Thus, seated to Matt's right was Marvin Knowlton, the K in PKR, a distinguished-looking eighty-year-old gentleman, a legendary scrapper talked out of retirement for this one brief return engagement. He cut a striking figure, with the deep tan of a permanent Florida golfer that contrasted nicely with his long silver mane. The old lion's presence in this court was a warning to whoever cared to pay attention. In his trial lawyer days, Marvin specialized in suits for defamation, rights violations, and libel. He sued at the drop of a hat. He rarely lost.
The strategy was simple. By introducing the motion for habeas corpus-thus forcing the government to show the constitutional basis for Alex's prolonged detention-Alex and MP were moving it out of immigration and into federal court, a system with more rights protections for the accused. Also, there were appeals in this system, a chance for a second, or even a third hearing. MP would take first crack at defending the Konevitches. If he lost, the cutthroats from PKR would take over, commit a dozen more lawyers, and go for blood.
For the time being, though, Matt and Marvin were expected only to look threatening, listen to MP's arguments, and be prepared to step in only after things went wrong, which, after reviewing the evidence, in their collective view, was the likely outcome.
To MP's rear sat Elena in a simple blue pantsuit and white pumps, clutching her hands, praying fervently. Occasionally she stopped talking to the Lord long enough to throw a hateful glare at the defense table, the people who had so cruelly persecuted her husband.
At the last moment, Alex was led through a side door by two big marshals straight to the defense table. He had been offered the chance to shower and change into something more presentable, like a suit and tie. He politely but insistently refused. He sported the same dirty white trousers, soiled white shirt, and grungy flip-flops he wore in prison. His face had accumulated at least four days of thick, dark stubble. His hair was still pulled back in a tight, greasy ponytail.
Even MP had argued otherwise, but Alex adamantly insisted-let the judge and all the reporters see what had been done to him. The sight of him in such a sorry state would displace any thought of a fat-cat millionaire. Whatever he had been before, now he was just another simple guy cruelly oppressed and abused by the state.
Alex shambled in fits and starts to his chair, shoulders slumped, head and eyes down. He feigned a pained expression and very gently began to ease himself into the chair. A lady in the third row leaned over to somebody a few seats down and muttered loudly and indignantly, "You see that? The poor guy's been gang-raped by those animals."
The cue was perfect. MP and Matt immediately jumped up and made a dramatic show of helping poor Alex get more comfortable. And as though she hadn't seen her husband in months, Elena clutched her throat and emitted a strangled wail that bounced around the courtroom walls.
At just that moment, the rear door flew open and in marched John Tromble, fresh from a fast flurry of interviews on the courthouse steps. His eyes roved around the courtroom, settling finally on the prisoner at the defense table. It was his first look at Alex Konevitch, up close and personal, his first glance at this irritating man who had occupied so much of his time and attention over the past fourteen months. He took in the prison garb, the shaggy beard, the unkempt ponytail, the exhausted eyes, and he responded instinctively-he smiled.
This response was fully observed by the dozen pool reporters in the back rows, who launched into noisy whispers among themselves.
Tromble moved with important purpose to the front row where an aide held an empty seat for him. He had not been in a courtroom since his days as a judge, but he felt his presence would send a strong message to the court.
A moment later, a side door quietly opened. Judge Elton Willis walked out, black robes rustling, and moved straight to the bench. The bailiff announced him, everybody stood, the judge sat, and the court fell back into its seats.
Elton Willis was fifty-nine, surprisingly short, with jet black skin and dainty facial features. A former Jesuit priest, he awoke one morning and decided God's will wouldn't be settled in a church, but out on the streets where the battle between good and evil was waged with terrible force. He turned in his vestments and spent five years dishing slop in soup kitchens and mentoring young black children in Washington's brutal slums, before becoming deeply discouraged. Any illusion that he would save the world was crushed by crack, guns, and the unrelenting violence of the streets. So many of the kids ended up dead or in the legal system, with poor representation, and were shunted off to prisons they would bounce in and out of for the rest of their lives. It was time to take the battle up another level. He finished law school at the University of Virginia, where the novelty of a former Jesuit studying a lower law greatly amused the faculty, then returned to Washington, where he established himself as a defense attorney to be reckoned with. Rich clients were banned. If a prospective client passed through his door dressed in a suit, he was promptly sent right back out the door.
As a federal judge, he now waged the battle between good and bad from a high bench. Jesuits tend to be hard men of great intelligence. Elton Willis happened to be harder and smarter than most.
His eyes wandered around the court for a moment. In a quiet voice, he quickly summarized the matter for consideration, and in a louder voice established a few ground rules. This was not a jury trial. In fact it wasn't a trial, it was a habeas corpus hearing mediated by a judge. He did not cater to theatrics, asked the attorneys to object only when absolutely necessary, and emphasized that brevity was next to godliness. He offered threatening scowls to both lawyers, underscoring these points.
Opening statements were made by both attorneys. Jason Caldwell led off and couldn't help himself. After months of primping and prepping, he was like a Hollywood starlet at her first premiere. He paced and pranced around the floor. Half his remarks were addressed to the judge, the other half to the yawning journalists in the back row. Unfortunately, he was also an effective attorney with a sharp tongue and a strong case, and, long before he was done, Alex Konevitch sounded like the personification of evil. He deserved to be in prison, and possibly executed. At the very least he should be dispatched to his own shores for a long-overdue appointment with justice.
With a final flash of his freshly bleached teeth at the reporters in the back, he returned to his seat.
MP pushed himself only halfway out of his chair and said very simply, "My client has endured fourteen miserable months in prison, convicted of nothing. I request an immediate release."
He sat. That was it, nothing more-a tiny drop in a vast ocean that screamed for a long and indignant rant.
Caldwell felt like standing up and applauding. He was going to pound MP Jones into dust. This was going to be so easy. He stood and called his first witness, Colonel Leonid Volevodz, to the stand.
The colonel marched to the witness box, was sworn in, and sat.
Caldwell sidled up to the witness stand, Perry Mason absent the wheelchair. "What's your position, sir?"
"I am the special assistant to Russia's minister of internal security."
"And this would be equivalent to our FBI?"
"You might describe it that way." He leaned back and coolly crossed his legs.
"What is your relationship to the investigations concerning Mr. Konevitch?"
"The lead investigator for my department. The crimes were so severe and crossed so many areas, eventually I was ordered to oversee the efforts of all three government investigations."
Caldwell turned around and nodded at one of the INS lawyers at the crowded table. The lawyer seized a bundle of papers and rushed to Caldwell's side. He selected then held up one clump of papers. Caldwell asked, "Can you please identify this?"