Thirty minutes later, a guard arrived, unlocked the cell, and escorted Alex down several long, well-lit corridors to a small courtroom. Elena was already there, seated at a table beside MP. Their lawyer had his back turned to Elena and was engaging in a conversation with an attractive, older, dark-featured female seated at what Alex presumed was the prosecution table. A considerably younger male colleague in a dark suit sat to her right, looking nervous and out of place.
Alex sat beside MP, who quickly bent around him and said to the prosecutor, "Kim Parrish, I'd like you to meet my client, Alex Konevitch."
Alex held out his hand and looked her dead in the eye. "It's nice to meet you."
The room was small. They were about three feet apart. She nodded but took a step back, said nothing, and studiously avoided his hand. Go ahead, MP was thinking from the sideline-take a nice long look at the man you're about to persecute. You'll be responsible when he lands in a coffin. He's young and handsome, and his wife is young and beautiful-they have so much to live for-but go ahead, ignore your conscience. Get them killed.
She understood exactly what MP was doing. A long awkward moment, then she suddenly buried her nose in the blank legal pad on her table.
A moment later, the judge entered through a side door. There was none of the procedural rigmarole Alex had observed on American TV. No announcement, no standing. No long perorations or lawyers being introduced. Apparently, immigration cases adhered to a less formal pattern.
Judge John Everston IV presided. He spent a brief moment surveying his court to be sure everything was the way he liked it.
Alex's and Elena's eyes were glued to the face of the man who held their lives in his hands. He was neither handsome, impressive-looking, nor even mildly judicial-looking, with a long, droopy face, thick, arched eyebrows that lent an impression of severe fierceness, scarecrow gray hair, and small eyes hidden behind bifocals that seemed impossibly thick and bleary.
John Everston had started out as an immigration attorney thirty years before, a fine, precise, hardworking lawyer whose service was eventually rewarded with a judgeship. His lawyer career had been spent in the prosecution trenches. He came from a long line of deeply rooted, well-heeled southern Virginia aristocrats. And though everybody assumed otherwise, banishing immigrants had been a job he utterly loathed, and nearly always was ashamed to perform. He carefully hid a soft spot for the miserable masses who flocked to America for a thousand different reasons and suddenly found themselves at risk of being booted out. Left alone, they generally turned into perfectly respectable citizens. The law had forced him to separate families, to dispatch honest, hardworking people back to a life of hopeless squalor, and occasionally to send them back to conditions that meant certain death. Thirty years of practicing law on both sides of the bench had converted him from a mild liberal to a fairly rabid one.
And like every liberal judge in the country-in his opinion, like any judge with half a brain-Judge Everston detested John Tromble and he loathed the attorney general for failing to reel him in.
His eyes took in the court recorder, the bailiff at his station along the wall, the attorneys at their appropriate tables, and the young husband and wife huddled miserably in their atrocious orange prison apparel. He finally settled on a small group tucked in the back of the small visitors' section-a pair of bespoke gentlemen in nice suits and a young lady dressed decidedly more flippantly in ragged jeans, a torn T-shirt, and plastic flip-flops.
The judge directed a long finger in their direction. "It's not often I get visitors in this courtroom. When I do, I always like to make your acquaintance. You look like a reporter," he suggested to the young lady; from the way she was attired, she could be nothing but. Jeans and a ripped T-shirt-he had threatened lawyers with contempt just for wearing distasteful ties.
Sally, the court recorder, and Harry, the bailiff, exchanged curious glances. The judge had never, ever before even acknowledged visitors on the few rare occasions any showed up. Now he was actually conversing with them.
"I am," the lady answered promptly and proudly.
"What paper do you represent?"
"New York Times."
He would've publicly laid into her about her indecorum, but the Times was so reliably and frantically liberal, she could wear a birthday suit for all he cared.
"Good for you," he pronounced. The judge's gaze slowly shifted to her left. "And you two gentlemen?" he asked, directing a bony finger at the men.
"FBI," the older one said, sort of shuffling his feet at the unexpected attention.
The judge's head reared back. He squinted through his thick glasses and peered down his long, skinny nose. "And to what do I owe the rare pleasure of a few of Mr. Tromble's boys in my court?"
"We're just… merely observing," he replied.
"Observing what?"
"It's…" The agent blinked a few times. He had a law degree, though admittedly, he had sailed straight into the Bureau after law school. Aside from a few occasions on a witness stand, he had never actually been forced to address a sitting judge. He took another stab, saying, "We, that is, the Bureau, has an interest in the status of this case, Your Honor."
"An interest. I see. And what interest would that be, Agent, uh…?"
"Special Agent Wilson. It, uh, well-"
"Speak up, Agent Wilson. This is a small court, and I'd like very much to hear your replies. I'm actually dying to hear your reply. In ten years on this bench, I don't believe I've ever entertained visitors from your Bureau. This is a small, unimportant court, and the proceedings are normally quite tedious. I'm on the edge of my seat to learn what's so special about today."
It was becoming increasingly apparent that the judge was not overjoyed with their presence. Every eye in the small court was on Wilson. He desperately wanted to crawl under his seat.
"Your Honor, the accused is wanted for certain crimes in Russia, crimes that are under our scrutiny."
The long finger popped back up like a pistol. "In this court, he's not the accused, Agent Wilson. This is not a criminal trial and I don't want you to prejudice my judicial neutrality through any misleading impressions. In here, he's simply a man who may or may not have overstayed his visa."
"Yes, I under-"
"Does he have a criminal record in this country?"
"Uh… no." A brief pause. "Not that we've yet discovered anyway," Wilson said, implying otherwise, and visibly proud that he was recovering nicely.
"I see. Well, it is not my jurisprudence or interest to try crimes that might or might not have been committed on foreign soil. Unless I misunderstand the law, I believe the well-known prurience of your Bureau also ends at the water's edge. Surely an agent of your distinguished agency might understand that," he announced, looking far down his nose.
"What I meant-"
"I really don't care what you meant. I care only about what you say. Precise legal terminology is important. Surely they taught you something about that in that FBI school all you boys go through."
Wilson was silently cursing Hanrahan for making him be here.
The judge waved a thick folder in the air. "I took the opportunity to review this case file. All your statements are in here, seven INS agents and yours, Agent Wilson. Eight of you, altogether. Eight! Eight of you involved in arresting this young, frightened couple. They look harmless enough. And, as I understand it, the charge for my consideration deals with nothing more serious than expired visas. Am I missing something here? Please tell me I am, Agent Wilson. Have they smuggled in one of those suitcase nuclear bombs? Committed mass murder or run one of those odious rape camps in Bosnia? Surely, they have. Please assure me I'm missing something here."