The Hunted, page 43
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.
32
It was called the Tsar’s Suite. At an enormous five thousand square feet, it was furnished with rare and wondrous antiques, loaded with marble and teak, and crammed to the rafters with a staggering array of personal luxuries. Two separate baths, either one big enough to swallow and wash a squadron of sweaty horses. An entire wall of picture windows overlooking the glorious Moskva River and Moscow’s twinkling lights.
The sumptuous dinner had been prepared by a four-star chef and delivered by three waiters who hung over the table, willing to cut the meat and spoon-feed the thoroughly spoiled customers. Whatever they wished for, a dollop landed on their plate, delivered by a gold ladle. A sip of wine and the crystal goblet was instantly topped off.
By ten, the chief of staff and his mistress were stuffed and sated, slightly lightheaded from the wine and champagne, ready to retire to the sumptuous pillow bed in the gargantuan bedroom. The chief dispatched the waiters with huge tips.
Tatyana was cradling a snifter of sherry and staring wistfully out the window at the sky full of stars. “This was a wonderful idea,” she said.
“Isn’t it?”
“The most romantic thing we’ve ever done.”
“What can I say? I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. I love you, love you, love you.”
He stared across the table at her. “Will you marry me?”
“I would love to.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Just… obviously not right now.”
“Why not now?”
“Yeltsin needs you. The country needs you. I won’t be a distraction from your important work.”
“I can handle it. After all, we see each other at work.”
They had been through this same argument a hundred times, a conversation they had rehearsed so often it was stale. A brief loving glance at her paramour. “But I’m not sure I can. We’ve been through this. In case you haven’t noticed, darling, I stay pretty busy, too.”
His elbows landed on the table. “You’re sure there’s nobody else?”
“Absolutely,” she snapped. She fell back on her usual defense, a deep pout. “Now you’re acting like a jealous idiot.”
He reached into a pocket, withdrew a photograph, and casually tossed it across the table. “Recognize this guy?”
She glanced down and didn’t flinch or so much as squint. “No.”
“Look again. You’re sure you don’t know him?”
She picked up the picture. “Who is he? He looks sort of cute.”
“Nobody. Just thought you might. Until yesterday, he was a star striker on our national soccer team.”
“Was?”
The chief began playing with a small fork. “That’s right, was. Seems he experienced a terrible accident. Collided with another player and broke his leg. Also destroyed ligaments in his knee… actually both knees, I’m told. Then somebody ran over him with cleats and broke his nose and kicked off an ear. Poor fellow. Such a rough sport. His soccer career is definitely over.”
Tatyana gripped the photograph a little harder.
Her boss said very amiably, “Just thought you might know or at least remember him.”
“I’m not a soccer fan. Why should I?”
“It seems he went to the same elementary and gymnasium as you. Same small village. Same age, too.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sasha Komenov.”
“I have a vague memory of the name.” A well-feigned expression of dawning recognition. “Oh, yes, I think I do remember. A chubby little boy covered with pimples. Obviously, he looks different now. We were all so young back then.”
Her boss swallowed a deep sip of sherry, then bit down hard on his lip. “How about a little music before we retire, dear?”
“Something romantic would be nice.” She sipped carefully from her sherry, trying not to vomit. Poor, poor Sasha. She stared out at the city lights and tried hard not to imagine how her boytoy looked with a blown-up nose and only one ear. She failed miserably. The image just wouldn’t disappear.
Her boss moved to the entertainment console, gritted his teeth, punched play on the tape machine, and waited for the sound of romance to start.
A moment later came the sounds of Tatyana and her freshly disfigured Sasha thrashing in the sheets and prattling away about what a disgusting, nauseating dork her boss was.
Tatyana spun around. She and her boss looked at each other for a moment, he with his eyes narrowed into betrayed slits, she unable to close her mouth. The damning tape droned on.
Tatyana screamed, “What in the hell is that?” She knew damn well what it was. Disaster. Her apartment was bugged. Some nosy-body had been listening and, worse, recording. But for how long? Who? How sloppy had she been, how much dirt was on those dreadful tapes?
She quickly ended up with the one question all lawyers ask at a moment like this: how screwed am I?
“That?” he answered, jerking down the volume. “Oh, just the sound of you being fired.”
“What? You can’t.”
He smiled. “Yes, I definitely can. Listen, it’s fun. I’ll do it again—you’re fired.” He pushed stop, and they stared at each other. Then, once more, because he loved the sound of it, “You’re fired.”
The snifter of sherry tumbled out of her hand, landed on the marble floor, and crashed into a thousand tiny shards. An apt metaphor to what was happening to her life. She bounced out of her chair, stamped a foot, and said, “Don’t be a fool. Without me, you won’t last two minutes. I’ve been carrying you for three years.”
“I won’t deny it.”
“While you and your pal Yeltsin have been keeping the vodka industry afloat, who do you think’s been keeping the office running?”
“Won’t deny that, either. You worked like a dog.”
She tried a smile. “Look, darling, we can get past this.”
“I already have. I hired your replacement this afternoon. A real clever young fellow with endless energy and an incredible knack for organization. He’ll be happily seated behind your desk in the morning.”
“You bastard.”
“You bitch.”
She grabbed her coat and began stomping for the door. She threw it open with a loud crash and immediately three men in blue uniforms lunged at her. They spun Tatyana around and slapped cuffs on her wrists. She tried screaming and thrashing, but it had no effect, and she soon stopped.
Her boss watched with fierce satisfaction, then mentioned to his former lover, “Ooops, did I fail to mention there’s a second tape?”
A second tape? She was suddenly sure she was going to become sick.
“I turned it over to our new attorney general. It’s you talking with your crooked friends about all your illegal schemes.” He mocked her with a loud laugh. “Hey, you know what else? Maybe I failed to mention that your stooge Fyodorev was also fired and arrested this afternoon.”
“You lousy bastard.”
“A postcard from prison would be nice. Be sure to let me know where you land.”
So many of them were gathered in such a tight two-block circumference, it resembled a convention of killers. There were strutting pros with big-league experience, an all-star team of deadly assassins. A clutch of third-rate mobsters ambling for their first kill. And a sprinkling of ambitious young amateurs hoping to get lucky. It was every man to himself, or herself—a few women’s suffrage types were lurking in the shadows as well.
They hung out in parked cars and vans, smoking and sipping coffee, eyeing Nicky’s hideout, waiting for a break. Going inside was ill-fated stupidity. This had been tried rather unsuccessfully by one bold idiot before he was driven off by a furious hail of bullets. About twenty of Nicky’s bodyguards were in there, armed to the teeth, guarding their turf. Poachers weren’t welcome. A few snipers were perched on rooftops, fighting off the cold. The apartment building across the street from Nicky’s holdout, a real dump, had suddenly experienced an unaccustomed flood of subleases. Responding to loud knocks on the doors, the inhabitants found themselves confronted by tough-looking men shoving thousands into their fists for what was promised would be a brief dislocation. The far side of the hall, the one that did not face Nicky’s safehouse, couldn’t draw any interest at any price.
The street had only one coffee shop, a cramped, neglected little place run by a chubby old babushka with a million wrinkles and a toothless smile. She was suddenly rolling in customers, nasty-looking sorts who demanded coffee day and night. She struck a deal with a sandwich and soup joint six blocks down. She imported their goods, tripled the price, and made a killing. To date, she was the only one making a killing, literally or figuratively. She quietly rooted for Nicky to last another few weeks.
Late on Tuesday evening, a new car joined the party, a big, shiny black Mercedes that slid to a curb and idled for hours. Instantly, a dozen hungry sharks took note of this latest entrant in the Nicky sweepstakes.
