The judge said, "I want to hear them in my chambers before I decide. I expect both of you want to be present," he said, looking at the lawyers, then at Alex. "Not you. This is a matter for lawyers to hash out."
Three minutes later, court was adjourned until further notice. The solemn-faced judge issued one last ominous instruction: Tromble would be present when the court reconvened. It was an unchristian sentiment, and he felt mildly guilty about it, but Tromble had done him no favors, and he fully intended to repay it.
The judge and lawyers disappeared to his chambers. The reporters straggled out to join their colleagues on the front steps where they would share the incredible events of the morning and file as much as they could before court reconvened. Within minutes, the legal talking heads were back in the studios, on the air, sharing updates, squawking away, and shoving opinions and predictions at whoever cared to listen. The opinions were divided and, hotly debated.
Half thought the judge might make a rare exception since this was, after all, only a habeas corpus hearing, where the benefit of the doubt normally leaned toward the accused. The other half claimed the defense didn't have a prayer.
Court reconvened four hours later. The reporters were notified and they bickered and fought with one another for choice seats, or even standing room at the crowded rear of the room. Would the judge allow that first tape? If so, what was on the others? And the big question of the day was, how screwed was John Tromble, director of the FBI? The sense of curiosity was running at fever pitch. The studios were screaming for updates the moment a decision was rendered.
With grim faces, the lawyers marched out and fell into their chairs. Alex was led back to the defense table after four long hours of cooling his heels in a holding cell. He had, however, showered, shaved, trimmed his own hair, and changed into a respectable suit and tie. The time had come, he decided, to present a before-and-after shot for the viewers.
And the contrast between the downtrodden criminal and this towering, clean-cut, handsome man at the table was indeed striking. You saw what they did to me, his old self screamed-now look at what I was before the power of the state fell on my head.
The side door opened. Willis hefted his robes and walked up to his bench. He appeared sad, furious, shaken, and slightly nervous.
Court was brought to order and things settled down quickly. Willis stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his usual habit before rendering his decisions. A powerfully affecting moment-the former priest searching for guidance and wisdom from on high. Tromble, by contrast, looked perfectly miserable, squirming in his seat, unable to get comfortable.
The eyes came down. "After listening to all the tapes and giving the issue due consideration, I've decided to accept the tapes into evidence."
Alex leaned far back into his chair. Elena actually released a squeal of joy.
But as the court had heard only one tape, the significance of this decision was mysterious. The reporters remained mute.
He looked at Alex. "Sir, will you please stand?"
MP squeezed Alex's arm. The "sir" seemed to be a good sign. He stood.
"Let me begin by expressing my deepest apologies." Willis adjusted his robes and paused briefly. "Let me add a strong personal recommendation. I expect you and your attorney to file a civil suit against the FBI and Department of Justice. You have been wronged, sir. No amount of money will make up for it but it won't hurt, either."
Tromble was seated in his chair, struggling to square the competing demands of appearing confident and powerful while trying also to be completely invisible.
The judge then began addressing the court, speaking quite loudly, and ever so clearly, so that even the farthest reporter in the back wouldn't miss a word or legal nuance. He began with a long summary of everything on the tapes. He had notes, though he referred to them only rarely, primarily when a precise quote was preferred over a generalized summary. There had been a conspiracy of staggering proportions in Moscow; Konevitch was its first victim. His fortune was stolen, his companies taken away, only after he was brutally tortured. The conspiracy reached into the highest offices in the Kremlin; "we have these problems ourselves sometimes," the judge explained, "Teapot Dome, Watergate, Iran-Contra, and so on. This case represents another of those watershed historical embarrassments."
He shared the names of the conspirators, struggling with the Russian names, and outlined their scheme. Next he spent a few moments dwelling on how exactly American law enforcement got duped into being a tool for the conspirators. A good duping requires a gullible dupe, he pointed out; the director of the FBI was that man. A quick description of the quid pro quo: they get Alex, whatever the costs; Tromble gets to sprinkle a few more agents in Moscow. A brief summary of how Tromble violated countless laws and procedures to persecute Alex and Elena Konevitch. There were too many breaches for the judge to count, but a full accounting would be prepared later by competent figures with enough time to wade through all the tapes and other evidence.
In effect, the INS, the FBI, and the Justice Department-the very people represented by the attorneys at the prosecution table-were suddenly branch offices of a cabal of evil people in a foreign land. MP had offered the judge a few pointers back in the chambers, and he threw out some of the more egregious ones: the constant shuffling through increasingly miserable prisons to turn up the heat; punishments inflicted by various wardens under orders from Washington; wiretaps in their apartment; illegal searches; the senseless destruction of their home and property; their money seized by the federal government and their business enterprise shut down and bankrupted.
For ten minutes, not a soul looked bored or even mildly inattentive. Twice the director of the FBI tried to walk out-both times he made a meek retreat back to his position after a stern and angry judge issued a strong warning.
Jason Caldwell sulked in his chair and listened to the bright, shining future he had envisioned collapse in ruins. He could see the evening news that night; him holding forth on the courthouse steps, the picture of brimming confidence promising a quick, punishing victory; then flash to a bunch of mealymouthed legal monkeys dissecting his overwhelming destruction in court. He knew it was going to be horrible-absolutely horrible.
He was right; it was.
Judge Willis ended with another long apology to Alex, then ordered his immediate release from custody.
He grabbed his robes and left.
Tromble dug his heels in and rushed for the door, shoving aside reporters who were bombarding him with questions. He turned to a deputy in the hallway. "Is there a back entrance to this place?"
The deputy smiled. "Sure is."
"Where?"
"Find it yourself, you prick." The kisses, hugs, and relieved expressions of appreciation at the defense table-along with a round robin of the usual victorious congratulations among Alex, Elena, MP, Matt, and Marvin-lasted five minutes. Marvin eventually lifted a stately arm and quieted them down. The old pro got a strong grip on Alex's arm and solemnly pledged he would personally file and oversee the suits against the FBI, Justice, and INS.
One big suit, a monstrous case for compensatory damages, he promised with a gleam in his eyes.
"What are our chances, and when's the payoff?" asked Alex, ever the businessman.
Marvin smiled and rubbed his hands. "It's not a question of chances or when," he replied. "How much is the only question." He would demand and fight with conviction for ten million; after enough blood was shed, he would give them a break and settle at five million.