The trial opened on time. By 9:15, John Tromble was seated in the witness chair, duly sworn to honesty, waiting impatiently for this snotty, pretty-boy, headline-robbing prosecutor to kick it in gear.
The moment was historic, unprecedented, actually. No FBI director had ever sat in a witness chair-or, more accurately, none not accused of crimes themselves. One more groundbreaking achievement to tack on to the growing legend.
The evening news the night before had been an Alex fest. Every morning paper on the East Coast led off with the story about the Russian runaway millionaire who had been dragged out of the Watergate-a national landmark of sorts, after all-and was fighting deportation and a long-overdue appointment with justice in his own land. Legal experts held sway on the evening and late-night talk shows, and were still there, sipping coffee and yammering away, for the morning shows as well. Maybe they slept at the networks.
The general consensus was that Alex's legal team was getting its tail kicked and the result appeared inevitable. The only objection came from a big-time radical, highly esteemed member of the Harvard Law faculty, who posed the perverse theory that if Alex Konevitch was a foreign citizen, American courts had no purview over him. After getting laughed off two shows he disappeared back to his classroom.
Alex himself was back at the defense table, looking, if anything, more tragically decrepit and miserably ill-kempt than the day before. His beard was thicker, darker, more pronounced. Heavy circles under his eyes betrayed another long, sleepless night.
From the stand, Tromble stole a quick look at him, then quietly suppressed another smile. A few of the morning articles had mentioned his instinctive reaction as he entered the court the day before and first saw Alex; the mentions weren't overly flattering.
The pretty boy ambled up to the witness stand. "Could you please tell the court your name and title?"
It was a stupid, fatuous question, but Tromble played along. "Judge John Tromble, director of the FBI."
"And that would make you the nation's top law enforcement officer?"
"Technically, that honor belongs to the attorney general," he said with a condescending smile as if everybody should know this.
"Do you believe Alex Konevitch committed crimes in Russia that merit deportation?"
"I wouldn't know about the crimes. Russia's courts will decide that."
"But you reviewed the evidence against him?"
"My people reviewed it. I've seen summaries." Another fatuous question-Tromble obviously had more important things on his hands than sifting through piles of evidence.
"Is this evidence compelling?"
"Overwhelming."
"What would happen if Mr. Konevitch were to escape?" A slight frown. "I mean, escape again."
Tromble appeared thoughtful, as though he had never considered this possibility. "Well, it would be a flat-out disaster."
"Why?"
"Because a great deal of modern crime is international these days. Just as our corporations and businesses have expanded across borders, so have criminal syndicates. International police forces have to rely on each other."
"And you believe Mr. Konevitch's escape would hinder this cooperation?"
"He is what we would call a high-profile criminal back home. If we let him slip away, we would hear about it from the Russians in a million unfortunate ways. It would probably cripple our efforts against the new wave of Russian criminals."
"This is called reciprocity, is it not?"
"That's one word for it. If we want them to hand over our crooks, we have to hand over theirs. If we want their help to combat crime in our streets, we need to help them."
"That seems like common sense," Caldwell remarked, as if anybody would argue otherwise. "Now, why was Mr. Konevitch placed in federal detention?" Avoiding the "prison" word was a nice touch. Detention sounded so much more pleasant: little more than a mild inconvenience for Alex while things were sorted out.
"My understanding is that the immigration judge ordered this step. You should ask him why."
"Would you care to guess?"
Another thoughtful pause. "All right. The escape rate from federal facilities is demonstrably lower than county facilities. Our Russian friends tell us that Konevitch has hundreds of millions stashed away. Sad to say, he could probably buy his way out of almost any county jail in the country. And if he disappears again, he won't make the same mistake of living out in the open next time. I expect he would flee the country, change his name, maybe get a face-job, and find haven in a more criminal-friendly country, say Brazil, or a Pacific island. He's got plenty of money to spread around and buy favors and protection. It might be impossible to find and bring him to justice."
"Should he remain in prison? As a former federal judge, you're certainly qualified to answer."
Judge Willis's head snapped up and jerked hard to his left. The question was rude and an impertinent breach of protocol. True, this was Caldwell's first performance in a federal court. But he should still know better. And Tromble definitely knew better. If he answered, either way, it was an unforgivable violation of legal courtesy. This was, after all, what Willis was here to decide. Judges, even former ones, do not prejudge or inhibit or attempt to preempt other judges. Certainly never in public. And above all, not in their own courtrooms.
Tromble pretended he didn't see Willis or understand the slight, though he betrayed himself with a slight smile. "It would be an unimaginable blunder to let him out before his immigration status is decided. Only a fool would even consider it."
Willis's eyes shifted from Tromble to MP Jones. He exerted every pound of silent pressure he could muster to encourage the attorney to rise from that chair and unleash a loud, heated objection. Come on, boy, for godsakes, let him have it. The question and answer begged for an objection. Willis needed that objection. He so badly wanted a chance to slap down Tromble right here, in the presence of the entire court, that he nearly screamed objection himself.
Jones just sat, wide-eyed, listening attentively with a flat expression. At least for a change he wasn't idiotically scrawling doodles on that stupid legal pad. But not a word. Not so much as a raised eyebrow or parted lips.
"Your witness," Caldwell said, and nearly strutted back to his table.
Judge Willis continued to stare at MP. In a clenched tone that managed to convey both disapproval and regret, he commented, "I imagine Mr. Jones, in the interest of saving our time, has no desire to cross-examine."
Very slowly, MP pushed himself out of his seat. "Maybe a few questions, Your Honor."
"Well"-for a moment the judge was almost too stunned to reply-"proceed then."
MP didn't budge from his table. He glanced down at Alex, who seemed to shrug as if to say: Okay, why not?
"Mr. Tromble," he began, openly ignoring the official title, "your presence today suggests this is a very important case to you."
"More important than some, less than others," Tromble said, grinning and choosing a nice middle ground.
"As FBI director, at how many other trials have you appeared as a witness?"
Tromble wasted a moment rubbing a forefinger across his lower lip, as though this question required considerable thought. "I guess none."
"You guess?"
"All right, none."
"How'd this case come to your attention?"
"I don't exactly recall."
"You don't? Being the director of the FBI and all, I thought you were a smart guy. You recall nothing?"
"It might surprise you, but the FBI handles tons of cases a year. Nobody expects me to remember every detail."
"Do you recall any conversations with any Russian government officials about Alex Konevitch?"
He scratched his head. "Not exactly."
"Inexactly would be fine."
"I don't recall any."
"Then may we assume you did have such conversations, but just can't recall them?"
"No, you may not."
"Again, Mr. Tromble, did you or did you not discuss the Konevitch issue with the Russian government? Yes or no."
"No. If I did, it was only a passing reference."
MP lifted up a piece of paper from the desk and pretended to read from it. Then, in an annoying tone suggesting he knew everything, he asked, "That Russian colonel and head prosecutor, how'd they get over here?"
It was an old lawyer trick meant to rattle the witness. Tromble, an observant judge in his day, had seen it a thousand times. He handled it coolly, leaning back into his seat and replying, "The Russians have a compelling interest in this case. They were sent to help us prepare his extradition."
"Extradition? Do we have such a treaty with the Russians?"
"No. I… I misspoke."
"You mean you spoke your mind."
Caldwell showed none of MP's inclination against objections. "Objection," he yelled, launching from his chair.
"Sustained."
MP turned back to the witness stand and shook his head. "All right, Mr. Tromble, describe your role in deciding which prisons Mr. Konevitch would be incarcerated in."
"That was decided by the attorney general."
"You had no input? None?"
"Believe it or not, I stay fairly busy running the FBI. Federal prisons aren't my bailiwick."
With a condescending roll of his eyes, MP said, "Oops. That was another of those troublesome yes-or-no questions, Mr. Tromble."
"All right, no." Strictly speaking, the truth, although he looked uncomfortable.
MP bounced back to the issue of Colonel Volevodz and the team of Russian prosecutors. "Who paid for their trip? Who handled their expenses?"
"How would I know?"
"That was going to be my next question," MP answered skeptically.
Tromble lived by the motto "better to give than receive," and the derisive tone from this pip-squeak immigration lawyer was starting to grate on him. He gripped the sides of his chair and snapped at MP, "Was that a question?"
"If it makes you uncomfortable, we'll come back to it later."
MP went on for another two hours, bouncing quickly from subject to subject, tossing in as many insinuations as he could get away with. Occasionally he returned to an old topic, forcing Tromble to plow and replow old ground. Same questions, repeated with minor variations, and saturated with a rising tone of disbelief.
Caldwell objected as often as he dared, most often simple harassment objections intended to disrupt the flow, but eventually the judge warned him to cool it.
After two hours, Tromble was tired of sitting in the same hard wooden chair. He was tired of this disrespectful lawyer, tired of this Russian crook fighting an overdue trip back to Russia, and tired of the rude questions. He was tired of the judge, tired of the entire routine. He regretted he had subjected himself to this. He squirmed in his chair but couldn't seem to find a comfortable position.
MP suddenly left his position behind the defense table and moved to a place about two feet from Tromble. He paused very briefly, then leaned in. "Mr. Tromble, I'm a forgetful type. Did I hear you take an oath to tell the truth on this stand?" MP paused for effect. "The whole truth, absent equivocations, quibbles, or bald deceptions."
That was it. Tromble shifted his bulk forward and nearly spit in Jones's face. "Don't you dare lecture me on integrity, you twobit mouthpiece. I'm a respected public servant. I will not be addressed this way by you. If you have another question you will call me Judge or Mr. Director. Those are my titles."
MP smiled. "You may go, Mr. Tromble."
Tromble leaned back into the chair. He planted his feet and didn't budge, not about to let this third-rate legal loser boss him around.
After a moment, Judge Willis leaned over and said very loudly and very firmly, "Mr. Tromble, if you're not out of my witness chair in three seconds, I'll cite you for contempt." Lunch was a welcome reprieve. Alex and Elena were led into a small conference room and allowed to share a quiet meal in privacy. Outside, two deputies manned the door. Ham sandwiches, a fat deli pickle, chips, and ice-cold sodas, all bought and delivered by the court, were waiting in paper bags on the long conference table.
MP and his PKR pals lunched in a separate conference room three doors down. After fourteen months apart, Alex and Elena deserved a little time together, they figured. Left unsaid was that it might be the last time, and they should be allowed this last chance to be alone.
Besides, MP had a few testy legal issues about rules of evidence he wanted to bang out with the guns from the big firm. He had picked up a few lazy habits in immigration court that could get the book thrown at him in a federal venue. The afternoon would be the decisive battle-it would be very touch and go-and the boys from PKR wanted to iron out any kinks.
Caldwell, they knew, was eating with a Post reporter in a fancy restaurant a few blocks over, conducting a premature tutorial about his brilliant and inevitable victory. A PI employed by PKR followed him every time he left the court, and via cell phone kept his bosses apprised. Easy work, since the INS prosecutor, shipped in from out west and acclimated to the relative geniality of immigration courts, was too naive to understand how things were played in the big leagues. At that moment, the nosy PI was seated one table over, enjoying a cheeseburger and Coke; Caldwell was a loud braggart and PKR's gumshoe was whispering into a cell phone and relaying every word of importance to a junior PKR associate in the hallway, who raced in and informed his bosses inside the conference room. PKR played for keeps.
Caldwell was oblivious to what was coming. He should be in a tense, sweaty huddle with the best and brightest at Justice, preparing for the assault Alex had gone to over a year's worth of difficult trouble to prepare. While Caldwell munched away on a cucumber salad, sipped a large diet Pepsi, and prattled on about his courtroom mastery, a surprise attack was being prepared.
A last-ditch effort was the only way to describe it, a desperate throw of the dice they would never contemplate against a more seasoned and tested brawler. It was a wild-haired idea of the sort that could come only from a legal novice-Alex himself.
After five days of painful consideration, the pros from PKR warned that it should be attempted only as a last resort.
Its only chance was to catch the government flat-footed. The moment the conference room door closed behind them, Alex and Elena kissed and hugged. Then Elena stepped back and said, "Mikhail called this morning. The news from Moscow is good."
"Describe good."
"Golitsin and Nicky Kozyrev were shot dead last night."
"How?" No smile, no satisfied grin-just "How?"
"Mikhail did everything you asked. He talked Yuri Khodorin into putting up five million for Nicky's death. An easy sell. You said it would be, and it was. Yuri was fed up with his people being butchered, and tired of Nicky Kozyrev trying to destroy his business."
"Who killed him?"
"He killed himself, Alex."
"How poetic. And Golitsin?"
"This is just a guess on Mikhail's part, okay?"
Alex nodded.
"Nicky learned about the bounty on his head. I mean, he was meant to learn about it, wasn't he? He apparently assumed Golitsin was behind it."
"No trust among thieves. Let me guess, Kozyrev repaid the favor?"
She nodded.
After a moment, Alex asked, "And Tatyana Lukin? What about her?"
"Fired and arrested. The tapes and photos Mikhail gave her former boyfriend worked like magic. He also sacked the attorney general."
Alex finally allowed himself a smile. He had caused two deaths and destroyed two lives. Of course, they had tried to kill him, numerous times, and made his life as miserable as they could. The smile was distant and cold, though-the grim smile of a very different man from a few years before. "So that's it," Alex said. "No more enemies in Moscow."
"We're safe from them forever, Alex. We only have to worry about here."
Alex stared down at his flip-flops a moment. He asked Elena, "How much time do we have left?"
She checked her watch. "Forty-five minutes, more or less."
He walked to the table and picked up a chair. He carried it to the door and jammed it quietly but firmly in place underneath the large brass knob.
He turned around and looked at Elena. "Are you hungry?"
"Not in the least. You?"
The food was shoved out of the way. Elena's pantsuit flew off in two seconds; the prison suit took even less time. They landed on the tabletop and put their heart and soul into using forty minutes to make up for fourteen months apart.
Left unsaid, but certainly understood by both of them, was that this might be their last time. MP called his first witness.
The rear door of the courtroom opened and Kim Parrish walked quickly down the aisle. Caldwell's head spun around so fast he nearly snapped his neck. He traded a look with Tromble, now seated directly to his rear.
Neither man was the least bit happy to see her.
She was duly identified and sworn in, then sat perfectly still in the witness chair while MP warmed up.
"You're an attorney?"
"Yes."
"And you worked at the INS legal office?"
"Same place you used to work. The district office that includes the District of Columbia."
"And you once handled the case of Alex and Elena Konevitch?" "At one time I was the lead attorney for their persecution-I mean, prosecution," Kim replied, deliberately mixing up her nouns. She looked at Alex. He smiled and offered a thankful nod.
"But no longer?"
"No."
"Why not? Isn't it unusual to be removed from a case you initiated and took to immigration court?"
"Nearly unheard of. I asked to be reassigned from the case."
MP raised an eyebrow. "You asked? From such a big, important case? Why? I imagine any INS lawyer would die for a case like this. All this attention, all those hungry reporters out on the steps. Mr. Caldwell, over there, is so giddy he can barely contain himself."
"Objection," Caldwell howled, scowling at MP.
"Sustained."
MP ignored Caldwell and acted like the objection was meaningless. "Why did you ask to be removed, Miss Parrish?"
"Because… because, over time, I became convinced Mr. Konevitch was being-"
"Objection!" Caldwell yelled again, nearly bouncing up and down in his chair.
"Grounds?"
"Miss Parrish is in violation of attorney-client privilege."
"Sidebar," the judge snapped. The huddle formed beside the bench.
MP brought Matt. Because he didn't want to be outnumbered, Caldwell brought Bill, one of the useless Justice boys who did his best to appear fierce and disguise his general sentiment, which was thoroughly confused. He had no idea who this lady was, what was at issue, and even less idea of his role in this case.
The judge examined the four faces, then whispered to Caldwell, "Make your argument."
"Her knowledge of this case was gained through her employment by her client, the state."
"Mr. Jones?"
"Her employment was terminated. She's free to testify as she likes."
"She remains bound by her oath as an attorney," Caldwell insisted.
"You should have thought about that before you people sacked her," MP shot back.
"I'm inclined to agree with Mr. Caldwell," the judge intervened, strongly wanting to do the opposite, but he couldn't will the law against Caldwell's side.
"I'll restrict my questions," MP said, trying to mask his disappointment. Matt nodded at him. Good move.
"She should be dismissed," Caldwell complained.
"She's a private citizen now. She can testify," His Honor said. "But within limits. Be careful, Mr. Jones."
"I'll be watching," Caldwell sneered at MP.
"Watch hard," MP sneered back. "I enjoy an attentive audience."
They returned to their respective seats. MP spent a moment rearranging his thoughts, then asked, "Miss Parrish, do you recall a team of Russians sent over to help with this case?"
"I do, yes. Five of them in all. An investigator and four prosecutors."
"And do you recall who paid for this?"
"The FBI."
"All of it?"
"Yes, their full expenses. They've been here about a year."
"Where are they staying? Such a long way from home, what are they doing? Don't they get bored?"
Kim's eyes narrowed. She sent her answer like a rocket straight at Tromble. "At the Madison Hotel. Four of them, in separate thousand-dollar-a-night suites. For almost a year now, and they've racked up incredible bills. They eat at our most expensive restaurants, fly away first-class to Vegas every weekend, whoring, gambling, and drinking unimaginable amounts of liquor. Every bit of it is billed to the FBI."
"A rough estimate. How much would you guess the FBI has wasted on these crooked clowns?"
"Objection, Your Honor."
"Sustained. Watch your language, Mr. Jones. How much, Miss Parrish?"
"Millions. Many millions of taxpayer money. As I said, they've been here a year, living like spoiled kings."
MP returned to his seat.
Frankly there was no reason on earth for Caldwell to cross-examine Kim Parrish. His earlier, well-timed objection had slipped a noose around MP and put her in a box. No real damage had been done. Who cared about the Russians? Let them impregnate half the showgirls in Vegas. Bet the whole national treasury and lose it in a bad roll of the dice. Big deal. It had nothing to do with whether Konevitch should remain in prison.
But he was angered that Kim Parrish chose to turn on her own department. It was betrayal and he damn well knew how to make her pay for it. Time for a little discreditation.
He stood and asked, "How did you become a defense witness?"
"I don't understand the question."
"It's very simple. Did Mr. Jones contact you, or vice versa?"
"I contacted him. After I was-"
Before she could finish that thought, Caldwell cut her off. "Are you still employed at the INS, Miss Parrish?"
"No, I quit."
"You mean you were fired. You went to Mr. Jones because you were angry and wanted revenge."
"I mean I quit. Then Mr. Tromble fired me."
"No, you were fired by the director of the INS."
"I don't recall you being in the room. I was fired by Mr. Tromble because he refused to allow me to resign from what I considered a shoddy case."
Caldwell immediately turned red. He looked at the judge. "Strike that response from the record."
"You asked the question," the judge replied, "and you challenged her to elaborate. I'll allow it."
A stupid mistake. But so what? The damage was minimal. An ambiguous little defeat in the midst of a big, clear-cut victory. At least his well-timed objection had smothered her from exposing the really damaging stuff.
Kim was dismissed and MP called his next witness. Parrish walked back up the aisle and was passed by a poorly dressed, diminutive man slowly shambling in the opposite direction.
Petri Arbatov was sworn and seated.
MP spent a moment walking him through his background-for the edification of the judge and audience, he dwelled on it at some length. KGB for twenty years before his sudden defection. A law degree from Moscow University, but no mention of the law degree from Catholic University.
MP didn't ask, and Petri didn't offer.
The crowd in the court hung on every word. With few exceptions, none had ever seen a real live KGB agent, up close and personal. Petri was their first peek at a living, breathing KGB agent-and he looked so small, so crushed, so sad. Who could believe this was the fierce demon portrayed in all those Cold War cinema thrillers and spy novels? Why hadn't we won the Cold War thirty years earlier? Having spent no time in courtrooms, Petri looked nervous and his opening responses were halting.
Next, a few warm-up questions to put the witness at greater ease. How Petri came in contact with this case, his interview with Kim Parrish, and so forth.
MP said, "So you were hired to translate the documents given to the INS, via the FBI?"
"It is how I make my living these days. I translate for American firms doing business in Russia."
"Are you still a practicing attorney?"
"No. I quit the profession sixteen years ago."
"Why?"
"The work I did for the KGB, I suppose. It left a certain taste."
"What kind of work would that be?"
Petri looked around the court for a moment and let the suspense build. "My job, Mr. Jones, was to frame people," he answered slowly, drawing out the words.
Petri spoke quietly, and the reporters bent forward as they spent a few minutes delving into that legal specialty. Fascinating stuff. People were on the edge of their seats, and never budged. How to frame a perfectly innocent man, ten easy steps to a sure-fire trip to a gulag, or worse.
Then, from MP, "And what did you conclude after you reviewed the material about Konevitch from Russia?"
"Objection," Caldwell barked.
"Grounds?" Willis asked, leaning his chin on his fist.
"Uh… attorney-client privilege again."
His Honor peeked down at Petri. "Remind me, please. Are you still a practicing attorney, sir?"
"Not for many, many years. These days I'm a simple translator."
MP confidently asked, "Did you sign a contract that precluded you from sharing what you learned?"
"No. I merely stated my price and Miss Parrish hired me."
The judge said, "Then overruled. Please answer the first question."
Petri looked at Alex seated at the table. "After looking at everything, I concluded that Mr. Konevitch was being framed."
"Why?"
"There is a certain stench to such things, Mr. Jones."
"An odor? An actual smell? Explain that."
Petri directed a finger at Colonel Volevodz seated at the rear, now in his capacity as an official observer. "Take that man, Mr. Jones. He might tell you he works at the Ministry of Security, but he was definitely career KGB before this. He might claim he's merely enforcing the law, but his hands are covered with blood. It's a stink no shower will erase."
Every neck in the court craned to examine Volevodz. A more charming man might have smiled or chuckled disarmingly-at a minimum shaken his head in pretended disbelief. Volevodz tried to bore holes through Petri with his skinny, mean little eyes.
Oh yeah, no doubt about it. There's the guy from the Hollywood thrillers-KGB down to his undershorts.
"But the documents?" MP asked. "Did they actually smell?"
"Well, you see, the key is to produce a perfect case. These four prosecutors your FBI is caring for, they are experts at this. That's exactly what they did."
MP led him through this for a while, the craftsmanship of how to string a noose with lies, forgeries, and planted evidence. Then he shifted on a dime and asked, "Incidentally, were you present when Miss Parrish was fired?"
"I was there, yes. Seated right beside her. But she wasn't fired."
"The prosecutor claimed she was."
"He's wrong, or he's lying. She quit."
"Why did she quit?"
"She reported to her boss that this case was phony. Cooked up. A sham."
MP paused to allow this to sink in, then asked, "What happened?"
"She is an honorable person, Mr. Jones. She did something I never had the courage to do."
"Which was what, Mr. Arbatov?"
"She tried to get the case dropped."
MP affected a look of huge surprise. "The attorney in charge wanted it dropped?"
"Yes."
"Well… why wasn't it dropped?"
"She was brought into a room with that man"-he pointed out Tromble, who was trying desperately to ignore him-"and her INS bosses. She begged them to drop the case. They refused quite rudely. She then asked to be reassigned, as is the prerogative, indeed, the responsibility of any attorney who believes a case is improper. They yelled at her. She resigned, then that man"-another damning finger aimed at Tromble-"screamed at her that she was fired."
MP thanked him and walked away. Petri sat quietly and looked at Alex. Alex looked back, nodding his head, a silent acknowledgment to an old countryman who had refound his conscience.
When offered the chance to cross-examine, Caldwell passed. He knew next to nothing about Petri Arbatov. What he did know was that the man was a legal minefield, and further questioning would only reinforce the damage.
Besides, the damage wasn't really that bad. Tromble looked like a mean horse's ass; like that was news to anybody. And maybe he lied a little on the stand. But that was Tromble's problem, not Caldwell's.
Frankly, the more he thought about it, Caldwell was quite pleased. There was room for only one ego on this side of the case-one shining exemplar of truth and justice-and this skinny, tired little Russian just blew Tromble right out of the saddle.
When time came for the summary, Caldwell would strongly note how the Russian "expert" had offered an opinion-not a fact, but a baseless opinion pulled out of thin air after concluding the case was, in his own words, too perfect. And he was heavily outnumbered. The word of a self-confessed framer of innocent men against that of the entire Russian government; a reformed, democratic government, he would stipulate quite loudly, not the corrupt old dictatorship this Petri Arbatov had sent people to the gallows for.
The little Russian was released and he nearly bounced out of his chair. He and Volevodz exchanged hateful looks as Petri passed up the aisle. MP announced that he had no more witnesses.
MP remained standing, though. He looked at the judge and asked, "Could we have a moment, Your Honor?"
"Take all the time you need," Willis replied, strongly intimating that time was not on his side.
Alex stood, too, then Matt, and for a moment they gathered in a tight triangle and conferred in tense whispers.
"What do you think?" Alex asked MP.
"We're in trouble. Big trouble," MP told him bluntly. "Kim was our star witness. But Caldwell blocked us from unloading her most damaging testimony."
"You don't think Petri repaired that?" Alex asked, searching their faces.
Matt, the pro with years of big-time criminal experience answered for both lawyers. "Caldwell will cream him in his closing. I certainly would. The opinion of a man who admitted framing people against the word of an entire government. The issue is credence, Alex."
MP nodded at this candid observation. "That's exactly what he'll do. If I try to counter it in my closing, it'll only sound defensive."
"Then let's go with it," Alex stated very firmly.
MP and Matt exchanged looks. Both had badly hoped to avoid Alex's proposal. Legally speaking, it was fraught with difficulties. After a moment, Matt mentioned to MP, "He hides it well, but I think the judge is sympathetic."
MP nodded. Not enthusiastically, but nonetheless it was a nod.
Alex said to both of them, "It's all or nothing. Bluff, and do your best."
"I hope you're the lucky type," Matt replied, clearly believing this was crazy.
"He wouldn't be here if he was lucky," MP replied dryly.
Alex and Matt fell into their seats. MP remained standing. Finally, he announced somewhat hesitantly, "I'd like to submit a little evidence."
Matt handed him a tape player, a compact Bose system with small but thunderously powerful speakers. Alex arranged the system on his table, carefully directing the speakers toward the prosecutor's table, while the bailiff strung an extension cord and plugged it in. Next Matt handed Alex a tray loaded with about twenty cassettes. Alex noodled through the tapes and finally settled on one that he carefully withdrew. MP took it and inserted it neatly into the recorder. Alex's finger hovered over the start button as MP said, "This is a phone call to Miss Tatyana Lukin, special assistant to the Kremlin chief of staff. She's a lawyer who also serves as legal advisor to Boris Yeltsin." Alex stabbed play.
First, the sound of a ringing telephone.
"What? Who is this?" A woman's voice in Russian, and the annoyed tone came across loud and clear.
"Please hold for the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." A female voice, bored, in English.
"Hello, Tatyana. Heard the news about your boy Konevitch? Made a big splash in the news on this side of the water."
"How did you get my home number?"
"When I couldn't get you at the office, my boys in the embassy tracked it down."
"All right. Yes, I see that you've got him in jail. Why haven't you just shipped him here?"
"It's complicated. Not as easy as I thought. Listen, I need a big favor."
"John, you promised me Konevitch."
"Well, just listen. Some of these judges here are pigheaded. I need you to cook up a case for me."
"Why?"
"Because I can't just throw his ass on a plane. Look, Tatyana, I really don't care about the details. Understand? Come on, your guys are supposed to be real good at this sort of thing."
"What sort of thing is that, John?"
A long silence. "Look, give me whatever you like, just be damned sure it sounds convincing."
"Is this absolutely necessary?"
"Probably not. He goes back to court in a week. No way in hell he won't be deported. But the judge might act crazily. Call it a precaution, insurance."
Caldwell finally came to his senses and, doing something he should've done a minute before, yelled, "Objection, objection."
Alex reached over and cranked the volume up full blast until it drowned out Caldwell's voice. The voices on the tape howled out of the speakers and filled the courtroom.
"You can keep him in jail, can't you? A lot of powerful people here are opposed to letting you keep the FBI outpost in your embassy. I'm doing my best, but, John, it's a real uphill battle. Such a clear lack of mutual cooperation won't go over well."
An unintelligible mumble from Tromble before she cut him off. "President Yeltsin asked me about this case just yesterday. He keeps asking if he needs to discuss it with your president."
"Hey, we'll find a way. I don't care if I have to bribe the judge or kill his wife. I'll find a way."
Caldwell was now on his feet, screaming "Objection!" at the top of his voice.
Alex pushed stop. The tape finally went quiet, though it seemed to echo for a long moment. He glanced around and studied the faces in the court.
Tromble was melting into this chair. Every eye in the court was on him.
Directly to his front, Caldwell spent a long moment in terrified confusion. Eventually he repeated, an octave higher but more quietly this time, "Objection, Your Honor."
"Sidebar," the judge replied and scrambled off his bench. Again Matt accompanied MP, and this time he added Alex to his entourage. Again one of the Justice boys accompanied Caldwell, who arrived red-faced and furious.
"Lawyer's meeting," Caldwell snapped, directing a finger at Alex. "He has no business here."
"His presence is necessary to establish the provenance of the tapes," MP answered very nicely. "This is a hearing, not a trial. What do you say, Your Honor?"
"That might be a good idea," Willis answered, still a little shocked by what he had heard.
"That's clearly an illegal, inadmissible tape," Caldwell snapped, at the judge, at MP, at anybody in earshot.
"To the contrary," MP argued in a voice dripping with phony confidence, "it's legal and quite admissible."
"Was it taped with the consent of the conversants?" Caldwell demanded.
"That's American law," MP replied with a smug smile, trying to bluff his way through.
Alex quickly interjected. "This tape was made in Russia. Russians are allowed to tape and wiretap to their heart's content. No law bans it. In fact, it's our national pastime."
Caldwell had no idea whether that was true or not. "Your Honor, please," he pleaded, "it's blatantly inadmissible. Obviously the product of a wiretap."
His Honor looked at MP. "Well?"
"Yesterday, the prosecution introduced into evidence a wiretap provided by the Russian chief prosecutor. It concerned the supposed activities of Orangutan Media. I didn't challenge him on whether the tape was the product of a legal warrant, and am now dismayed that he's even making this argument. He established the precedent. I should be accorded equal latitude."
"Do you have more tapes, Mr. Konevitch?"
"About twenty here. Another fifty or so in a safe-deposit box." "Are you requesting to play all of them?"
"Not at all," Alex replied. "My wife and I picked out the most damning ones."
"These are all conversations between Tromble and this lady?"
"No, just one more of those," MP insisted, borrowing a bit of Alex's confidence. "I'd love to play it. It's the one where Tromble brags to this lady about all the terrible prisons he's sending Alex to. He promises her that he will keep my client suffering until he snaps, until he begs to be returned to Russia."
"And what material's on the rest of the tapes?"
"Tatyana Lukin had two… well, I guess you'd call them business partners."
"Go on."
"Nicky Kozyrev, a notorious syndicate chief. This is a guy with Interpol and Russian police records long enough to stock a library. And General Sergei Golitsin, a former KGB deputy director hired by Alex as his corporate chief of security."
"These are phone conversations?"
"Some," Alex replied. "Most were captured as the three of them sat in back of a fancy limousine."
"And their role in this affair?"
It was time for the lawyers to take over, and MP answered, "Glad you asked. They stole Alex's money and his companies. Then they framed him. Then they orchestrated his persecution here."
"And these tapes prove those accusations?"
"I'll leave that for you to decide."
"And how did you come by these tapes?"
"My client."
"And how did you acquire them?" he asked, peering now at Alex.
"I hired a private detective. He did the taping and sent them to me."
After a moment of quiet consideration, the judge suggested, "Let me tell you what worries me, Mr. Jones. For all I know, your client had those tapes produced by actors."
It was Matt Rivers's turn at bat and he opened with a mighty swing. "My firm had the tapes analyzed over the weekend by a reputable laboratory. A clip of Tromble doing a TV interview was compared against the tape you just heard. Perfect match. Identical voice print. That analysis is included in our submission."
"I see."
"Also, they compared Miss Lukin's voice from the tape you just heard against the remaining tapes. It's her speaking to Tromble, and it's her speaking with her co-conspirators."
"And these tapes are in Russian?"
Matt's turn again. "We hired three actors to role-play in English. We're submitting the originals as well. You can check the accuracy of the translations if you wish. No expense was spared. They're quite good."
Matt couldn't wait for the judge to plow through them. The actors were professionals, used by New York publishers to make audiobooks. Over a very busy weekend, they rehearsed together for hours. Not only did they reproduce the conversations with passion, conviction, and fluidity, but they captured the small but important details that add a certain verisimilitude. The sounds of Nicky's furious snorts. The menace in Golitsin's voice. The woman who did Tatyana was nothing short of spectacular, a purr so spot-on you could almost picture her seductiveness.
Caldwell looked like a whipped dog. It was obvious which way the judge was leaning. His case was falling apart before his eyes. He could do nothing to prevent it. The sad truth was, he was dying to hear the tapes himself.
The judge said, "I want to hear them in my chambers before I decide. I expect both of you want to be present," he said, looking at the lawyers, then at Alex. "Not you. This is a matter for lawyers to hash out."
Three minutes later, court was adjourned until further notice. The solemn-faced judge issued one last ominous instruction: Tromble would be present when the court reconvened. It was an unchristian sentiment, and he felt mildly guilty about it, but Tromble had done him no favors, and he fully intended to repay it.
The judge and lawyers disappeared to his chambers. The reporters straggled out to join their colleagues on the front steps where they would share the incredible events of the morning and file as much as they could before court reconvened. Within minutes, the legal talking heads were back in the studios, on the air, sharing updates, squawking away, and shoving opinions and predictions at whoever cared to listen. The opinions were divided and, hotly debated.
Half thought the judge might make a rare exception since this was, after all, only a habeas corpus hearing, where the benefit of the doubt normally leaned toward the accused. The other half claimed the defense didn't have a prayer.
Court reconvened four hours later. The reporters were notified and they bickered and fought with one another for choice seats, or even standing room at the crowded rear of the room. Would the judge allow that first tape? If so, what was on the others? And the big question of the day was, how screwed was John Tromble, director of the FBI? The sense of curiosity was running at fever pitch. The studios were screaming for updates the moment a decision was rendered.
With grim faces, the lawyers marched out and fell into their chairs. Alex was led back to the defense table after four long hours of cooling his heels in a holding cell. He had, however, showered, shaved, trimmed his own hair, and changed into a respectable suit and tie. The time had come, he decided, to present a before-and-after shot for the viewers.
And the contrast between the downtrodden criminal and this towering, clean-cut, handsome man at the table was indeed striking. You saw what they did to me, his old self screamed-now look at what I was before the power of the state fell on my head.
The side door opened. Willis hefted his robes and walked up to his bench. He appeared sad, furious, shaken, and slightly nervous.
Court was brought to order and things settled down quickly. Willis stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his usual habit before rendering his decisions. A powerfully affecting moment-the former priest searching for guidance and wisdom from on high. Tromble, by contrast, looked perfectly miserable, squirming in his seat, unable to get comfortable.
The eyes came down. "After listening to all the tapes and giving the issue due consideration, I've decided to accept the tapes into evidence."
Alex leaned far back into his chair. Elena actually released a squeal of joy.
But as the court had heard only one tape, the significance of this decision was mysterious. The reporters remained mute.
He looked at Alex. "Sir, will you please stand?"
MP squeezed Alex's arm. The "sir" seemed to be a good sign. He stood.
"Let me begin by expressing my deepest apologies." Willis adjusted his robes and paused briefly. "Let me add a strong personal recommendation. I expect you and your attorney to file a civil suit against the FBI and Department of Justice. You have been wronged, sir. No amount of money will make up for it but it won't hurt, either."
Tromble was seated in his chair, struggling to square the competing demands of appearing confident and powerful while trying also to be completely invisible.
The judge then began addressing the court, speaking quite loudly, and ever so clearly, so that even the farthest reporter in the back wouldn't miss a word or legal nuance. He began with a long summary of everything on the tapes. He had notes, though he referred to them only rarely, primarily when a precise quote was preferred over a generalized summary. There had been a conspiracy of staggering proportions in Moscow; Konevitch was its first victim. His fortune was stolen, his companies taken away, only after he was brutally tortured. The conspiracy reached into the highest offices in the Kremlin; "we have these problems ourselves sometimes," the judge explained, "Teapot Dome, Watergate, Iran-Contra, and so on. This case represents another of those watershed historical embarrassments."
He shared the names of the conspirators, struggling with the Russian names, and outlined their scheme. Next he spent a few moments dwelling on how exactly American law enforcement got duped into being a tool for the conspirators. A good duping requires a gullible dupe, he pointed out; the director of the FBI was that man. A quick description of the quid pro quo: they get Alex, whatever the costs; Tromble gets to sprinkle a few more agents in Moscow. A brief summary of how Tromble violated countless laws and procedures to persecute Alex and Elena Konevitch. There were too many breaches for the judge to count, but a full accounting would be prepared later by competent figures with enough time to wade through all the tapes and other evidence.
In effect, the INS, the FBI, and the Justice Department-the very people represented by the attorneys at the prosecution table-were suddenly branch offices of a cabal of evil people in a foreign land. MP had offered the judge a few pointers back in the chambers, and he threw out some of the more egregious ones: the constant shuffling through increasingly miserable prisons to turn up the heat; punishments inflicted by various wardens under orders from Washington; wiretaps in their apartment; illegal searches; the senseless destruction of their home and property; their money seized by the federal government and their business enterprise shut down and bankrupted.
For ten minutes, not a soul looked bored or even mildly inattentive. Twice the director of the FBI tried to walk out-both times he made a meek retreat back to his position after a stern and angry judge issued a strong warning.
Jason Caldwell sulked in his chair and listened to the bright, shining future he had envisioned collapse in ruins. He could see the evening news that night; him holding forth on the courthouse steps, the picture of brimming confidence promising a quick, punishing victory; then flash to a bunch of mealymouthed legal monkeys dissecting his overwhelming destruction in court. He knew it was going to be horrible-absolutely horrible.
He was right; it was.
Judge Willis ended with another long apology to Alex, then ordered his immediate release from custody.
He grabbed his robes and left.
Tromble dug his heels in and rushed for the door, shoving aside reporters who were bombarding him with questions. He turned to a deputy in the hallway. "Is there a back entrance to this place?"
The deputy smiled. "Sure is."
"Where?"
"Find it yourself, you prick." The kisses, hugs, and relieved expressions of appreciation at the defense table-along with a round robin of the usual victorious congratulations among Alex, Elena, MP, Matt, and Marvin-lasted five minutes. Marvin eventually lifted a stately arm and quieted them down. The old pro got a strong grip on Alex's arm and solemnly pledged he would personally file and oversee the suits against the FBI, Justice, and INS.
One big suit, a monstrous case for compensatory damages, he promised with a gleam in his eyes.
"What are our chances, and when's the payoff?" asked Alex, ever the businessman.
Marvin smiled and rubbed his hands. "It's not a question of chances or when," he replied. "How much is the only question." He would demand and fight with conviction for ten million; after enough blood was shed, he would give them a break and settle at five million.
"Still pro bono?" Alex asked.
Marvin flashed a ruthless grin. "Not a chance."
Elena said to Marvin, quite firmly, "But you will forget your usual third. You'll take twenty percent or I swear I'll hire another firm tonight."
One look at her and Marvin had absolutely no doubt she meant every word. "Deal."
A mob of reporters descended and was driven off only after MP solemnly vowed he would stand on the courtroom steps all night. They could ask questions to their heart's content and he would bloviate until the moon came out. Before the night was over, he would be booked on five talk shows, and take calls from six book agents and five movie studio chiefs.
Marvin called the lawyers together into a tight huddle. They spent a brief moment trading ideas back and forth, planning what would be a very busy morning of filings.
When they turned around, Alex and Elena were gone.