DELAYED BUT NOT DENIED
War crimes tribunals often do not work. Despite the shining example of
Nuremberg, the history of international justice is full of failure.
Allied efforts to prosecute German and Ottoman war criminals after World
War I resulted only in failed trials and nationalist backlash. The UN’s
tribunal for Rwanda is regularly criticized as ineffectual by the
Rwandan government. Without the kind of total victory achieved by the
Allies in World War II, imposing justice after a war is always
difficult.
That is why the tribunal in The Hague dealing with the former Yugoslavia
had such a rocky start. The ad hoc court was created by a UN Security
Council resolution in 1993, as Serb nationalists besieged Bosnia's non-
Serb civilians. It seemed a token gesture: the world would not stop war
crimes while they were actually happening, but it would prosecute them
afterward. And even that commitment was halfhearted, since the tribunal
started off without adequate funding, robust political support, or major
suspects in custody. It could do little to make the war in Bosnia less
brutal. The tribunal reached its nadir in July 1995, when Serb forces
led by General Ratko Mladic slaughtered some 7,000 Bosnian Muslim men
and boys in the UN "safe area" of Srebrenica. Mladic and his political
chief, Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic, have been indicted for
genocide and crimes against humanity, but remain at large.
When NATO finally struck against the Bosnian Serb army and oversaw the
Dayton accord that ended the war, the tribunal still had to wait almost
two years, until July 1997, for NATO troops to begin arresting war
crimes suspects in Bosnia. Even then, the nationalist regime in Croatia
and Milosevic's regime in Serbia excoriated its efforts and frequently
refused to cooperate. It was only in 1999, during NATO's second Balkan
campaign, over Kosovo, that Milosevic himself -- the prime mover in the
wars of Yugoslavia's disintegration -- was finally indicted. And it was
not until after the 2000 democratic revolution in Serbia that he was
shipped off to The Hague.
In terms of big-name suspects brought to court, the tribunal has made
huge strides over time. Its first trial, which opened in May 1996, was
of a mere pawn, a concentration camp sadist. Since then it has snared
vastly bigger fish, including a Bosnian Serb general who helped organize
the Srebrenica massacre, leading Serb and Croat nationalists who were
involved in the slaughter of Muslims, and senior Milosevic aides such as
the chief of staff of the Yugoslav army. In one of the biggest victories
to date, Biljana Plavsic -- a wartime Bosnian Serb leader so
delusionally nationalist that she once told a senior UN official that
Serb babies were being fed alive to the animals in the Sarajevo zoo --
expressed remorse and pleaded guilty to one count of crimes against
humanity.
The prosecutions themselves constitute the most basic success of the
tribunal, even though Karadzic and Mladic -- the most important war
criminals in Bosnia -- have so far escaped its clutches. To put it
simply, rather than whipping up more nationalism back in the region,
several major malefactors in the Balkan wars are now behind bars.
(Several others, meanwhile, have died -- including Croatia's wartime
president, Franjo Tudjman, from cancer; the Serb paramilitary leader
known as Arkan, from assassination; and former Serbian interior minister
Vlajko Stojiljkovic, from suicide.) The Milosevic case is a perfect
example of how useful the tribunal can be. "The process itself is a
success," says Mary Robinson, the former UN high commissioner for human
rights. "He is no longer a respected figure in Serbia." Even if his
trial turns out to be a minor train wreck, the prosecution has managed
to get him out of Balkan politics once and for all.
After Milosevic fell from power, the real question was not whether he
would be held to account for his crimes, but which court would try him.
The Hague was and is clearly the best choice. In a perfect world, it
would have been better to put Milosevic on trial in a Serbian court in
Belgrade, just as it would have been better to put the top Nazis on
trial before a German court in Berlin. This point is clear even to many
officials at the tribunal. "It's a message that can only be put across
in Serbian," says Jean-Jacques Joris, the diplomatic adviser to Carla
Del Ponte, the tribunal's Swiss chief prosecutor. But a Belgrade trial
would have helped matters only if it were a real war crimes trial -- one
that produced the kinds of revelations about Bosnia and the self-styled
Krajina Serb republic that are emerging now in The Hague. But Vojislav
Kostunica, Yugoslavia's president after Milosevic and a committed Serb
nationalist, has a fierce contempt for the tribunal, and thus at first
said that he would haul Milosevic up merely on charges of corruption and
electoral fraud. Even if war crimes had gradually made their way onto
Kostunica's agenda for a Milosevic trial, such an effort would never
have been accepted in Bosnia and Kosovo. It might have wound up like the
1921 trials at Leipzig -- a hopelessly botched effort after World War I,
in which a German high court either acquitted or glancingly punished
German soldiers, to French and Belgian fury. As it was, putting Serb
nationalists in charge of Milosevic's trial would have risked disaster.
THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
That the international tribunal is the least bad option available for
dealing with problematic figures such as Milosevic would be enough to
justify its existence. But the current trial is increasingly offering
more. After an inauspicious start with the Kosovo charges, as the
prosecution's case moves to Croatia and Bosnia, it has begun to offer an
unparalleled window into how one of the most murderous regimes on the
planet really worked.
Watching the proceedings, Milosevic sits with his familiar white hair
swept back, and on good days (when not complaining of heart trouble), he
has color in his thick cheeks. He seems alert and quizzical, and rarely
blinks. He has a way of wearing his Balkan politician's clothes -- dark
suit, blue shirt, red-and-blue rep tie -- that makes them look sloppy,
with the tie wrinkling up at his gut as he sits, the suit jacket bunched
up as he flings his plump left arm around the back of his baby-blue UN
chair. He knits his eyebrows toward each other and wrinkles his brow, or
pulls back the corners of his mouth. He shows no particular curiosity
when a new witness appears.
Since Milosevic is not accused of hands-on homicide and cannot be put
away simply for espousing unusually loathsome politics, any conviction
will have to rest on demonstrating his command responsibility. The
prosecutors must prove that he ordered killings, or that he knew about
slaughter and chose not to stop it. But the prosecution wants more than
that. For a real success, the court must convict Milosevic of being not
merely the end of the Serb military chain of command, but actively in
charge.
For that outcome, the best witnesses are former Serb officials. Because
many Serbs in Bosnia and Croatia feel betrayed by Milosevic thanks to
actions he took during in the mid-1990s, the prosecutors have managed to
assemble a formidable lineup of insiders willing to testify against him.
Lazarevic, the former intelligence agent, was among the first of these,
and he painted a damning picture of the densely interlocking links among
the various Serb nationalist forces in the former Yugoslavia and the
government in Belgrade. Another insider identified the voices on a
Bosnian intelligence intercept as Milosevic talking to Karadzic. The
courtroom listened in as the two discussed uniting the Serbs in Bosnia
and Croatia, and Milosevic told Karadzic to get weapons from a Yugoslav
National Army (JNA) garrison inside Bosnia. On the intercept, the judges
heard Milosevic telling Karadzic in July 1991, as Tito's Yugoslavia
crumbled, "Take radical steps and speed things up, and we shall see if
the European Community is going to fulfill their guarantees, if they are
going to stop that violence." A JNA general in charge of military
counterintelligence, Aleksandar Vasiljevic, has testified about
Milosevic's responsibility for the war in Croatia. During Vasiljevic's
testimony, the prosecution introduced a smoking-gun letter from June
1993, in which a leader of the Krajina Serbs asked Milosevic to "put
pressure" on the JNA to help him in his fight against the Croatian
government -- the kind of letter one sends only to the man in charge.
The result is a grand history lesson, meant to change minds. Bogdan
Ivanisevic, a Human Rights Watch researcher in Belgrade, says,
The insider witnesses usually include a narrative about Milosevic
betraying the Serbs. ... What insiders say is not just that the JNA and
[the Krajina Serb army] and [the Bosnian Serb army] were one army, but
that in 1995 [when the Croatian army reconquered the Krajina, sending
some 100,000 Serb refugees fleeing,] the army didn't even try to protect
Serbs, that Milosevic had some deal with Tudjman that let the Serbs
become refugees, that the government did not welcome them. This is very
credible. This segment of testimony turns many Serbs against Milosevic
and makes them more willing to accept the testimony about crimes against
non-Serbs.
"It's the revenge of the Krajina Serbs," says one tribunal official of
this phase of the trial.
THE KILLING FIELDS
To undermine Milosevic's claims of powerlessness, the prosecutors have
to show exactly how his regime in Belgrade controlled the entire Serb
apparatus of ethnic murder and expulsion. This means looking at the
inside details of whose palms were greased, where the killers came from,
how the different Serb nationalist units outside Serbia's borders
coordinated their attacks, how they negotiated in bad faith, how they
gulled the UN and the world, how deniability was supposed to be
preserved, what lies were fed to whom -- and how it was all done on
orders from the top.
The operational details of Serbian expansion, as they spill out day
after day, are lessons in applied thuggery. According to Lazarevic, who
was assigned to the Krajina in 1992, the Serb army there had a special
"antiterrorist unit" attached to each of its corps, made up of "40 to 45
young men generally with extensive criminal records," in charge of
harassing or killing civilians and other "dirty jobs" that regular JNA
officers might refuse. The Krajina Serbs also supplied hundreds of
muscular enforcers to handle anti-Milosevic demonstrators back in
Belgrade: "They were selecting really huge blokes, anything over six-
two, to assign them to Belgrade and deal with the demonstrators, and
most of them actually were joking, like, they're going to go over there
and beat the living" -- Lazarevic paused for a beat, remembering he was
in court -- "daylights out of the anticommunist demonstrators."
At one point Lazarevic told of organizing a one-for-one exchange of 100
dead with the Bosnian army. Since the Serbs had only 90 Bosnian corpses
ready at hand, he went to the secret police "because there [were] some
dead bodies kind of buried around." Two Croat prisoners were forced to
start digging, but ran into difficulties:
They did dig out four bodies. The problem that I had with them, first
they were in a high state of decomposition, so it was not something that
happened recently in a combat situation. Obviously they were there for a
considerable number of months. And the second even more worrying thing
was that all four bodies had their hands tied with wire up front, which
would suggest they were executed, that they did not actually die in a
combat situation. But being pressed for the bodies, nevertheless I took
those four, removed the wire, and put them in the body bags.
To fill out his quota, Lazarevic was directed to an officer of Arkan's
Tigers, the bloodstained Serb paramilitary group: "[He] calmly said he
doesn't have any dead bodies, however he does have six live ones and I
can have them if I need them badly enough." The next morning, "there
were six dead bodies lined up which appeared to be very freshly killed."
From the proceedings, the contempt that Serb nationalists had for the
West becomes clear. Serb convoys would declare themselves humanitarian
while actually carrying automatic weapons. When the un-sponsored Vance
Plan required the demobilization of the Krajina Serb army, Lazarevic
testified, "What we did, we changed the uniform overnight from military
olive-green into the police blue and within a very short period of time,
I'd say within ten hours, we have repainted all the military vehicles."
At four international peace conferences, the Krajina Serb delegation got
its instructions from Serbian officials in Belgrade, up to the rank of
Milosevic's cabinet: "The idea was not to agree on anything. That was
very simple to follow." "Slobo" or "the boss" is described as wanting
peace talks to fail.
Chilling as all of these details are, what is most important is the
testimony about the chain of command. At the trial, Milosevic is
clinging to the claim that the JNA, for which he was officially
responsible, was barely involved with the wars in Bosnia and Croatia.
But Lazarevic, speaking about the JNA and its Krajina Serb and Bosnian
Serb counterparts, testified, "We are not talking about three different
armies. We are talking about one and only one army. ... [A]ll the
supplies and the finances would come from Yugoslavia, Serbia." For
important military matters, the Krajina Serb military reported to JNA
chief of staff Momcilo Perisic in Belgrade. JNA officers would commonly
serve a six-month stint with the Krajina Serb forces. The corridor
connecting Belgrade and the Krajina Serbs was called the "jugular vein"
-- "if you cut that one off, the life is gone." And beyond military
matters, Lazarevic's testimony was just as damning on Belgrade's control
of Serb secret police forces.
METHOD AND MADNESS
It is too much to say that Milosevic is defeNDIng himself. The judges
regularly have to remind him to stick to the case ("Avoid narratives and
concentrate on asking short questions," says one), with presiding judge
Richard May of the United Kingdom maintaining steely politeness in the
face of harangues and tangents. The prosecution lawyers are obviously
unafraid of Milosevic's legal skills. But Milosevic is anything but
stupid, and he must understand the trap that Del Ponte's office is
laying for him. So he tries to undermine the insider testimony about the
chain of command.
Milosevic swings back and forth between two modes: thundering defiance,
like Hermann Göring in Nuremberg, and evasion of responsibility, like
Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem. In his defiant mode, Milosevic's preferred
theme is the enduring infamy of the familiar villains of his former
state-controlled media: "the revamped Ustasha movement" among Croats,
foreign mujahideen abetting "Islamic fundamentalism" among Bosnia's
Muslims, and NATO imperialists. The war's atrocities, Milosevic
repeatedly insists, were faked. The Srebrenica massacre, he says, was
the work of French intelligence. Commenting on the 1991 massacre of 200
Croats in a Vukovar hospital, for which The Hague has iNDIcted three
senior JNA officers, Milosevic said, "Ustashas ... withdrew after the
surrender of Vukovar and dressed into medical staff clothing in order to
portray themselves as the medical staff and the wounded." He explained
that "this practice of killing their own people ... was typical for the
Muslim side during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina." For Milosevic,
international condemnation of atrocities is just an anti-Serb plot:
"Whatever the Serbs do, they commit a crime."
His chances of acquittal, however, lie not in defiance but in his
Eichmann-style claims that he was just a normal civil servant who
displayed no particular initiative. At these times Milosevic casts
himself as a cross between Eichmann and Serbia's answer to the queen of
England. He was, in this view, almost a nominal figurehead during the
wars, a president who somehow seems to have been out of the loop on
every major decision taken throughout the slaughters that raged from
1991 to 1999.
But the self-important strongman in Milosevic's psyche finds it hard to
hold the cringing Eichmann pose for long. Thus he clamors for his old
Scotch-drinking buddy Richard Holbrooke, the former U.S. assistant
secretary of state, to come to The Hague and testify that it was
Milosevic who reined in the Bosnian Serbs in 1995, paving the way for
the Dayton accord. This is true -- U.S. diplomats secretly called it
"the Milosevic strategy" -- but it is also counterproductive vanity.
Milosevic is inviting Holbrooke to testify that the Serbian leader could
turn off the bloodbath when he wanted to, proving that he was in control
and therefore guilty as charged.
Similarly, Milosevic conducts much of his defense using information fed
to him by Serbian security services that still cling to him. And he
cannot resist producing letters from loyal supporters in the region that
nastily accuse the witness of the day of a wide range of treasons. Yet
this implicitly strengthens the prosecution's case, since the more
Milosevic can produce secret files or obviously stage-managed letters
from toadies swearing they never took orders from Belgrade, the more
obvious it is that he was and is their boss.
During his cross-examination of Lazarevic, Milosevic's most basic trick
was to just call the witness a British spy or a liar, which he did
repeatedly and with gusto. (Although there were some inconsistencies in
Lazarevic's testimony, Milosevic never managed to catch the former spy
in a major falsehood.) When this tack seemed not to be working, he
attacked the accusations of command responsibility. For example, after
Lazarevic testified that the Krajina Serb army was supplied and funded
by Serbia, Milosevic tried to wave that away, appealing to the long-
suffering Judge May: "Economic aid has nothing to do with commanding,
Mr. May, and you should know this."
With the vanity of a former head of state, Milosevic could not hide his
contempt for a low-level spy such as Lazarevic. He rudely told him that
the tribunal's interpreters speak much better English than Lazarevic
does. And he boasted that "Several other million Serbs ... call me Slobo
... which I hope you know." "Well," Lazarevic zinged back, "usually it
was in a very negative context when they called you Slobo. ... I'm
surprised that you brought that up" -- a reference to the revolutionary
slogan of 2000, "Slobo, Slobo, save Serbia and kill yourself."
When Lazarevic said, "Mr. Milosevic, you were at the head of the army at
that time [in the 1990s] and you know that full well," Milosevic,
demonstrating that he understands the legal stakes perfectly, replied,
"That's what you claim, and you're claiming that in order to, how shall
I put it, support this false iNDIctment." Milosevic asked, "You mean
that Belgrade wishe[d] to expel the Croats from their homes?"
"'Belgrade' was synonymous with you, Mr. Milosevic," said Lazarevic.
"'Belgrade' meant you." "Oh, I see," Milosevic replied sarcastically.
"That's rather a large synonym."
THE SOUL OF SERBIA?
Milosevic's ultimate audience is not the judges (who have clearly had a
bellyful of his poor courtroom etiquette), but the Serbs. Since he
denies that the "false tribunal" has any legitimacy, to him the trial is
just a colossal paid advertisement for his fiery brand of Serb
nationalism. In his rants against the non-Serbs, NATO, and the tribunal
at The Hague, Milosevic is still trying to stir up trouble. A lot of
people, he says, see Yugoslav affairs his way, and "when I say a lot of
people, I mean millions."
This is nonsense. Despite his courtroom theatrics, Milosevic remains
consistently and intensely unpopular at home. A November 2002 survey by
the International Republican Institute found that Serbian views of
Milosevic were essentially unchanged since May 2001 (when the tracking
poll started, with Milosevic in a Belgrade cell waiting to be shipped to
The Hague): 66 percent unfavorable to only 17 percent favorable. These
are the figures not of a hero, but of a man who lost an election, tried
to rig the results, was overthrown in a popular revolution, and finally
was arrested and deported by his successors.
Despite occasional press reports about Milosevic's gala performance in
the dock, the opening of his trial in February 2002 gave his popularity
only a small and temporary boost, from 16 percent favorable in January
to 21 percent in March, falling back to 17 percent by June. "His
conspiracy theories still resonate pretty well here," says Ivanisevic of
Human Rights Watch. "When he is unfriendly to Kosovar witnesses, they
[Serb nationalists] may relate to this, because of the strong anti-
Albanian sentiment that existed here. On the other hand, objectively
speaking, he did destroy their lives."
To be sure, many Serbians despise both the defendant and the tribunal.
"There was a near consensus of indifference to crimes against non-Serbs"
throughout the 1990s, says Ivanisevic. A May 2002 poll by the National
Democratic Institute (NDI) found that 30 percent of Serbians thought the
tribunal was conducting a fair trial but 57 percent thought it was
unfair. In another poll, only 32 percent of Serbians supported
cooperating with the tribunal in The Hague, while 47 percent said they
would prefer to address war crimes only in Yugoslavia's own courts and
13 percent said they would suspend war crimes investigations altogether.
In a bizarre irony, Milosevic's most powerful implicit defender is
Kostunica, the man who overthrew him. In October 2000, during his first
state television interview after the revolution, Kostunica denounced the
tribunal in terms not much different from those Milosevic himself now
uses: "The Hague court is not an international court, it is an American
court and it is absolutely controlled by the American government. It is
a means of pressure that the American government uses for realizing its
influence here." According to Joris (Del Ponte's diplomatic adviser),
Kostunica's "position is a matter of conviction: this place [the court]
is evil. He's always been a nationalist. He was a vocal advocate of
Greater Serbia, but not of rape and 'ethnic cleansing.' But he never
wanted to see the consequences of that policy. To him, Bosnia was a
civil war, with deaths on all sides."
Kostunica's government accordingly resisted cooperation with The Hague.
Prosecutors complained that over half of their requests for documents
went unanswered. Two JNA officers, indicted for the 1991 Vukovar
massacre that Milosevic denies ever happened, are still on the loose.
Prosecutors are particularly frustrated that Ratko Mladic -- twice
indicted for genocide and crimes against humanity, the second time for
personally overseeing the Srebrenica massacre -- is still at large,
despite the pleas of Del Ponte and even UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan.
Mladic, arguably the most hated man in Bosnia, is seen as a war hero by
many in Serbia. Until March 2002, Joris says, he "was staying in
military facilities. Top members of the Yugoslav armed forces are
organizing Mladic's protection."
Kostunica's actions have solidified preexisting Serbian resentment of
the tribunal at The Hague. Even Zoran Djindjic, the recently
assassinated reformist and pro-Western Serbian prime minister who sent
Milosevic to trial, argued for cooperation with the tribunal primarily
as a way to get Western economic aid. Only Goran Svilanovic, the human
rights activist turned Yugoslav foreign minister, makes a case for
extraditing war criminals on principle.
As the Milosevic trial has turned to insider testimony dealing with
Croatia and Bosnia, many tribunal officials are worried that their
message is not yet getting through. The tribunal's press office
complains that some Serbian media outlets -- even the relatively liberal
ones -- cover the trial too narrowly, framing the story in terms of
Milosevic's day-to-day courtroom performance rather than the broader
pattern of atrocities in the former Yugoslavia. Prosecutors complain
that even after Plavsic contritely pled guilty to crimes against
humanity in October 2002, there was little soul-searching among Serb
nationalists. "Most Serbs have a position," says Liam McDowall, the
chief of the tribunal's regional outreach program. "It's preconceived
ideas. And then people cheer or pooh-pooh."
Other tribunal-watchers see more progress, however slow. Human Rights
Watch's Ivanisevic argues,
Even though they have resistance to hearing non-Serb witnesses, people
do take into consideration what they hear. The trial has caused reduced
myth-making in Serbia. You don't hear, as you did prior to the trial,
... that Srebrenica didn't happen or that the Muslims killed themselves.
I wouldn't minimize this reduced space for rewriting history. As for
acknowledgment of our side's crimes, it's a psychological barrier too
difficult [to cross -- admitting] that the policy we supported was
criminal. It will take time. It may take a new generation that was not
implicated.
Indeed, even Nuremberg's success (at least within Germany) was largely a
matter of time and generational change. The trial opened many minds, but
some unrepentant Nazis would never accept the court -- even though they
might be cowed into keeping their mouths shut in public. But their
children took Nuremberg to heart. The new, post-Nazi generation held war
crimes trials of their own: in 1963-65, the Frankfurt trials for the men
who ran Auschwitz, and in 1975-81, the Dusseldorf trials for those who
ran Majdanek.
One can see the possible stirrings of a similar process in Serbia today.
The young there are noticeably more reformist than their elders
(although there are plenty of young nationalists too). Among Serbians
aged 18 to 30, 40 percent support full cooperation with The Hague; for
those 30 to 44, the figure falls to 38 percent; for those from 45 to 59,
it drops to 28 percent; and for those over 60, to 24 percent. The NDI
poll found that Milosevic's biggest fans remain what it called the
"angry old" -- Serbians who long for the past. More reform-minded
Serbians, especially what the NDI calls "new Serbia" -- youthful and
Western-oriented voters -- have nothing but contempt for him. Education
and gender play roles too; university-educated women are probably the
least nationalist people in Serbia. There are competing visions of what
Serbia could become, not just Kostunica's nationalist view.
YESTERDAY'S MAN
If the Serbs constitute a prime audience for the Milosevic trial, they
are not the only one. The tribunal was meant to nurture not only
repentance among perpetrators, but also forgiveness, or at least some
measure of solace, among victims. It is too early to see whether this
will work for the people of Bosnia and Croatia, whose sufferings the
court is just beginning to review. But surely it will give them some
satisfaction. And it should have a broader significance as well, showing
that there can indeed be a middle path for post-atrocity societies
somewhere between lasting communal blood feuds and shameful silence.
For all the tribunal's frustrations, there was and is no real
alternative. Its mission is profoundly important and could not have been
accomplished better in some other way. Now that Milosevic is out of
Serbian politics, he is on his way to becoming a nobody; his people are
no longer interested in him. Only 16 percent of Serbians say they are
following the trial "very closely," with an additional 35 percent saying
they are following it "somewhat closely." These people may watch with
resentment, or with opening minds, but few really care. The Serbian
public is vastly more concerned with the country's decrepit economy,
crime, and corruption than with Milosevic's fate. The tyrant has become
irrelevant.
For the first time since becoming president of Serbia in 1989, Milosevic
is being treated as yesterday's man. He suffers a host of courtroom
humiliations. When Stjepan Mesic, the reformist president of Croatia,
testified against him in October 2002, the current head of state needled
his deposed counterpart, addressing him as "Mr. Accused." Paddy Ashdown,
a former leader of the United Kingdom's Liberal Democrats, reminded
Milosevic that he had been put on notice back in 1998, as Serb forces
ratcheted up their repression in Kosovo: "I warned you that if you took
those steps and went on doing this you would end up in this court. And
here you are." Even worse, by his lights, Milosevic is stuck confronting
people and accusations that he clearly thinks beneath him. But unable to
draw on the full apparatus of state power, he often takes a drubbing.
After Lazarevic's testimony, the former tyrant stayed in his cell for a
week, complaining of exhaustion. Cross-examining his accuser, he had
said, "So this is another u
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