, mindful of the small flutter in his stomach.
Sir William Stuart Campbell, QC, was the adversary, but he was also a legend in international law, and it would almost be an honor to lose to such a man.
Almost.
The thought left him momentarily amused, even with a squadron of butterflies now performing airshows in his stomach. He had no intention of losing John Harris to Stuart Campbell.
“Gentlemen, excuse me,” Jay said in a metered tone as he reached the group. The three men talking with Campbell turned and parted slightly when they saw Jay’s eyes locked on the big Scot.
“Yes, hello?” Stuart said pleasantly, his eyebrows arched slightly in an unspoken question.
Jay offered his hand and Stuart took it firmly, saying at the same time, “I’m sorry, I failed to catch your name.” He leaned over slightly as if needing to bring his ear down to a lower flight level to accommodate Jay’s shorter stature.
“Why, Sir William, you don’t remember me?”
The broad smile that had mesmerized and conned innumerable jurors and witnesses flashed across Campbell’s face, masking his deepening confusion, as he let go of Jay’s hand.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m very much afraid I don’t.”
“Really? Let me refresh your memory. The year was nineteen seventy nine, and you were representing British Airways and trying to keep an upstart little airline from Texas named Braniff from flying to Gatwick. Ultimately, you lost.”
“Oh, yes! Mrs. Thatcher ran roughshod past the law on that one. I recall the case, but…”
“Do you, perhaps, recall the young American attorney from a Washington firm who came over to assist the primary counsel?”
“Yes, but you couldn’t be that same young man,” he said. “That chap later became a judge somewhere in the States and was thrown off the bench and disbarred, as I recall.”
“One and the same, Sir William, although I was never disbarred. Merely suspended. The license is reinstated now.”
“Really? And your name is…”
“Reinhart. Jay Reinhart.”
Campbell’s eyebrows arched again as he recognized the name. “Of course. Well, Mr. Reinhart, what brings you here to this humble court?”
“We talked yesterday, if you recall,” Jay said evenly, enjoying the progression of emotions playing across Campbell’s normally placid face as he sized up his opponent.
Campbell smiled then and glanced away before returning his gaze to Jay. “Certainly you’re not attempting to tell me you’re the lawyer representing President John Harris?”
“I am, indeed. John used to be my senior partner, if you recall.”
“Yes. Now I do. Are you still associated with that firm?”
“No. I’m a sole practitioner, and I’ve retained local counsel, of course.” He gestured to Geoffrey Wallace and Nigel White, and Campbell nodded in their direction with perfunctory courtesy.
“Surprised to see me here, are you, Sir William?”
“There is little that surprises me at my age, Mr. Reinhart. I must say, though, I am surprised that John Harris’s attorney would waste his time here. All we’re doing today is perfecting the Interpol warrant as a provisional arrest warrant, as I’m certain you know. The London Municipal Police are actually the applying party, and considering the validity of the warrant, it’s hardly an adversarial process.”
“Of course. And yet I’m here to make it an adversarial process.”
Stuart Campbell gave Jay a condescending look, his head at an angle as if not believing the stupidity of the statement he’d just heard. Jay saw him shake his head as he leaned closer, his eyes on a far wall, his voice very low and meant just for Jay’s ear.
“I should help you out a bit here, old boy, to save you embarrassment. You see, this is a magistrate court, and this is really not the forum for opposition in this sort of matter, despite the circuslike atmosphere they created here in the Pinochet case. Pity that Mr. Wallace hasn’t briefed you on this, but as an American lawyer, you are not entitled to speak in open court for your client. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be reprimanded by the likes of a mere municipal magistrate.”
“I’ve been reprimanded by the best of them, Sir William. What’s the difference if one of them’s wearing a wig and dispensing petty justice in a legal backwater?”
Campbell straightened up, his voice resuming a normal volume.
“Really? Well, please don’t tell our esteemed magistrate in there of your innate contempt for his little court. Oh, and by the way, we don’t wear wigs in the magistrate courts.”
“That’s not contempt – it’s reality. This is a very basic level of the judiciary for England. In centuries past, if I recall, this would have been the court of common pleas, and we’d be jostled by men holding geese and fighting over disputed chickens.”
“Not really. The courts of common pleas were a bit more common than this. But, very well, Mr. Reinhart. This should be entertaining. I shall enjoy jousting with you before the bar.”
“Until then,” Jay replied, turning with a barely contained smile to return to Geoffrey Wallace.
TWENTY-NINE
Craig Dayton looked at his watch and exhaled in frustration. They were sitting with both engines running on the taxiway by the end of the runway, waiting.
“I think we’re into the quagmire, Alastair,” he said, his eyes on the tower in the distance. “Someone’s holding up our clearance purposefully.”