The Tribunal is different from enterprises that today are knocking themselves out trying to integrate and get rid of silos. "We've always insisted on separate and discrete standalone networks—we want that—and we won't allow any external access to [ours]," says Blewitt. This strict separation of the OTP makes life a little inconvenient. Even investigators in the field, who are OTP staff, cannot dial in to the network; the prosecutor herself could not access it from outside the court building.

Complicating matters further is what Greenwood calls the almost schizophrenic need to balance security and transparency. "One of the hardest, most interesting things is that we have to protect witnesses and people doing investigations, but because we're a public organization and need our results known, we have to be open." For OTP staff, that means literally having two computers on their desks, one for OTP and one for the rest of the world, including other Tribunal departments.

As part of the goal to be as open as possible, Chartier's unit developed a website, www.un.org/icty. "It's not great," he says, "but it gets the information out there; it does the job." Press releases are posted and archived there, as are proceedings of the court, so anyone interested can follow a case to see when an appeal has been filed and so on. There are no photos or interactive bells and whistles.

The Digital Courtroom
All the work of the Tribunal comes to a head in its three courtrooms in The Hague. Visitors and press pass through two sets of metal detectors before entering the gallery and picking up a wireless headset that can be tuned to English, French or BCS (Bosnian-Croatian-Serbian). Sound- and small-arms-proof glass separate the gallery from the actual courtroom, which is dignified, modern and simple, but wired to the hilt.

Many people are familiar with photos and footage of the Nuremberg courtroom—large, teeming with people and every flat surface covered with papers. ICTY's courtrooms seem spare by comparison, and far more security-conscious.

A panel of three robed judges faces the gallery from a raised platform. Just in front of them sit the court stewards and stenographers. Facing the judges, with its back toward the gallery, is the witness stand. With defense on the gallery's left and prosecution on the right, the legal personnel occupy tables angled to face both judges and witnesses. Behind the defense, the accused sits at a desk, a guard on either side. One can study the accused, looking for a revelation of evil, but for the most part they are decidedly ordinary-looking men. Even Goran Jelesic, a former agricultural machinery mechanic who allegedly called himself the "Serb Adolf," looks harmless as the monitor displays a series of photos of him shooting men in the backs of their heads as they walked down the street under his guard. Jelesic pleaded guilty to 31 counts of crimes against humanity and violations of the customs or laws of war. He was acquitted on one count of genocide. On Dec. 14, 1999, he was sentenced to 40 years' imprisonment, the Tribunal's harshest sentence to date.