Rachel DycekThe UN hearing chamber in the new Geneva facility was huge. The walls echoed with every footstep, every door slam, every mumbled comment. With muttering whispers and general stirs the audience sounded like a gently snoring beast.
Newsnet camera lights shone like baking suns onto the victims on display, the witnesses about to be dissected. In the midst of it Rachel Dycek felt small and alone; her convictions had hidden from her, leaving only a rigid outside shell. Her attention spiraled down into two points: the livid expression on the Japanese delegate’s face and the translator microphone speaking stiff and formal Russian in her ear.
“You have dodged these questions…for days, Dr. Dycek.” The unintelligible words carried truckloads of strident anger; by contrast, the interpret
