Kim Parrish sat at her table with the same youthful assistant perched anxiously to her right. Piles of paper along with several large boxes were stacked off to the side.
MP had offered her a warm, friendly greeting when they entered. She met it with stony indifference. She was openly furious with him over that nasty, rotten, one-sided Times article-earlier in the week, Agent Wilson had confided to her how MP had called in a favor from the Times reporter and arranged her public thrashing. She could barely stand to be in the same room with him.
As before, Judge John Everston entered punctually through a side door, hustling along, anxious to begin. He studied his court again. No reporters this time. None of Tromble's punks, either, he noted with satisfaction-nobody but a plump, middle-aged, long-haired fellow in the visitors' section who was sipping noisily through a straw stuck in a Diet Coke.
"Who are you, sir?" His Honor asked.
"An author," the man replied in an almost indifferent manner. "I'm halfway into a legal thriller that involves a few immigration matters. Saw this case mentioned in the Times. Thought I'd pop in and pick up a little authentic juice."
The man looked seedy, wildly disorganized, and poorly groomed. His threadbare blue blazer bore long streaks of mustard stain, and he was vigorously scratching his fanny. Sure looked like a writer.
When the judge did not throw him out, the man quickly settled his ample rear back into his seat. He dug a notebook out of a side pocket and loudly flicked his pen open. On the frames of his glasses were two miniature cameras. Tucked in his breast pocket, a highly sensitive microphone was capturing every word. In a small office two floors above, three federal agents were huddled before video screens, watching and listening to the proceedings with great amusement.
Agent Wilson laughed, slapped a thigh, and bellowed, "Hah, you old bastard, who's the smart one now?"
With his usual judicial efficiency, His Honor cut right to the chase. "Mr. Jones, we left off with your assessment that you needed two more weeks to prepare your defense. Are you ready?"
"I believe I am, Your Honor. But as there is no requirement for discovery in immigration code, I reserve the right to hear what the prosecution presents."
This reference was to the requirement in criminal trials for the prosecution and defense to share advance notice about evidence and witnesses they intend to present. There was no such obligation in immigration court. MP's retort was old hat. The judge nodded accordingly. He shifted his attention to the prosecutor. "Miss Parrish, make your case."
Without hesitation she said, "We'll open with the government claim that Mr. Konevitch lied to the immigration board about his place of employment."
She nodded at her young assistant. He apparently had another impressive purpose than being the meek target of blame for things gone wrong. He hefted up a number of documents and hauled them to the bench.
Miss Parrish said, "I'm providing annotated transcripts from the statement made by Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch to an immigration panel on April 15, to wit, they both were employed by a company supposedly established in Austria. The company so named is Orangutan Media."
Judge Everston licked his fingers and began noisily thumbing through the documents. "Go on."
"You'll also note three statements signed by Russia's attorney general, Anatoli Fyodorev. They detail several investigations by Russian federal investigators into the true activities of Orangutan Media. The-"
MP quickly interrupted. "Your Honor, we have not seen those statements."
"And you already established that, Mr. Jones."
"Yes, and surely it won't hurt to remind the court that my client came to America as a result of political persecution. The same government that provided those statements wishes him dead."
"Then you believe these statements to be false?"
"I haven't seen them."
"Well, they're in Russian. Can't read them myself. But let's assume, momentarily, that Miss Parrish is telling the truth. That's a reasonable assumption, is it not, Miss Parrish?"
"It is."
"Mr. Jones? Is Russia's attorney general lying?"
"Probably. I'll withhold judgment for now."
The prosecutor flipped a quick sideways smile at MP. She wasn't through, and he definitely wasn't going to like her next move. Too bad your hack reporter friend's not here to see you gag and choke, she wanted to tell him. Her errand boy hauled a few more papers up to the judge. "Your Honor, these are sworn statements from employees of Orangutan Media. They confirm the nature of the company's criminal activities. Please note the top statement."
"So noted. What is it?"
"A confession signed by Illya Mechoukov."
MP had never heard the name so he glanced over at his client. Alex's mouth hung open. He appeared to be in shock. He was massaging his forehead, openly pained.
MP bent over and scribbled a brief, questioning note to Alex.
"And who would he be?" the judge was asking.
"Mr. Mechoukov is the CEO of Orangutan Media. Again, it's in Russian, but he details not only the company's connections to money laundering for a notorious criminal syndicate but, more specifically, Mr. Konevitch's direct role in the nefarious activities."
Alex furiously scribbled a note back to MP. "Ask if the FBI was present," it said with a large exclamation point.
The judge was shuffling through several papers. "And the rest of these statements, who are they from?"
"More employees of said company. They all verify or expand upon the statement provided by Mechoukov."
"And how did you come upon these materials?" MP asked from the side.
She paused at this question, but only briefly. "They were given to me by the FBI."
"The FBI's a large organization. Who exactly, in the FBI?"
"I don't believe this is relevant, Your Honor."
"Should I give you my robes, Miss Parrish? Mr. Jones's question is quite relevant. This might only be immigration court, but the rules pertaining to chain of evidence remain in force. So long as you're making up my mind for me, you might as well look the part."
"Does your paycheck come with it?" She smiled briefly-a stupid mistake, one she immediately regretted.
His Honor did not smile back. "Miss Parrish, who in the FBI?"
"Agent Wilson."
"The same fellow who was present in this court two weeks ago?"
"I believe so."
"You believe so?"
"It is… was… whatever."
MP quickly interjected. "Did the FBI directly interview these people?"
"I… I believe so."
His Honor scratched his chin and asked, "Then where inside this arsenal of material are the statements by these agents?"
"If they were only observers, that wouldn't be necessary," she shot back.
"I asked if they took these statements, Your Honor," MP snapped.
"I heard what he asked," Parrish answered.
"I would like an unqualified response. Yes or no? They took the statements or they did not. They were present for the interrogations or were not," MP demanded, peering sideways at the judge. "Your Honor, if the FBI was present in any capacity, I request the names of the agents involved. Further, I'd like them to be deposed to confirm the authenticity of those statements."