Authors: Brian Haig
More smiles from the two agents. Large slack jaws, bunched shoulders, simple responses—actually they did look a little stupid.
Before things escalated, Alex decided to put an end to this. He stared coldly at the pair of agents. “Am I under arrest?”
No reply.
“Under investigation?”
The start of a nod, before it quickly turned into a crick of the neck that needed to be rubbed.
“It’s time to call my lawyer,” Alex announced, moving with feigned confidence toward the phone.
About two seconds passed. “There’ll be time enough for that later,” one of the agents said. It sounded like a threat.
Alex kept moving toward the phone. The agents appeared nonchalant, but the threat of a loudmouthed attorney showing up at
this scene clearly unnerved them. No wonder. Without a warrant they had broken into a private residence, vandalized thousands
of dollars’ worth of property, then begun questioning a suspect without reading his rights. Worse, a foreign official without
any legal status had been invited to the smashmouth party.
Any lawyer worth his salt would have their balls on a plate.
Alex lifted the phone and faced the two agents. “Give me your names. My lawyer will want them,” he demanded.
They shuffled their feet and seemed to shrink. They exchanged matching looks of confusion.
“We’ll be going now,” one of them mumbled, one foot planted, ready to bolt.
“Not with my computer, you won’t,” Alex insisted.
“We’re seizing it as evidence. Have your lawyer take it up with our lawyers,” one said derisively. Having gotten the last
word, and after firing off a final set of contemptuous looks, they walked quickly out of the apartment. Volevodz had that
thin smile as he filed past Alex and Elena.
Alex slammed the door behind them, a loud shot that shook the walls.
Elena couldn’t take her eyes off the mayhem in their apartment. Her only photograph of her parents had been torn out of the
frame; it was on the floor, ripped into dozens of tiny pieces. The vindictiveness of it turned her stomach.
“Alex, I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means it’s not over.”
“Why would the FBI allow that man inside our home?”
“I don’t know.”
“We need to see MP, right away.”
Alex lifted the phone.
Elena began picking up.
MP was at home, babysitting the kids while his wife shopped for groceries. He promised to drop everything and meet them at
his office in two hours.
T
he office of MP Jones was on the second floor of a seven-story commercial building, almost dead center in the middle of M
Street. MP was a graduate of Georgetown Law, a prestigious school, though not top five. He did it the hard way, four years
of night school while he slaved at two menial jobs. Four years of pinching pennies. Four years of sprinting from class to
McDonald’s, where he pushed the torts and contracts to the back of his brain and shoved Big Macs and greasy fries across the
counter. Four years of the cruel monotony of mac and cheese, of sleepless nights, of vying with full-time kids from wealthy
families and wondering if this was the right choice. But he made it.
He graduated bottom third, but at least he had no onerous student debts. No interviews with big firms landed in his lap; sadly,
no interviews at all. He had, however, passed the very difficult D.C. bar exam the first time around.
The Immigration Service was hiring and nobody else took his calls. Why not, he figured. Spend as few years as practical learning
immigration law, then hang out a shingle and get rich quick.
Now it was him, two other lawyers, three stressed-out paralegals, and one very rude secretary who hated her job and couldn’t
wait till something better opened up. They called themselves partners. They referred to their setup as a firm. Nothing could
be further from the truth. They were three struggling, scrambling attorneys dividing up the rent, a clutter of secondhand
office furniture, and a few second-rate employees. No casework was shared, no fat profits divvied up at the end of a prosperous
year. There were no prosperous years.
Married, with two kids and an attractive wife six months pregnant with the third, MP had cold sweats that it might turn out
to be twins. They lived in a tiny, shabby ruin of a house he rented in a modest, run-down South Arlington neighborhood across
the river.
Immigration cases, MP learned the hard way, paid squat. Nearly all his clients were poor, desperate people whose language
skills were rudimentary, their earning power zilch. Too many were indigents assigned by the court. Hopeless causes seemed
to be his specialty. They were booted out with regularity, which did not incline them to pay their legal bills. Immigration
law, he had learned the hard way, was a poor man’s game. Wealthy clients were scarce. The very few, mostly millionaires fleeing
legal or tax troubles in their own lands, were bitterly scrapped over by every immigration attorney in the city; usually the
large firms with dozens of lawyers to throw at their defense landed them with ease. MP had long since stopped hoping for a
big score. His livelihood depended upon a backbreaking log of cases, and the oft-disappointed prayer that half of his clients
might pay their bills.
But Alex and Elena Konevitch were different. An odd case, he thought as he stared at them holding hands across his desk. These
were seriously frightened people. Probably had a right to be.
“So then the FBI just left? Walked out the door?” MP asked after listening closely to their story. A yellow legal pad was
splayed open in front of him on his desk. Ten pages were filled with scrawls, questions, and other musings.
“With our computer,” Alex clarified. “Can we get it back?”
“They entered without a search warrant?”
“Alex asked about it,” Elena replied. “They didn’t give him an answer.”
“Okay, they didn’t have one,” MP concluded with the sad confidence earned through hard experience. Immigrants had few if any
rights in this country. The police knew it and too often abused them in ways that would be unimaginable against a full-fledged
citizen. Yes, Alex and Elena had been granted asylum. But what the government giveth, it can, and sometimes doth, taketh away.
MP had seen it before. That the Feds would act with such callous abandon was not a good omen.
“You’re sure you committed no crimes in Russia?” MP asked. He had repeated this same question a hundred times in preparation
for their asylum hearings a year before. It wouldn’t hurt to hear the answer again. He studied their faces, hard.
“None,” Alex told him. “A traffic violation once. I parked illegally and paid the fine.”
Blushing slightly, Elena said, “When I was sixteen, I was with a group who had been drinking and became a public nuisance.
I was brought before a judge and released.”
“You’re sure you didn’t steal anything from the bank?” This question, obviously, was directed at Alex.
“Not a penny. Fifty million was stolen, according to the Russian news. But by the people who took away my bank, not me,” Alex
answered quite resolutely.
MP seemed undecided for a moment. He ran his pen aimlessly across a page, trying to decide what to do next. “Could you step
out for a moment while I make a call?”
They left and found seats in the small, cramped lobby. MP worked the phone for almost twenty minutes. It was Saturday, late
afternoon. He was calling home numbers and getting the expected responses. The lawyers of INS were either out watching their
spouses shop, clubbing divots into the back nine, or observing their kiddies tumble around soccer fields. He finally caught
Tommy Kravitz, on a cell phone, apparently.
Kravitz was a lifer who did as little work as possible, an inveterate busybody who amused himself by knowing everybody else’s
business. The roar of a baseball game, live, loud, and raucous, made it difficult to hear.
“Who’s winning?” MP yelled.
“Not the Orioles, damn it. Why do I root for these guys? I’m an idiot.”
“You are an idiot, Tommy. Nineteen years in the INS trenches. You should’ve left ten years ago, gotten a life.”
“Yeah? Hey, seriously, how’s the money out there? Great, right?”
“Just okay. The kids love their new private schools, Terry considers our mansion in Great Falls to be too ostentatious, and
I’m looking around to replace my six-month-old Jag with a Mercedes. The Jag picked up a small scratch on the bumper and it’s
just too embarrassing to be seen in. What do you think? Mercedes 500, or splurge and go all out for a 600? It gets better
mileage, that’s what I hear.”
Tommy laughed. “You’re a lousy liar. Still got that same tiny shoebox in Arlington?”
“Yeah. The air-conditioning compressor went on the fritz last year, but we Joneses are tough. We’ll sweat it out until Terry
wins the lottery.”
“Don’t depend on her luck, pal. She got herself knocked up on your fourth date.”
“Thanks for pointing that out.”
“And that dented-up Chrysler minivan? That clunker still getting by the inspectors?”
“What do they know? We’re driving it, anyway. Hey, you ever hear of a guy named Konevitch? Alex Konevitch.”
A long moment of silence. Amid a loud roar, Tommy finally answered in a low whisper, “He your client?”
“Who scored?”
“Damn—that was a Yankee bat boy. The Orioles, remember? He your client or not, MP? Curious minds demand to know.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“Drop him. Just drop him, and run far, buddy.”
“What’s going on, Tommy? Tell me.”
“I don’t care if you were my brother. It’s hush-hush, times ten. No can do. Mucho trouble’s about to land on his head. Your
guy’s got problems he can’t begin to imagine.”
“Like that, huh?”
“Insist on cash, and make him pay you up front, MP. He has the dough, believe me. And count it real close—he’s a rotten thief.”
“Who’s handling him?”
“Kim Parrish. That’s not good news for you, either, pal.”
The name was familiar: a vague memory, though. She had come aboard during his final year, when MP was more concerned with
putting the INS in the rearview mirror than acquainting himself with the new associates he intended to leave in the dust.
Like all new attorneys, she started out with the soft cases where she wouldn’t embarrass the service—immigrants who snuck
over a border or allowed their green cards to expire or committed some petty offense. Inside six months—record time—she was
bumped up to the big leagues, the narcotraffickers, the big-time tax cheats, high-profile cases reserved for the best and
brightest. She was old for a starting attorney, forty-five, maybe fifty. She was also smart and good, very good. Single, no
children, intense, and very married to the law.
In a knowing tone, MP asked, “Who’s pushing the case?”
“Are you deaf? I can’t tell, MP. I swear I can’t.”
“Tommy, Tommy. That Gonzalez case, remember it? The one where you let the ball drop and the director wanted your—”
“Damn it, MP, I know I owe you. I’m not gonna say. Can’t, just can’t.”
“I understand. I really do.”
“Good. Believe me, if there was any way, I’d tell you everything.”
After a brief pause. “So what aren’t you gonna say?”
“You’re a dogged bastard, you know that?”
“I can barely stand to eat with myself. Spill it, Tommy.”
“All right, all right. For starters, I’m not gonna say the director was dragged over to Justice last week. I’m not gonna say
the attorney general and FBI director reamed him purple ’cause he let this slimeball lie and cheat his way into asylum. I’m
definitely not gonna say that this guy has the entire machinery of the Justice Department after his ass. I hope you’re listening,
MP. He’s toast.”
“Thanks for everything you didn’t say, Tommy. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing it’s such an easy case.”
“He’s going home.”
“He’s got me as a lawyer.”
“I’m telling ya, he’s going home. Nothing you do will stop it.”
“Watch me.”
“You’ll hurt yourself, pal. You’re jumping in front of a steam-roller. The heat on this guy’s nuclear. Take the cash up front,
then take a fast dive. Don’t still be standing for the second round.”
Tommy punched off, but MP still felt compelled to say, “I owe you one.”
He called Alex and Elena and they filed back into his office. MP paced behind his desk, trying not to look overly concerned.
The wrinkles on his forehead told a different story. They held hands as they fell back into their chairs.
“It’s bad isn’t it?” Alex asked.
“I’ll be frank. Yes.”
“How bad, MP?”
“The director of the FBI and the attorney general want you gone.” He let this sink in, then continued, “I’m wondering why.
Any ideas?”
“Yes, a few. My enemies in Moscow have powerful allies inside the Kremlin. They’ve obviously pulled strings with your government.”
“But they can’t ship us back, can they, MP?” Elena rocked forward in her chair, her hands tightly clenched beneath her knees.
“They gave us political asylum. And there’s no extradition treaty. If they send Alex back to Russia, they’ll kill him.”
“Those are the obstacles in their path. Ordinarily they’re very powerful,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, trying to balance
optimism with his growing awareness of how serious this might be. He battled a temptation to jump out of his seat and scream,
“Pack your bags and race for Canada. You haven’t got a prayer.”
“But…?” Alex said.
“But they’ll look for ways around them.”
“What are these ways?”
“Every case is different, Alex. I can’t predict. But I advise you to get your affairs in order. This can get ugly.”
The first blow arrived Monday morning. Elena went to the bank to cash a check. They wanted to stay and fight, but they were
realists. Flight might become their only option. To exercise that option they would need money, a hoard of cash, enough to
get across the border and get settled. A withdrawal of ten thousand or more would trigger an immediate report to the IRS,
and Alex was losing faith in all American authorities; so $9,999 it was. The teller, a plump young girl with a polite smile,
punched the account number into her computer. The smile disappeared. She looked up with a puzzled expression. “Sorry, I can’t
cash this.”