The Hunted

23

Tuesday, at 9:00 a.m., Alex was again called out of the cell and led to the booking area. Elena was already there-like him, she now was dressed in oversized orange coveralls. Chains ran around her leg irons, looped around her waist, and were connected to her handcuffs. This was so ridiculous, Alex thought; no, on second thought, not ridiculous, it was outrageous. She was being treated like a serial murderer when all she was accused of was an expired visa.

The guards set to work on him next. Within two minutes he and Elena stood side by side, in ugly orange suits and matching chains.

They were led outside and helped into the back of a long, windowless van. The chains were locked down to bolts on the floor before the guards left and shut the rear door.

It was their first chance to speak since Friday night. "I'm so sorry," Alex told her.

"Don't be silly. You've done nothing wrong."

He tried to rub his eyes but the chains wouldn't reach and forced him to bend over. Elena asked, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't worry, Alex. They can't ship us home over this," Elena said trying to sound confident.

"I think they can do whatever they want." They wouldn't have long to speak, and Alex was avoiding her eyes, trying desperately to build up his nerve. He had spent the whole weekend considering this conversation. Rehearsing it. Playing with variations on the same theme.

There were no other alternatives, and he finally blurted it out. "Elena, I want a divorce."

She considered this a joke and laughed.

"I'm serious. We're getting a divorce."

"Forget it."

"I intend to ask MP to find a good lawyer to arrange it. Uncontested, it should sail through quickly. Don't fight me on this. My mind's made up."

"Alex, this is so stupid."

"I said don't fight me on this, Elena. They're using you to get to me. The moment we're divorced they'll forget about you."

"Did you meet somebody in lockup? Another man? I know how good you look in orange coveralls. I won't be thrown away for some weekend fling." She was laughing again.

"Damn it, I-"

"Shut up, Alex. Just shut up." She leaned back and closed her eyes. The van was moving. They bounced along in tense silence for a few interminable moments.

With her eyes still shut, Elena said, "We'll never have this conversation again. I mean it. I love you, and if you ever bring up the 'divorce' word again, I'll kill you. We're going to suffer through this together. I don't care what happens as long as we're together. Nod your head if you understand, or should I just kill you now?"

Alex bent forward and refused to look at her. The silence dragged on.

Alex eventually said, "You look good in orange, too."

"Check out my new jewelry." She rattled her chains, then bent over and they shared a kiss. Bad jokes, but neither was in the state to think up good ones.

After a moment, Alex said, "I think there's a chance you might get out on bail."

"Me? What about you?"

"MP's not hopeful. Neither am I. Jail might even be the best place for me right now. Did you recognize anybody in the crowd of reporters the other night?"

"From Budapest, that blonde she-bitch."

They probably had only a few minutes left. There was a lot Alex wanted to discuss and he began speaking quickly. "You'll have to go underground. And you'll have to sell our apartment," he told her. "I know you love it, and I'm sorry. But you'll need the money to survive."

"I hate that apartment. I'll be happy to unload it. After four days in a small, cramped cell, I suddenly love the idea of wide-open space."

"Set a low price and dump it quickly. Then find a cheap rental, one you can get out of quickly. You'll need all the money you can get your hands on. My legal costs are probably going to be enormous."

"What about Orangutan? No longer an option?"

"It's history. But I've got a new idea. Probably even better than Orangutan Media, something I've been toying with for a while."

The van was beginning to slow down. In a fast rush of words, Alex shared the rough details of his idea. Elena nodded. She would have to learn a lot quickly. The concept was great, though. It would mint money, if she could pull it off. The van wheeled into an underground garage beneath the INS building. Alex and Elena were separated, taken upstairs in different elevators, then deposited in different cells and left alone to stew with worry.

Thirty minutes later, a guard arrived, unlocked the cell, and escorted Alex down several long, well-lit corridors to a small courtroom. Elena was already there, seated at a table beside MP. Their lawyer had his back turned to Elena and was engaging in a conversation with an attractive, older, dark-featured female seated at what Alex presumed was the prosecution table. A considerably younger male colleague in a dark suit sat to her right, looking nervous and out of place.

Alex sat beside MP, who quickly bent around him and said to the prosecutor, "Kim Parrish, I'd like you to meet my client, Alex Konevitch."

Alex held out his hand and looked her dead in the eye. "It's nice to meet you."

The room was small. They were about three feet apart. She nodded but took a step back, said nothing, and studiously avoided his hand. Go ahead, MP was thinking from the sideline-take a nice long look at the man you're about to persecute. You'll be responsible when he lands in a coffin. He's young and handsome, and his wife is young and beautiful-they have so much to live for-but go ahead, ignore your conscience. Get them killed.

She understood exactly what MP was doing. A long awkward moment, then she suddenly buried her nose in the blank legal pad on her table.

A moment later, the judge entered through a side door. There was none of the procedural rigmarole Alex had observed on American TV. No announcement, no standing. No long perorations or lawyers being introduced. Apparently, immigration cases adhered to a less formal pattern.

Judge John Everston IV presided. He spent a brief moment surveying his court to be sure everything was the way he liked it.

Alex's and Elena's eyes were glued to the face of the man who held their lives in his hands. He was neither handsome, impressive-looking, nor even mildly judicial-looking, with a long, droopy face, thick, arched eyebrows that lent an impression of severe fierceness, scarecrow gray hair, and small eyes hidden behind bifocals that seemed impossibly thick and bleary.

John Everston had started out as an immigration attorney thirty years before, a fine, precise, hardworking lawyer whose service was eventually rewarded with a judgeship. His lawyer career had been spent in the prosecution trenches. He came from a long line of deeply rooted, well-heeled southern Virginia aristocrats. And though everybody assumed otherwise, banishing immigrants had been a job he utterly loathed, and nearly always was ashamed to perform. He carefully hid a soft spot for the miserable masses who flocked to America for a thousand different reasons and suddenly found themselves at risk of being booted out. Left alone, they generally turned into perfectly respectable citizens. The law had forced him to separate families, to dispatch honest, hardworking people back to a life of hopeless squalor, and occasionally to send them back to conditions that meant certain death. Thirty years of practicing law on both sides of the bench had converted him from a mild liberal to a fairly rabid one.

And like every liberal judge in the country-in his opinion, like any judge with half a brain-Judge Everston detested John Tromble and he loathed the attorney general for failing to reel him in.

His eyes took in the court recorder, the bailiff at his station along the wall, the attorneys at their appropriate tables, and the young husband and wife huddled miserably in their atrocious orange prison apparel. He finally settled on a small group tucked in the back of the small visitors' section-a pair of bespoke gentlemen in nice suits and a young lady dressed decidedly more flippantly in ragged jeans, a torn T-shirt, and plastic flip-flops.

The judge directed a long finger in their direction. "It's not often I get visitors in this courtroom. When I do, I always like to make your acquaintance. You look like a reporter," he suggested to the young lady; from the way she was attired, she could be nothing but. Jeans and a ripped T-shirt-he had threatened lawyers with contempt just for wearing distasteful ties.

Sally, the court recorder, and Harry, the bailiff, exchanged curious glances. The judge had never, ever before even acknowledged visitors on the few rare occasions any showed up. Now he was actually conversing with them.

"I am," the lady answered promptly and proudly.

"What paper do you represent?"

"New York Times."

He would've publicly laid into her about her indecorum, but the Times was so reliably and frantically liberal, she could wear a birthday suit for all he cared.

"Good for you," he pronounced. The judge's gaze slowly shifted to her left. "And you two gentlemen?" he asked, directing a bony finger at the men.

"FBI," the older one said, sort of shuffling his feet at the unexpected attention.

The judge's head reared back. He squinted through his thick glasses and peered down his long, skinny nose. "And to what do I owe the rare pleasure of a few of Mr. Tromble's boys in my court?"

"We're just… merely observing," he replied.

"Observing what?"

"It's…" The agent blinked a few times. He had a law degree, though admittedly, he had sailed straight into the Bureau after law school. Aside from a few occasions on a witness stand, he had never actually been forced to address a sitting judge. He took another stab, saying, "We, that is, the Bureau, has an interest in the status of this case, Your Honor."

"An interest. I see. And what interest would that be, Agent, uh…?"

"Special Agent Wilson. It, uh, well-"

"Speak up, Agent Wilson. This is a small court, and I'd like very much to hear your replies. I'm actually dying to hear your reply. In ten years on this bench, I don't believe I've ever entertained visitors from your Bureau. This is a small, unimportant court, and the proceedings are normally quite tedious. I'm on the edge of my seat to learn what's so special about today."

It was becoming increasingly apparent that the judge was not overjoyed with their presence. Every eye in the small court was on Wilson. He desperately wanted to crawl under his seat.

"Your Honor, the accused is wanted for certain crimes in Russia, crimes that are under our scrutiny."

The long finger popped back up like a pistol. "In this court, he's not the accused, Agent Wilson. This is not a criminal trial and I don't want you to prejudice my judicial neutrality through any misleading impressions. In here, he's simply a man who may or may not have overstayed his visa."

"Yes, I under-"

"Does he have a criminal record in this country?"

"Uh… no." A brief pause. "Not that we've yet discovered anyway," Wilson said, implying otherwise, and visibly proud that he was recovering nicely.

"I see. Well, it is not my jurisprudence or interest to try crimes that might or might not have been committed on foreign soil. Unless I misunderstand the law, I believe the well-known prurience of your Bureau also ends at the water's edge. Surely an agent of your distinguished agency might understand that," he announced, looking far down his nose.

"What I meant-"

"I really don't care what you meant. I care only about what you say. Precise legal terminology is important. Surely they taught you something about that in that FBI school all you boys go through."

Wilson was silently cursing Hanrahan for making him be here.

The judge waved a thick folder in the air. "I took the opportunity to review this case file. All your statements are in here, seven INS agents and yours, Agent Wilson. Eight of you, altogether. Eight! Eight of you involved in arresting this young, frightened couple. They look harmless enough. And, as I understand it, the charge for my consideration deals with nothing more serious than expired visas. Am I missing something here? Please tell me I am, Agent Wilson. Have they smuggled in one of those suitcase nuclear bombs? Committed mass murder or run one of those odious rape camps in Bosnia? Surely, they have. Please assure me I'm missing something here."

No, you're not missing a thing, Wilson thought, now visibly miserable. Not a damn thing, you mean old goat. His back was rigid. He could barely force himself to keep his eyes on this judge. He had faced down Mafia thugs, kidnappers, dope pushers, and never blinked. He was plainly terrified of this judge.

"I am only here because I was ordered to attend, Your Honor."

"And who gave you this order?"

"I'd rather not say."

"You'd rather not?"

"That's right, Your Honor."

His Honor rested his elbows on the bench and placed his sharp chin in his hands. "Is this some pressing matter of national security?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" His small eyes bored into Wilson like rockets.

"Uh, no."

"Precision, Agent Wilson. Which is it, yes or no?"

"It's not. Uh, no."

"I see." His Honor toyed with his pen a moment. Wilson was examining the door. His legs were tensed, ready to bolt. It was barely ten feet away. He was almost certain he could be outside, sprinting to his car, before the judge could fire off another question.

His Honor slipped off his glasses and leaned far forward. "Let me make this clear, Agent Wilson. Listen closely and pass this on to those whose names cannot be uttered in this court. The freedom and dignity of two human beings are at stake here. They are guests in our land, so the reputation of our great nation is at stake. If I find any hint of remotely unethical behavior, I'll make you wish you never heard of Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch. I watched the news reports over the weekend, and frankly, I am dismayed and alarmed. I seriously hope nobody in this court was attempting to humiliate or pressure these poor people. Are we clear on this?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"I mean it." The public whipping was over. Wilson looked thoroughly whipped. His Honor redirected his eyes toward MP. "Mr. Jones, you may begin now."

The sound of Wilson's sigh of relief echoed throughout the room.

Without rising or missing a beat, MP said, "Thank you, Your Honor. I'm sorry we're wasting your time this morning over such a trivial, ridiculous matter. The issue is whether or not my clients overstayed their visas." MP slapped his right hand with a theatrical thump on a pile of documents on the defense table. "I have here all the requisite forms proving they have valid visa status. Also documentation proving they applied for and were unanimously approved for permanent residency in the United States. I'd like to get this charge dismissed immediately so my clients can go on with their lives."

Kim Parrish suddenly bounced to her feet. "Your Honor, we've changed the charges."

His Honor stared at the ceiling a moment. Speaking in a generally upward direction, he said, "Miss Parrish, you heard what I just advised Agent Wilson?"

"Every word."

"You understand that this applies to you also?"

"It left little question in my mind."

"Then proceed. Carefully, Miss Parish."

"Thank you. In fact, we have now established that the Konevitches do possess entirely valid visas."

"I would have thought this rather simple fact could've been established before their arrests."

"As would I, sir." She frowned contemptuously at the younger colleague at her table, as if he was at fault for this stupid blunder. His role in this farce was apparently to take the blame, and he obediently shrank and cowered under the force of her fierce glare. She continued, "Regrettably, paperwork was misplaced. A simple administrative mistake. We were unable to confirm this fact until yesterday."

"And did you notify Mr. Jones, who is, after all, representing these people?"

MP decided this was a perfectly good moment to help her out with this difficult question. "No, this is the first I've heard of it. I'm caught between shock and surprise. As Miss Parrish is no doubt aware, I'm prepared only to contest the charges I've been made aware of." MP looked so sad and disgusted it was impossible not to feel an ocean of pity for him.

"What do you have to say to that, Miss Parrish?"

"I tried to reach Mr. Jones."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Phone."

"Once? Twice? How often?"

"I made multiple good-faith efforts. I can't recall the precise number. Unfortunately, there was no answer at his office."

"Do you have an answering machine, Mr. Jones?"

"Yes."

"Is it left on after office hours?"

"Yes. Always."

"Miss Parrish?"

"Maybe I dialed the wrong number."

"I'm sure that explains it."

Now that it was firmly established that she was lying, she pressed on. "We're now charging the Konevitches with immigration fraud."

"Is this charge likely to change in the next few minutes?" MP asked, looking at the judge.

"It will not." She was getting creamed, and like a good lawyer, taking it in cool stride.

Alex was almost lost. English wasn't his native tongue, and the parries and thrusts shot around the small courtroom like lightning bolts. The questions and replies came without time to breathe or think. Not a word was wasted, no "uhs," no hesitations. Three first-rate legal minds were playing hardball with each other, with his life at stake.

The judge removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "As this is the first this court has heard of this new charge, can you honor us with a little more specificity?"

"Mr. Konevitch was heavily involved in criminal activity in Russia before he fled and came to America. He presented himself to the Immigration Service as a victim of political persecution. He deliberately constructed false facts to verify this status. Further, he claimed permanent employment with a company that has subsequently been discovered to be a fraud. It is, in fact, a front for criminal activities, including money laundering. Given those un-lawful actions, we recommend that Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch be immediately deported back to Russia."

"Mr. Jones?"

"I'm not at all prepared to contest these absurd charges. They're obviously preposterous, and will be easily debunked."

"When will you be ready?"

"Two weeks, at a minimum."

"Then we'll reconvene in two weeks."

Like that, it was over. His Honor started to rise, before MP interrupted his progress. "I have another matter for your advisement, Your Honor."

His Honor sank back into his chair.

"My clients should be released on bond immediately. The charges that led to their arrest have already been disproved and disposed. They should not have to suffer a lack of freedom over what my colleague Miss Parrish has already confessed was gross negligence on the part of her department."

"Miss Parrish?"

"I did not state it was gross negligence. That's an outrageous distortion of what I said."

"Remind me. What did you say?"

"Simple bureaucratic oversight. Nearly two million immigrants a year enter our porous borders, legally or otherwise. As hard as our people work, well"-she stared down at her hapless associate again-"occasionally a few pieces of paper get misplaced in the shuffle."

The elbows landed on the bench again. "Miss Parrish, I admire your noble efforts to defend the reputation of your service. I surely do."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

"It is admirable and it definitely touches my heart. However, I spent fifteen long years in your shoes. So don't you ever utter such outlandish baloney in this court again. It was, unmistakably, gross negligence. The INS is overworked and severely understaffed, but that in no way excuses or ameliorates what happened here today. Now, what's your response to bond for these people?"

She never blinked. "We strongly advise that it be denied, Your Honor."

"Grounds?"

"According to the Russian attorney general, Mr. Konevitch embezzled many millions of dollars from the investors in his bank. He also fled with millions more that he stole from the Russian mob. He fled from there, and he will certainly flee from here. He is, by any stretch, a definite flight risk."

"Mr. Jones?"

MP paused and stared down at his legal pad for a long moment. Alex didn't have a prayer. MP knew this. Further, he knew better than to irritate the judge and risk losing his obvious sympathy by arguing otherwise. Alex seemed to understand this as well. He was vigorously nodding his head in Elena's direction.

"Mr. Jones?" the judge repeated, taking his tone up a notch.

"Those issues will be addressed in two weeks. Mrs. Konevitch, though, has been accused of nothing."

His Honor was tired of talking. He simply shifted his stare to Kim Parrish.

"The government," she replied, "would strongly prefer that she remain in custody as well."

"I do not react to preferences, Miss Parrish. You had better offer substantiation for denial."

"She's a flight risk as well."

"With her husband in jail?"

"Maybe."

"You need to do better than that, Miss Parrish."

"She was party to his falsehoods. She testified at his hearings, confirmed his lies, and served as his able co-conspirator."

His Honor bent far forward and peered down at his court reporter, who also happened to double as his appointments secretary. "Sally, what did I do last Sunday?"

"You played golf, Your Honor."

"I did?"

"Of course. You had your usual ten a.m. tee time at Washington Golf and Country."

"And were you to ask Mrs. Everston where I was, what do you think she'd say, Sally?"

Sally produced a shy smile and blushed nicely. "She'd say you were at your county school board meeting."

"Am I on the school board, Sally?"

"No, Your Honor. Not for about five years now. It's the same tired old alibi you give her every other Sunday."

He redirected his gaze to Kim Parrish. "Mrs. Everston and I have been married thirty-two years now. You'd think she'd be on to me by now, wouldn't you?"

"I have no idea. I'm not married."

"Then allow me to offer a little wisdom from the trenches. The state of matrimony, Miss Parrish, does not confer infinite or absolute knowledge of spousal activities. Believe it or not, lots of married people cheat on each other, hide money from each other, and, in cases, even have additional wives and husbands. So as much as you might wish it, the laws of this land do not yet assign mutual guilt on married couples. I am not responsible for the horrible quilts my wife knits and afflicts on our poor children every Christmas. She is certainly not responsible for the three times Sunday that I regrettably shifted the lay of my golf ball and thereby cheated my partners into buying my lunch."

"Moving a golf ball and stealing millions are wildly different offenses. I don't agree with your analogies, Your Honor."

"You don't?"

"Absolutely not."

"Bond will be set at $5,000."

"I protest, Your Honor."

"Of course you do."

Before Alex was led away, Elena squeezed his hand, but did not say, "I love you."

Instead she said, "Interactive Internet video?"

"Exactly. And call Mikhail for an update," he whispered before he was tugged away.