Authors: Brian Haig
Tromble sat at the middle of the table, tapping a pen, boiling with barely controlled fury. The head of INS, and the assistant
district director, with the distinctly unhappy honor of being Kim’s immediate boss, hunched down to his left. To his right
sat the slightly inebriated chief of the Russian prosecutorial team, and a Colonel Volevodz, who had been frantically dispatched
by Tatyana after a disturbing call from Tromble.
All were seated with unpleasant expressions on one side of the conference table. The other side was barren.
Two empty chairs were arrayed in the middle of the floor across from them; the setting resembled a kangaroo court. In fact,
it was. Kim and her translator were actually led in like prisoners by an FBI agent, one of Tromble’s errand boys who in the
hallway had coldly introduced himself as Terrence Hanrahan.
The arrangement was frightening. It was meant to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and very briefly, it did.
Kim more or less stumbled timidly into one chair. Petri, with a sad, resigned expression, collapsed into the seat beside her.
The INS director opened with a withering glare. “Miss Parrish, do you realize how much time, money, and effort’s been put
into this investigation?”
A cautious nod. “Of course I do. Nobody has worked harder on it than me.”
“And now you say you want the case dropped?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, sir.”
“Because it’s too perfect,” he noted, dripping disbelief and skepticism all over the table.
“Because the whole thing is phony. The Konevitches are being framed by these people,” she said, directing a finger at the
two Russians at the table.
“What’s the matter? Not enough evidence?”
“To the contrary, too much. It’s too pat, too polished. It’s obviously manufactured.”
“Well, I heard of cases being dropped for lack of evidence. But for too much, and it’s too good?” He shook his head from side
to side, frowning tightly. “It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
Petri and the two Russians glared across the table at each other. The lead Russian prosecutor suddenly lurched forward and
snapped, “He is the one behind this.” Other than an array of imaginative curses, in more than four months it was the most
English Kim had heard pass his lips. And it was flawless, with barely a hint of an accent.
“Who’s he?” Tromble asked, staring at the skinny, diminutive figure in the chair.
“That man,” the Russian growled, directing a shaking finger at the small figure across from him. “The translator. The traitor.
He defected fifteen years ago. His life’s calling is to harm his motherland. If she’s listening to him, she’s crazy. He’s
obviously poisoning her brain.”
Volevodz quickly jumped on the bandwagon and the two Russians spent about three minutes hurling insults and invective at the
tiny Russian. Petri endured it with an unpleasant smile.
The river of castigations quickly became tedious, and Tromble eventually grew tired of it. He pushed forward and leaned across
the table, redirecting the fire at the right source. “You’re supposed to be a prosecutor, Miss Parrish, a lawyer. Remember
your job. Leave the judgments to the men in robes.”
The
men
in robes? She was already tired of all these boys ganging up on her. “I have an ethical responsibility to present an honest
case. This is a travesty. You should all be ashamed to be taken in by these crooked Russians.”
“The only people taken in were millions of poor Russians who trusted Konevitch. Of course the evidence is compelling. Guess
why. He did it, he’s guilty. He’s a rotten slimy crook, who deserves whatever he gets. And when the Russians come along and
prove it, you say they proved it too well. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”
“Have you studied the evidence?” Kim asked, sounding frustrated, knowing full well how weak—no, how pathetically silly—her
argument sounded. Toss this case away because it’s watertight, too perfect, she seemed to be insisting.
“I have not, and I don’t intend to.” Tromble’s elbows landed on the table, with his hands forming a steeple. “Why should I?
I have you sitting right here telling me the evidence is rainproof, flawless in every way. No holes, no contradictions, no
imperfections.”
“I’ve made my position clear.”
“Then I’ll make mine clear. It’s moving with or without you. Make your choice.”
“Without me. Replace me. Find another lawyer.”
The assistant director, Kim’s immediate boss, was dismayed by how rapidly things were unraveling. Seven months of work about
to spill down the drain. Another of his attorneys would have to replace her, then more months wasted while the new guy came
up to speed. And frankly, Kim Parrish was the best he had. He produced a warm smile. “Kim, Kim, don’t be hasty. You’re a great
lawyer. You have a fine record. A whole promising career ahead of you. Please, finish this case and put it behind you.”
“I also have the prerogative to refuse participation in a case I believe to be fraudulent and shameful. Reassign me to another
case.”
Tromble was tired of this pussyfooting. He was unaccustomed to having his orders questioned, and he had an invitation to a
big White House reception that evening his wife was dying to attend. He detested the president, a feeling that was deeply
reciprocated, so this was the first invitation, and very likely the last. His wife had already spent two grand on a gown,
dropped a cool five hundred on a faggy hairdresser, and threatened two years without sex if he was a minute late. It was long
past time to put his big foot down. “Take this case, or you’re fired.”
“Then I quit.”
“No you don’t, you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. I don’t work for you.”
The director of the INS had this one last chance to preserve the independence of his service, not to mention his own prerogative
and prestige. Tromble had just violated the most sacrosanct Washington law—keep your fingers out of somebody’s else’s bureaucratic
turf.
The director summoned forth every bit of his courage, looked Kim dead in the eye, and muttered, “Oh, you definitely are fired.”
A
t 10:00 a.m., Elena arrived promptly for her monthly visit. She came in a rental car picked up at the local airport, a cramped
bright purple economy model with a zippy little engine. She and Alex had done this routine fourteen times now. Different prisons,
different states, different guards. But it was old hat. The routine rarely varied. Later, she would dump the car, hop a fast
flight for Atlanta, wander through the huge terminal for a few hours trying to shake any followers, then at the very last
minute hop another flight and bounce around the Midwest awhile. Everything paid for in cash. It would take her two days to
return home but Alex emphasized that the time and money were worth it. This was not a game. People were out there, trying
to kill her. No precaution was too great.
Her ID had been checked, she’d been patted down and searched, had her hand stamped, and was waiting quietly in a stiff plastic
chair when Alex entered. The glass partition was perforated with dozens of small holes. An improvement, they thought, over
the last prison, where they had been forced to whisper awkwardly over intercom phones. They were paranoid about bugs. It hampered
their conversations terribly.
“You look beautiful,” Alex told her. He did not mention the dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted and worn down
by fourteen months of endless work, of living in the shadows, of leaping out of bed at the slightest creak of a floorboard.
He was trying to hide how guilty it made him feel.
“I love you,” she replied, her usual opening.
No need to ask how he was doing; how the new prison was working out; how he was being treated. Alex called almost every night
from one of his three cell phones, and they chatted back and forth late into the night. She knew about Benny Beatty, and all
about the “mutual fund” Alex was running for an ever-swelling pool of prisoners and guards. No different from the two previous
prisons. Elena kept the records and managed the investments through a local Virginia broker she had picked for his efficiency
and reliability. Checks arrived in the mail with great frequency from Alex’s new clients in each prison, a trickle in the
first month, before word spread and the floodgates opened. Elena promptly deposited the checks with the broker, and they were
instantly invested. Every night Alex called with fresh instructions to be relayed to the broker the next morning. Execute
this sell; buy five thousand shares of this; short this, long that. The stock market was roaring. The fund was beating it
handsomely, and Alex’s “clients” were elated. He couldn’t walk ten steps in the yard without people pleading to join up.
The
Wall Street Journal
and
Investor’s Business Daily
were delivered to his cell every morning by a guard who had emptied his entire 401(k) nest egg and handed it over to Alex’s
care.
Even Elena’s broker was shadowing Alex’s moves with his own money.
“How’s Bitchy?” Elena asked.
“Fine. His appeal comes up next month.”
“Does he have a chance?”
“I helped draft a letter for him to the court. It might help.”
Over the past year, Alex had kept her well-informed about the characters he had met in prison. His ability to fit in with
these rogues and villains and gangsters amazed her. The Choir Boys of Mariel with their relentless scheming to find a lawyer
who could buy their way out. Mustafa, the glowering head of the Black Power brotherhood in Chicago, who kept ominously reminding
“Brother Konebitchie” what would happen should the investments go south.
Bitchy Beatty was the most baffling one yet. Inexplicably, he and her husband had grown quite close. Odd bedfellows, though
perhaps that was a phrase best avoided.
“What does the letter say?”
“He deeply regrets the pain and suffering he caused. He found God, God found him. When he gets out he intends to send hundred-thousand-dollar
checks to each man he injured.”
“That sounds nice. They should be impressed.”
“I wrote the letter and forged his signature. Benny loathes the Jets for stealing his championship ring. He doesn’t regret
a thing.”
Alex smiled and she laughed.
Alex leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “The guard in the back. The tall one with blond hair. Name’s George. He’s
your man.”
Elena fell back into her chair, waited a moment, then glanced quickly over her shoulder. Three guards were back there but
George was ridiculously easy to spot. Tall guy with white-blond hair leaning against the wall, pretending to be bored. He
caught Elena’s eye and winked effusively.
When they were finished, George would escort her out to the large anteroom to collect her coat and purse. They would brush
against each other, a light bump that lasted seconds. Elena would hand George a bundle of computer disks. George would hand
back a bundle of disks from Alex. George was the one with his whole 401(k) in the fund; in two short months, it had already
doubled. Whatever Alex wanted, George would bend over backward to provide.
“Any new clients?” Alex asked, referring to their other new business venture.
“A few. General Motors signed up yesterday. I left right after they called. There wasn’t time to update you.”
“You do good work, Mrs. Konevitch.”
“If she could write code half as fast as Mr. Konevitch, Mrs. Konevitch would have a thousand new clients.”
For the time being, such talk was as romantic as they got. Their new business was roaring out the gate. The entire Internet
world was going crazy with start-ups sprouting like poppies in a compliant Afghan field. None, though, had developed multimedia
advertising technology as brilliant as Alex. The beauty of it was, Elena hit up pretty much the same clients they had enlisted
for Orangutan Media. Same Rolodex. Same marketing contacts. Only the pitch differed. Alex leaned closer, until his lips were
nearly pressed up against the glass. “What does MP say? Any updates?”
“No, the situation hasn’t changed. He’s furious. Says he’s never seen anything like this. Keeps calling it a disgrace.”
Alex appeared disappointed, though he tried his best to stifle it with a forced smile. “Tell him to relax, it’s not his fault.
We’re up against the American and Russian governments, and I don’t think any lawyer could prevail. I couldn’t be happier with
him.”
“He’s demoralized, Alex. He feels responsible. He wrote another long, bitter letter to the judge. Same theme as the last six.
What happened to those high-sounding instructions to the prosecutor about putting you in a nicer place than this?”
“I’m fine, Elena.”
“No, you’re—”
“Relax, I’m fine. I actually had wine with a late dinner last night. Pot roast, fresh corn and potatoes, cooked by a guard’s
wife, served in the cell. Me and Benny over candlelight. He still thinks I’m cute, incidentally.”
“You are cute. But you’re not fine, Alex Konevitch. And don’t tell me differently. You’re surrounded by murderers and rapists
and nasty gangs. You could get shooked in the showers by some crazy killer just because you stepped on his toe.”
“Shanked,” Alex corrected her.
“Oh, shut up.” A few months before Elena had done something deeply regrettable; once done, though, it was impossible to erase.
She had gone on an all-out binge of prison flicks, a response to her curiosity about what her husband was going through. She
watched them all, one after another, late into the night, night after night. For months afterward she was tormented by nightmares,
waking up sweating and shivering. The images of brutal killings and chaotic beatings and jailhouse rapes came back to her
constantly. Her precious husband was trapped inside a vicious building filled with barbaric monsters who snuffed lives for
a pack of cigarettes.
Alex tried to shrug it off. Hollywood hooey, he called it. A bunch of cinematic nonsense, hyped-up tripe to shock and appall
the ignorant public, he insisted.