The Hunted

31

The front steps of the Federal Courthouse looked like a convention for something. A few dozen TV crews were gathered, klieg lights in place, cameras loaded and ready to roll. Another dozen print reporters milled around aimlessly, drawn and stoked by the buzz fed by the FBI's impressive publicity machine.

Inside the court another dozen journalists were already seated at the rear benches, pool reporters who would rush out and share the dirt and drama with their less privileged brethren.

At one table sat a clutch of five lawyers, led by Jason Caldwell, looking rather resplendent in his fine new five-hundred-buck Brooks Brothers suit, bought in honor of his breakout debut. It matched his blue eyes. It would look great on camera. A pair of INS colleagues sat to his left, and on the floor beside them rested a large stack of evidence. The two boys from Justice were banished to a shallow space on the far side, though their exact purpose in the trial was an open question, especially between themselves.

At the defense table, MP huddled importantly with a pair of well-dressed guns from Pacevitch, Knowlton and Rivers, one of many monster firms in a city where lawyers outnumbered ordinary citizens three to one. Directly to his right sat Matt Rivers, a law school classmate who had served as best man in the hastily arranged wedding between MP and his by then noticeably pregnant bride.

Top of his class, in his third year, Matt had been wined and dined by big firms from New York and Chicago. But he chose PKR, as it was commonly known. He was drawn by its no-holds-barred reputation, a feared powerhouse, a collection of divisions that did many things from corporate through criminal, with branch offices in six American cities, and ten more spread around the globe. Notice that PKR was involved in a case often had the terrifying effect of getting even the most recalcitrant opponents to promptly initiate settlement talks. PKR's unwritten motto was "pile it on," in honor of the firm's willingness to throw a hundred lawyers at a troubled case. However many lawyers were committed against it, PKR doubled it and wrenched up the hours, drowning the competition in useless motions and watching it sink in exhaustion. To put it mildly, PKR did not like to lose. Matt's competitive streak-aka his killer instinct-had been identified early and carefully nurtured and cultivated. The cultivation included partnership within five years: three hundred thousand a year, plus bonus, plus car.

Though their lives and fortunes diverged, Matt and MP still lunched together every few months and shared tales from the opposite ends of the legal profession. There was one condition that was strictly followed; Matt picked the eating hole and paid the check. This law was laid down in the early years after MP took Matt to Taco Bell; no longer accustomed to such fare, Matt's stomach rebelled with horrible violence.

At Alex's behest, MP had approached his old pal a few months before for a favor. MP was seriously outgunned, and Alex pressured him to find some reinforcements, but since funds were short, to find somebody willing to do the work for the promise of the publicity it might generate. Tromble seemed to be doing a masterful job at stoking that publicity, and Matt took MP's appeal to the firm's management committee. It was a simple and quite common request; assign one or two lawyers on a pro bono basis. The bulk of the work would be handled by MP: all he really wanted was the firm there, in the background, throwing its weight around, striking fear in the opposition. A simple immigration matter failed to fuel the committee's enthusiasm until Matt launched into Alex Konevitch's fascinating background and the strange nature of his supposed crimes. Interest swelled, then the partners on the committee became curiously fired up about the whole idea.

Two years before, PKR had joined the pell-mell rush of Western firms pouring into the new market of democratic Russia and opened a small, struggling branch in Moscow. The PKR boys in Russia were immediately hired by a free-market oil company battling to fend off a vicious takeover by a shady consortium with heavy government contacts. One day before the first hearing, PKR was notified by the Ministry of Justice that its lawyers had just been disbarred, and its branch office was no longer welcome. The PKR lawyers were all booted out. The oil company was swallowed up two days later.

What a great way for PKR to shoot a big middle finger back at the Russian government, the senior partners agreed. Among its many fine attributes, PKR never forgot a slight.

Thus, seated to Matt's right was Marvin Knowlton, the K in PKR, a distinguished-looking eighty-year-old gentleman, a legendary scrapper talked out of retirement for this one brief return engagement. He cut a striking figure, with the deep tan of a permanent Florida golfer that contrasted nicely with his long silver mane. The old lion's presence in this court was a warning to whoever cared to pay attention. In his trial lawyer days, Marvin specialized in suits for defamation, rights violations, and libel. He sued at the drop of a hat. He rarely lost.

The strategy was simple. By introducing the motion for habeas corpus-thus forcing the government to show the constitutional basis for Alex's prolonged detention-Alex and MP were moving it out of immigration and into federal court, a system with more rights protections for the accused. Also, there were appeals in this system, a chance for a second, or even a third hearing. MP would take first crack at defending the Konevitches. If he lost, the cutthroats from PKR would take over, commit a dozen more lawyers, and go for blood.

For the time being, though, Matt and Marvin were expected only to look threatening, listen to MP's arguments, and be prepared to step in only after things went wrong, which, after reviewing the evidence, in their collective view, was the likely outcome.

To MP's rear sat Elena in a simple blue pantsuit and white pumps, clutching her hands, praying fervently. Occasionally she stopped talking to the Lord long enough to throw a hateful glare at the defense table, the people who had so cruelly persecuted her husband.

At the last moment, Alex was led through a side door by two big marshals straight to the defense table. He had been offered the chance to shower and change into something more presentable, like a suit and tie. He politely but insistently refused. He sported the same dirty white trousers, soiled white shirt, and grungy flip-flops he wore in prison. His face had accumulated at least four days of thick, dark stubble. His hair was still pulled back in a tight, greasy ponytail.

Even MP had argued otherwise, but Alex adamantly insisted-let the judge and all the reporters see what had been done to him. The sight of him in such a sorry state would displace any thought of a fat-cat millionaire. Whatever he had been before, now he was just another simple guy cruelly oppressed and abused by the state.

Alex shambled in fits and starts to his chair, shoulders slumped, head and eyes down. He feigned a pained expression and very gently began to ease himself into the chair. A lady in the third row leaned over to somebody a few seats down and muttered loudly and indignantly, "You see that? The poor guy's been gang-raped by those animals."

The cue was perfect. MP and Matt immediately jumped up and made a dramatic show of helping poor Alex get more comfortable. And as though she hadn't seen her husband in months, Elena clutched her throat and emitted a strangled wail that bounced around the courtroom walls.

At just that moment, the rear door flew open and in marched John Tromble, fresh from a fast flurry of interviews on the courthouse steps. His eyes roved around the courtroom, settling finally on the prisoner at the defense table. It was his first look at Alex Konevitch, up close and personal, his first glance at this irritating man who had occupied so much of his time and attention over the past fourteen months. He took in the prison garb, the shaggy beard, the unkempt ponytail, the exhausted eyes, and he responded instinctively-he smiled.

This response was fully observed by the dozen pool reporters in the back rows, who launched into noisy whispers among themselves.

Tromble moved with important purpose to the front row where an aide held an empty seat for him. He had not been in a courtroom since his days as a judge, but he felt his presence would send a strong message to the court.

A moment later, a side door quietly opened. Judge Elton Willis walked out, black robes rustling, and moved straight to the bench. The bailiff announced him, everybody stood, the judge sat, and the court fell back into its seats.

Elton Willis was fifty-nine, surprisingly short, with jet black skin and dainty facial features. A former Jesuit priest, he awoke one morning and decided God's will wouldn't be settled in a church, but out on the streets where the battle between good and evil was waged with terrible force. He turned in his vestments and spent five years dishing slop in soup kitchens and mentoring young black children in Washington's brutal slums, before becoming deeply discouraged. Any illusion that he would save the world was crushed by crack, guns, and the unrelenting violence of the streets. So many of the kids ended up dead or in the legal system, with poor representation, and were shunted off to prisons they would bounce in and out of for the rest of their lives. It was time to take the battle up another level. He finished law school at the University of Virginia, where the novelty of a former Jesuit studying a lower law greatly amused the faculty, then returned to Washington, where he established himself as a defense attorney to be reckoned with. Rich clients were banned. If a prospective client passed through his door dressed in a suit, he was promptly sent right back out the door.

As a federal judge, he now waged the battle between good and bad from a high bench. Jesuits tend to be hard men of great intelligence. Elton Willis happened to be harder and smarter than most.

His eyes wandered around the court for a moment. In a quiet voice, he quickly summarized the matter for consideration, and in a louder voice established a few ground rules. This was not a jury trial. In fact it wasn't a trial, it was a habeas corpus hearing mediated by a judge. He did not cater to theatrics, asked the attorneys to object only when absolutely necessary, and emphasized that brevity was next to godliness. He offered threatening scowls to both lawyers, underscoring these points.

Opening statements were made by both attorneys. Jason Caldwell led off and couldn't help himself. After months of primping and prepping, he was like a Hollywood starlet at her first premiere. He paced and pranced around the floor. Half his remarks were addressed to the judge, the other half to the yawning journalists in the back row. Unfortunately, he was also an effective attorney with a sharp tongue and a strong case, and, long before he was done, Alex Konevitch sounded like the personification of evil. He deserved to be in prison, and possibly executed. At the very least he should be dispatched to his own shores for a long-overdue appointment with justice.

With a final flash of his freshly bleached teeth at the reporters in the back, he returned to his seat.

MP pushed himself only halfway out of his chair and said very simply, "My client has endured fourteen miserable months in prison, convicted of nothing. I request an immediate release."

He sat. That was it, nothing more-a tiny drop in a vast ocean that screamed for a long and indignant rant.

Caldwell felt like standing up and applauding. He was going to pound MP Jones into dust. This was going to be so easy. He stood and called his first witness, Colonel Leonid Volevodz, to the stand.

The colonel marched to the witness box, was sworn in, and sat.

Caldwell sidled up to the witness stand, Perry Mason absent the wheelchair. "What's your position, sir?"

"I am the special assistant to Russia's minister of internal security."

"And this would be equivalent to our FBI?"

"You might describe it that way." He leaned back and coolly crossed his legs.

"What is your relationship to the investigations concerning Mr. Konevitch?"

"The lead investigator for my department. The crimes were so severe and crossed so many areas, eventually I was ordered to oversee the efforts of all three government investigations."

Caldwell turned around and nodded at one of the INS lawyers at the crowded table. The lawyer seized a bundle of papers and rushed to Caldwell's side. He selected then held up one clump of papers. Caldwell asked, "Can you please identify this?"

Volevodz bent forward. "That is an English translation of the Ministry of Justice investigation."

"And this?"

"The Ministry of Finance investigation."

"And this?"

"My own investigation."

"And do these three investigations draw similar conclusions?"

"Identical conclusions."

"Could you briefly describe those conclusions?"

"Briefly? Konevitch stole 250 million dollars. He gutted and bankrupted his company. He almost single-handedly ruined the credibility of the Russian banking model. It is impossible to summarize in a short statement."

Caldwell turned his back to the colonel and smiled at the peanut gallery. "Yes, I imagine it is. Do any of these investigations differ in any serious regard?"

"No. The facts were easily established. The evidence was overwhelming. Perhaps a hundred different investigators reached the exact same conclusion."

"That Konevitch is a crook?"

"A thief. A liar. A confidence man."

"Was Konevitch ever asked to return to Russia?"

"Yes, by me. I pleaded with him. Twice, on two separate occasions. I assured him of a fair trial. I offered my personal protection. If he was innocent, he could clear his name."

"Twice?"

"That's what I said."

"And how did he respond?"

"He laughed. He pointed out there was no extradition treaty between our countries. He stuck his finger in my chest and said he would hide behind your flag."

Caldwell couldn't resist that opening. "He would hide behind our flag? The Stars and Stripes?"

"His exact words."

Another document was held up and splayed open. Caldwell asked, "Can you identify this for the court?"

The thin eyes squinted again. "It's the indictment issued against Alex Konevitch for his crimes." He leaned forward, as if he needed a closer look. "It's signed by Anatoli Fyodorev, Russia's equivalent to your attorney general."

Caldwell looked at the judge. "Your Honor, we submit these investigations and indictments as evidence that Alex Konevitch committed serious crimes in Russia, and later he lied and covered up these crimes when he fled here."

The stack was handed off to the clerk, who quickly assigned a number to each one before she arranged them in an orderly stack on her desk. Alex was seated in his chair. He showed no surprise or even concern over the seriousness of the testimony.

His Honor looked at MP. "Would you care to cross-examine?"

"I would not, Your Honor," he answered without looking up.

Volevodz was released. The next witness was the chief Russian prosecutor, who was identified and properly sworn in.

He sat and Caldwell approached. "Could you please describe your role in this investigation?"

"I was ordered by the state attorney general to prepare the indictment and legal case against Alex Konevitch."

"He's a wanted man in Russia, I take it?"

"Number one on our most wanted list."

"Do you believe he's guilty?"

"That would be a matter for our courts to decide."

"But Mr. Konevitch claims your courts are unfair." "Ridiculous. Under the old communist system, maybe. We are a democracy now. Our courts are every bit as judicious and fair as yours."

"So he would be allowed to hire a lawyer?"

"As many as he can afford. If he can't afford any, the state will appoint one."

"He would be allowed to present evidence on his own behalf?"

"Just like here, Mr. Caldwell. Konevitch will enjoy the full benefit of innocence until proven guilty."

"Are you aware that some Americans have a poor impression of your legal system?"

"Are you aware that some Russians have a poor impression of yours?"

"Touche." Caldwell decided to step out on a limb, directed his gaze at Alex, then asked, "Why would Mr. Konevitch feel he can't get an honest shake in Russia?"

The Russian also directed his gaze at Alex, who nodded politely but otherwise appeared indifferent.

"Maybe an honest shake, as you call it, is the last thing he wants."

Caldwell paused and waited for the loud but inevitable objection from MP Jones. He had led this witness. He had openly encouraged an act of naked conjecture-how could the chief prosecutor possibly know what Alex was thinking?

Silence. MP sat in his seat, doodling on a legal pad. He looked bored out of his mind. Beside him, Alex appeared to be studying MP's doodles, as transfixed as he would be by a da Vinci or a Picasso.

"Thank you," Caldwell said to his witness, then studied the ceiling a moment as though he needed a little help from the Lord to remember his next point. He snapped his fingers. "Oh, another question. The money Mr. Konevitch stole? Did you ever find it?"

The chief prosecutor looked at Alex. "Some of it, yes. We tracked a few million to a bank in Bermuda."

Another of Caldwell's aides hustled over and shoved a sheet of paper at the witness.

Caldwell asked with construed curiosity, "Would this be the account information?" What else could it be?

After a careful examination, "Yes, this is it."

"How much is currently in the account?"

"Two and half million dollars."

"That's it?"

"Yes, that's all."

"I thought he stole 250 million dollars. Where's the remainder of Konevitch's money?"

"It's not Konevitch's money, sir."

"No?" A look of surprise. "Well, whose money is it?"

"It's money he robbed from poor people in Russia. They trusted him and are now bankrupt. We won't know where he stashed it all until we get him home and he confesses. Only then can those poor people be repaid."

Caldwell let that fester a moment-all those miserable victims back home starving and freezing while they waited for Alex to give them back their money-then said, "Are you familiar with a company named Orangutan Media?"

"I most certainly am."

"How are you familiar with this company?"

"It became the subject of police interest a few years ago."

"How did this come about?"

"The result of a tip from a source inside one of our crime syndicates. A Chechen mob, a nasty group involved in a number of criminal activities, from kidnapping to drugs to murder."

"Sounds like our Mafia."

"You should be so lucky. Compared to these people, your Mafia's a Boy Scout group. After the tip, a wiretap was installed and the police heard Konevitch arranging payments and transfers of cash. He was using Orangutan as a front to launder syndicate money."

"What was the nature of Orangutan Media?"

"Reputedly it was an advertising company. And it was established in Austria to evade our scrutiny. The syndicate money came into the company under the guise of client contracts. Orangutan turned around and gave the same money right back to the syndicate as subcontractors. It was all very neat."

"It sounds quite elaborate."

"Not really. It's a very common shell game. Child's play for a sophisticated financial mastermind like Konevitch."

"And you have Mr. Konevitch on tape discussing these arrangements with a syndicate?"

"Right there on your table," he said, pointing at the defense table. "The taped discussions are in Russian, of course, so I left them back in Russia. They would be incomprehensible to you, anyway. I therefore turned over paper transcripts to your people."

"Yes, you did." The aide took the cue and hauled a bunch of papers to the bench. "We introduce these translated transcripts," Caldwell said very slowly, with another flash of teeth. "As well, I submit statements collected by state prosecutors from a number of Orangutan Media employees confessing to the schemes inside the company."

He held his breath and waited in anticipation for Jones to jerk out of his chair. Without the tapes there was no way to verify that the written transcripts were accurate, or indeed whether any tapes even existed. There had to be an objection this time-a noisy protest infused with enraged anger would follow, he was sure.

In fact, Jones looked ready to jump out of his seat before Alex reached over and grabbed his arm. Alex briefly whispered something into his ear. MP relented, relaxed back into his seat, and went back to doodling on a yellow legal pad.

Caldwell silently congratulated himself. A brilliant move, and he couldn't believe he got away with it. Having the chief prosecutor in the witness chair obviously nullified the discrediting strategy Jones had pulled off in immigration court. Welcome to the big leagues, pal.

Caldwell triumphantly announced, "I'm through with this witness," and returned to his seat.

Judge Willis peered down from his perch at MP. Jones was still focused intensely on his yellow legal pad, which now was cluttered with aimless squiggles and shapes. "Mr. Jones, do you wish to cross-examine?"

MP looked up. "What?… Uh, no, thank you, Your Honor." "You're sure?"

"Yes, quite sure."

Willis rubbed his eyes for a moment. "You heard what the witness presented?"

"I did."

"And you're sure you don't want to ask him a few questions?"

"Very sure."

"Is this your first time in federal court, Mr. Jones?"

"Yes sir. Very first. It's much nicer than immigration court. Quite lovely."

"I'm glad it appeals to your tastes. Do you understand how our procedures work?"

"I believe I do, Your Honor."

"Once I release this witness, he cannot be recalled."

"Then please do it quickly. I don't know about you, but he was becoming tiresome, Your Honor."

This caused a twitter of laughter among the reporters.

His Honor did not appear to get the joke. "I advise you, Mr. Jones, to think harder about questioning the witnesses than trying to entertain us with humor."

"Can I be blunt, Your Honor?"

"You can try, Mr. Jones."

"I don't wish to waste your time."

"To the contrary, Mr. Jones, I'm here to listen to both sides. It's an adversarial system, by design. I encourage you to participate."

"Well, I don't want to encourage him to tell more lies."

"I see. The witness is released."

Caldwell rose to call his next witness, but the judge put up a hand. "Hold on a moment." His eyes turned to Alex. "Can you please rise?"

Alex stood.

Judge Willis leaned far forward on his elbows. "Are you aware your attorney has no experience in federal jurisdictions?"

"In fact, he emphasized the same thing last week."

"I'm sure you're in a great hurry to get out of prison, Mr. Konevitch. I'm just wondering if this hearing might be premature."

"On the contrary, my arrest and imprisonment were premature, Your Honor."

"Do you have adequate knowledge of our legal system?"

Alex directed a look at Tromble, who was seated, legs crossed. "I've been imprisoned the past fourteen months, without trial. You could say I am quite familiar with this legal procedure. Soviet law operated the same way."

Willis pinched his nose and forced himself not to scowl. "Are you content with your representation? The question is on the record, Mr. Konevitch. Because if you try to appeal my decision based upon incompetent representation, it will now be clear that you knowingly settled on Mr. Jones."

MP blinked a few times at what was obviously intended as a very public putdown. It was humiliating to be treated as a featherweight but that wasn't the most painful part. Worse, part of their strategy cooked up by him and the PKR boys relied on Alex having valid claim to poor representation. So far, MP had availed himself of every opportunity to portray utter incompetence. Let the prosecutor get away with as much as was legally advisable, do your best to sit and look stupid.

A great idea, in concept, that was suddenly falling apart.

After a moment, Alex stated very clearly, "I'm happy with my counsel," then collapsed into his chair.

And so it went for the remainder of the morning. An hour break for lunch before Caldwell resumed calling more witnesses who confirmed and reconfirmed and elaborated powerfully on the inescapable fact that Alex Konevitch was a crook, a flight risk, a criminal who had to be incarcerated or he would flee and never be heard from again. Three FBI agents were paraded to the stand, followed by two Foreign Service officers with recent experience in Russia, each of whom had observed firsthand the public furor caused when Konevitch disappeared with the money.

MP politely and firmly declined to cross-examine each one. The clock read 4:30 when the last prosecution witness was excused from the stand.

Judge Willis checked his watch, then said, "Sidebar with the opposing attorneys."

MP and Caldwell joined His Honor in a small, tight cluster beside the bench.

The judge glared at MP. "Did you not in fact submit this motion for habeas corpus?" he whispered.

"I certainly did, Your Honor," MP whispered back.

"Why, Mr. Jones?"

"Why? Because my client has been incarcerated in federal prison for fourteen months. He's been bounced through three different prisons, each progressively more hazardous and miserable than the last. He's been submitted to several bouts of solitary confinement, and deliberately assigned cellmates categorized as Level Five inmates. I'm sure you're aware that prisoners reach this distinctive category only after they prove they are a grave danger to other inmates and to the guards. In short, somebody in our federal government wants my client dead or willing to submit to instantaneous deportation."

"Those are grave charges."

"I believe that's an understatement."

"Now, may I be blunt with you?"

MP nodded.

Still in whispers, His Honor unleashed a day's worth of quiet anger. "Since you requested this hearing, you are supposed to do something other than sit and doodle on a yellow pad, Mr. Jones. The American legal system is designed to allow a spirited defense. You are obligated to occasionally object to statements that are challengeable, and cross-examine witnesses and poke holes in points you believe are contestable or unsubstantiated. I am dismayed by your behavior. I find it egregiously outrageous and, frankly, incompetent."

"I apologize. I promise I'll try to appear more engaged."

"I'm sure your client will appreciate that."

He turned to Caldwell, who was biting back a smile. He could barely contain himself. His bosses had warned him that Jones was wily and tough and full of surprises. This was the guy, after all, who booted Kim Parrish's ass out of the ballpark. "Hey, who's the tough guy now?" the scourge of Mexico wanted to ask. He was tempted to move two inches from Jones's face and just break out into laughter.

"Mr. Caldwell, do you have more witnesses?"

In fact, three more he planned to question that afternoon. But, hey, what the hell-he could dispense with all of them. After the catastrophic damage he had administered-none of it challenged, all cleanly admitted-why pile more humiliation on top of ten thousand tons of misery? They were nothing more than confirmation witnesses, here to build on already well-substantiated facts. The judge was ready to rule in his favor right now.

"One more. It can wait till morning."

"Then unless you gentlemen disagree I intend to adjourn until nine a.m. tomorrow."

Neither attorney objected in the least.

His Honor looked at MP again. The look was anything but kindly and compassionate. "You had better do some soul-searching tonight. You requested this hearing. If I don't see a spirited attempt on your client's behalf in the morning, I'll cite you for contempt." The instant the judge dismissed the court and the side door closed behind him, the mad scramble was on. Like the shot that starts a race, Caldwell scuttled for the door. He raced through the wide hallways, shoved open the huge outer doors, and nearly lost his balance as he went careening down the big steps.

Three dozen cameras and reporters converged on him at once. He pushed back his hair and produced his most handsome smile for the friendly cameras. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Jason Caldwell, and I'm prosecuting this case. I'm sure you have lots of questions. One at a time, and don't interrupt my replies."

Tromble crashed out the doors just as Caldwell finished his windup. Without even glancing back, Caldwell very smoothly said, "Surely you all recognize our beloved FBI director. He has been providing assistance to me on this case. Limited assistance, though it has been somewhat helpful. I just want to express my appreciation. If you haven't heard, in fact, he will be my first witness tomorrow morning."

Tromble wanted to punch him. Grab his throat and begin throttling. Instead he forced a smile, produced a firm, dutiful salute for the cameras, and sprinted off to his limousine, yelling over his shoulder, "Sorry, I don't have time for questions."

Caldwell remained on the steps for two hours. No question was too trivial to answer. No reporter too insignificant for an endearing smile and a long, thoughtful reply. He bravely withstood the fury of interest until the reporters remembered their deadlines and wandered off into the Washington evening.