Authors: Brian Haig
“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.”
In a room two floors above, Agent Wilson was loudly cursing. He drove a fist into a desk and instantly regretted it. It felt
like he broke at least two knuckles. He hated lawyers. Such smartasses.
“It’s not relevant,” Parrish insisted, clearly rattled, and trying to squirm out of this line of inquiry. “The statements
were taken by Russian law enforcement authorities. We should extend them the same trust and legal latitudes we afford our
own police.”
It was her first real mistake, and it was a whopper.
MP launched out of his chair; he was hell-bent to make her pay dearly for it. Directing a finger at her, he said, “Miss Parrish,
are you telling this court that Russia’s police are as credible as our own?”
She had said it, and it was too late to back away. “Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of gulags, kangaroo courts, Solzhenitsyn, purges, Potemkin villages, Stalin, the Cold War, show trials—”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” the judge burst in. “You made your point.”
MP relaxed. “Thank you, Your Honor. I was starting to bore myself.” He brushed a hand through his hair and shook his head.
It was a sly dig, skillfully delivered. Even His Honor cracked a hint of a smile.
A large scowl was on Parrish’s face. She knew full well she had said something pathetically stupid. And she knew, equally
well, that she had no choice but to breaststroke in quicksand. “I have no idea what Mr. Jones is saying. Nor does it sound
at all relevant.”
“Well, she might be the only person in the world confused about this,” MP said with a nasty smile. “So let me clear it up.
I’m saying the Russian police frequently use tactics that are abhorrent. They torture witnesses, employ blackmail and coercion,
are notoriously dishonest, and sometimes even forge documents. If Mrs. Parrish is so naïve as to not be aware of this, I will
gladly call in dozens of expert witnesses from the CIA and State Department to educate her. Or I can locate thousands of U.S.
citizens who were granted political asylum—by her own department, I might add—after Russian police brutally tortured them
and their families.”
His Honor asked very nicely, “Miss Parrish, will that be necessary or will you simply concede this point?”
Parrish spent a moment grinding her fingernails into her palms. Was this a jury trial the damage would be enormous, possibly
insurmountable. Fortunately it was an immigration case in an immigration court with an immigration judge. The rules were different.
She drew a few deep breaths, then tried gamely to repair the damage. “The prosecution is willing to concede that Russian legal
authorities might occasionally employ a little excess vigor in the pursuit of justice.”
Alex mentioned to MP, very loudly, “She means they rip fingernails out of innocent people and force them to sign untrue statements.”
“I can interpret her words without your help,” the judge said with a mildly aggravated expression. “Now sit down, Mr. Jones.”
MP sat.
The judge removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a moment. Eventually he said to the prosecutor, “Can you produce any
FBI agents who witnessed these interrogations?”
“No.”
He turned to MP. “Can you produce witnesses or evidence that these statements are tainted or were forced?”
“I haven’t been given the opportunity. They were sprung on us only five minutes ago. My client vehemently denies them. We
would request the time to track down the signatories to interview them directly.”
His Honor swiveled his neck back to the prosecutor. “I hope you have other evidence or substantiation.”
This time her young lackey hauled two enormous cardboard boxes up to the bench. They overflowed with paper. Parrish allowed
the judge a moment to peek over the lids and witness the massive volume of material. It would take at least a month to read
it all.
“Your Honor, these are newspaper and magazine clippings collected and translated by our Foreign Service concerning Mr. Konevitch’s
considerable criminal activities in Russia.”
Alex began scribbling more furious notes for MP. Parrish prattled on, describing the depth, complexity, and utter depravity
of Alex’s schemes and crimes. She referred to her notes frequently. She quoted freely from several of the more damning articles.
About the abhorrent nature of Konevitch’s crimes. Choice tidbits about the people this Russian mountebank harmed through his
crookedness. The bankrupted investors who trusted him and were ruined. The thousands of employees laid off after he fled.
The shock to the entire Russian business world and its incipient stock market. She requested that the accounts be entered
into the record. MP scrawled a few questions. Alex dashed off hurried replies.
The moment she finished, MP observed, “I believe the prosecutor is aware of our contention that Mr. Konevitch was framed for
these crimes.”
“It’s a common alibi from guilty criminals,” Parrish replied dismissively.
“You doubt his word?” MP asked, slightly incredulous.
“Of course I do. Mr. Konevitch is listed number one on Russia’s most wanted list. The Russian attorney general has issued
a warrant for his arrest. The news stories in those boxes confirm everything he did, that he’s now claiming he didn’t do.
I believe he is outnumbered.”
MP turned to the judge. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a case where newspaper articles were introduced as evidence.”
The judge was interested in where MP was going with this. “Nor I. On the other hand, I’m inclined to accept her claim that
the articles add a certain level of verification to the government claims.”
MP smiled at His Honor and said, “Could I have a little latitude to explore this issue?”
“A very little, Mr. Jones.”
He turned and faced Parrish. “Did you read the
New York Times
article published two weeks ago regarding this trial?”
“I may have.”
“Would you like me to read it to you? I have a copy.”
“No. I read it.”
“All of it?”
“I just said I did. Every stupid word.”
MP picked up the article from the table and waved it around for the judge to see. “Here’s my favorite part,” he said, smiling
broadly. He read loudly and proudly, “Quote, ‘This case is a travesty of injustice, a railroad, and the prosecutor is the
chief engineer driving a train of lies and deceit,’ remarked an anonymous source. ‘If Konevitch is returned to Russia, he’ll
be murdered. His blood will be on the prosecutor’s hands as surely as if she killed him herself.’ End quote.” MP smiled nicely
at the court reporter. “Sally, please enter that into the record. Especially that literary part about driving the train of
lies and deceit. I really like that line.”
Parrish launched out of her chair. “I protest, Your Honor,” she yelled, red-faced. “That obvious smear has no business being
entered into the record.”
His Honor briefly considered an intervention. There was no question about it; she was right, it definitely was a bald-faced
smear. On the other hand, she was asking to have press clippings entered into evidence. Whether she liked it or not, she had
given the defense attorney the opening to explore the issue: if he chose to crash through it in a Mack truck she had no complaint.
And frankly, such testy exchanges were rare for an immigration hearing. He pushed his chair back, folded his hands behind
his head, and watched the interplay with huge enjoyment.
“Why not?” MP snapped back at her. “Didn’t you agree with it?”
“I did not.”
“Oh, come on, Miss Parrish. It was a great article. Well-reasoned, finely balanced.”
“It was a shameful, slanted, slanderous piece of garbage, Mr. Jones. And you know it. It was too obvious the reporter was
an old college friend of yours. She made no effort to get the government’s side. Her behavior verges on professional misconduct.”
For the briefest moment, MP paused. How did she know about their old college relationship? There was only one way she could,
and MP pondered that ugly thought before he recovered his senses and pushed on.
“Then sue her,” he snapped, struggling to keep his cool. How long had his phones been tapped? Who was listening in? How much
had he divulged?
“I might sue you instead. You and I both know you provided that despicable quote.”
“Fine. Sue me, then. I dare you.” He waved the article like a matador with a red cape.
“I would love to. If it wasn’t impossible to prove, I would take everything you own.”
“Spare me the empty threats. Any lawyer worth their salt would end up owning the
New York Times
and shoving me into the poorhouse.”
“Don’t you dare patronize me. She’ll hide behind the First Amendment. And you’ll lie for all it’s worth.”
On a dime, MP was suddenly all warmth and compassion. He balled up the article and threw it on the floor. “You know what?
I agree with you, Miss Parrish. What can be worse than being smeared and maligned by lies in the press? To have your reputation
unfairly dragged through the mud? If a lawyer like you has no realistic recourse, what chance does a simple citizen have?
He can sue, but what chance does he have? He can say it’s all lies, but who’ll believe him? Anonymous sources leak all the
lying filth they want. The juicier the lie, the more quickly it spreads, picked up by one paper after another until it becomes
an avalanche of lies. The more outrageous the lie, the more ink it captures, the more it’s guaranteed to hit the front page,
then another front page, then a magazine cover, and then… Well, it’s all just so sad.”
The constant use of “he” left no doubt he wasn’t talking about her. Alex suddenly thrust a note into MP’s hand. It read, “Ask
if her bosses requested a team of Russian prosecutors to come here and prove the case.” He read it, had no idea what Alex
was talking about, or where this was coming from, but Alex
had
nailed it on the head about the FBI and Orangutan Media. He nodded.
Parrish decided she hated MP Jones. She had known exactly what he was doing from the beginning. It had just been impossible
to ignore or deflect his assault in a casual manner. He had shoved her into a corner and forced her to battle her way out.
But at least he was finished, she thought with grim satisfaction. In fact, MP was just getting warmed up.
He said to the judge, “Your Honor, since Miss Parrish has asked to enter these news articles into evidence, I would like you
to ask her, on the record, if she believes every word to be true and accurate. Is she confident these stories represent the
truth?”
His Honor pondered this weighty request for a second. Was it fair and reasonable? Well, it was her idea to enter all this
media rubbish into evidence. “Miss Parrish, for the record, do you believe these articles to be true and accurate?”
For a moment she froze. In a thoughtful, halting voice, she eventually replied, “I won’t attest for every word or every statement
in every article. In general, though, yes, the articles convey… well, a fairly accurate portrayal of Konevitch’s deplorable
activities and actions.” A perfect response. She was proud of her answer, so carefully measured, so finely hedged. She was
glad MP gave her the opening. He had lobbed her the perfect softball to repair the damage she had already inflicted upon herself.
MP said, very carefully also, “Your Honor, could you please ask the prosecutor if it’s true Russia’s attorney general is dispatching
a prosecutorial team here to share evidence of Mr. Konevitch’s activities with her legal department?”
Parrish’s mouth suddenly went dry. She had been informed of this news only two days before. A precautionary move, she was
told, in the event this judge got stupid and produced an outrageous decision. It was confided to her in the strictest confidence.
How did Jones learn about it? Who leaked it? How damaging was this? How much did he know? A hundred unanswered questions pinged
around her brain.