Tromble pretended he didn't see Willis or understand the slight, though he betrayed himself with a slight smile. "It would be an unimaginable blunder to let him out before his immigration status is decided. Only a fool would even consider it."
Willis's eyes shifted from Tromble to MP Jones. He exerted every pound of silent pressure he could muster to encourage the attorney to rise from that chair and unleash a loud, heated objection. Come on, boy, for godsakes, let him have it. The question and answer begged for an objection. Willis needed that objection. He so badly wanted a chance to slap down Tromble right here, in the presence of the entire court, that he nearly screamed objection himself.
Jones just sat, wide-eyed, listening attentively with a flat expression. At least for a change he wasn't idiotically scrawling doodles on that stupid legal pad. But not a word. Not so much as a raised eyebrow or parted lips.
"Your witness," Caldwell said, and nearly strutted back to his table.
Judge Willis continued to stare at MP. In a clenched tone that managed to convey both disapproval and regret, he commented, "I imagine Mr. Jones, in the interest of saving our time, has no desire to cross-examine."
Very slowly, MP pushed himself out of his seat. "Maybe a few questions, Your Honor."
"Well"-for a moment the judge was almost too stunned to reply-"proceed then."
MP didn't budge from his table. He glanced down at Alex, who seemed to shrug as if to say: Okay, why not?
"Mr. Tromble," he began, openly ignoring the official title, "your presence today suggests this is a very important case to you."
"More important than some, less than others," Tromble said, grinning and choosing a nice middle ground.
"As FBI director, at how many other trials have you appeared as a witness?"
Tromble wasted a moment rubbing a forefinger across his lower lip, as though this question required considerable thought. "I guess none."
"You guess?"
"All right, none."
"How'd this case come to your attention?"
"I don't exactly recall."
"You don't? Being the director of the FBI and all, I thought you were a smart guy. You recall nothing?"
"It might surprise you, but the FBI handles tons of cases a year. Nobody expects me to remember every detail."
"Do you recall any conversations with any Russian government officials about Alex Konevitch?"
He scratched his head. "Not exactly."
"Inexactly would be fine."
"I don't recall any."
"Then may we assume you did have such conversations, but just can't recall them?"
"No, you may not."
"Again, Mr. Tromble, did you or did you not discuss the Konevitch issue with the Russian government? Yes or no."
"No. If I did, it was only a passing reference."
MP lifted up a piece of paper from the desk and pretended to read from it. Then, in an annoying tone suggesting he knew everything, he asked, "That Russian colonel and head prosecutor, how'd they get over here?"
It was an old lawyer trick meant to rattle the witness. Tromble, an observant judge in his day, had seen it a thousand times. He handled it coolly, leaning back into his seat and replying, "The Russians have a compelling interest in this case. They were sent to help us prepare his extradition."
"Extradition? Do we have such a treaty with the Russians?"
"No. I… I misspoke."
"You mean you spoke your mind."
Caldwell showed none of MP's inclination against objections. "Objection," he yelled, launching from his chair.
"Sustained."
MP turned back to the witness stand and shook his head. "All right, Mr. Tromble, describe your role in deciding which prisons Mr. Konevitch would be incarcerated in."
"That was decided by the attorney general."
"You had no input? None?"
"Believe it or not, I stay fairly busy running the FBI. Federal prisons aren't my bailiwick."
With a condescending roll of his eyes, MP said, "Oops. That was another of those troublesome yes-or-no questions, Mr. Tromble."
"All right, no." Strictly speaking, the truth, although he looked uncomfortable.
MP bounced back to the issue of Colonel Volevodz and the team of Russian prosecutors. "Who paid for their trip? Who handled their expenses?"
"How would I know?"
"That was going to be my next question," MP answered skeptically.
Tromble lived by the motto "better to give than receive," and the derisive tone from this pip-squeak immigration lawyer was starting to grate on him. He gripped the sides of his chair and snapped at MP, "Was that a question?"
"If it makes you uncomfortable, we'll come back to it later."
MP went on for another two hours, bouncing quickly from subject to subject, tossing in as many insinuations as he could get away with. Occasionally he returned to an old topic, forcing Tromble to plow and replow old ground. Same questions, repeated with minor variations, and saturated with a rising tone of disbelief.
Caldwell objected as often as he dared, most often simple harassment objections intended to disrupt the flow, but eventually the judge warned him to cool it.
After two hours, Tromble was tired of sitting in the same hard wooden chair. He was tired of this disrespectful lawyer, tired of this Russian crook fighting an overdue trip back to Russia, and tired of the rude questions. He was tired of the judge, tired of the entire routine. He regretted he had subjected himself to this. He squirmed in his chair but couldn't seem to find a comfortable position.
MP suddenly left his position behind the defense table and moved to a place about two feet from Tromble. He paused very briefly, then leaned in. "Mr. Tromble, I'm a forgetful type. Did I hear you take an oath to tell the truth on this stand?" MP paused for effect. "The whole truth, absent equivocations, quibbles, or bald deceptions."
That was it. Tromble shifted his bulk forward and nearly spit in Jones's face. "Don't you dare lecture me on integrity, you twobit mouthpiece. I'm a respected public servant. I will not be addressed this way by you. If you have another question you will call me Judge or Mr. Director. Those are my titles."
MP smiled. "You may go, Mr. Tromble."
Tromble leaned back into the chair. He planted his feet and didn't budge, not about to let this third-rate legal loser boss him around.
After a moment, Judge Willis leaned over and said very loudly and very firmly, "Mr. Tromble, if you're not out of my witness chair in three seconds, I'll cite you for contempt." Lunch was a welcome reprieve. Alex and Elena were led into a small conference room and allowed to share a quiet meal in privacy. Outside, two deputies manned the door. Ham sandwiches, a fat deli pickle, chips, and ice-cold sodas, all bought and delivered by the court, were waiting in paper bags on the long conference table.
MP and his PKR pals lunched in a separate conference room three doors down. After fourteen months apart, Alex and Elena deserved a little time together, they figured. Left unsaid was that it might be the last time, and they should be allowed this last chance to be alone.
Besides, MP had a few testy legal issues about rules of evidence he wanted to bang out with the guns from the big firm. He had picked up a few lazy habits in immigration court that could get the book thrown at him in a federal venue. The afternoon would be the decisive battle-it would be very touch and go-and the boys from PKR wanted to iron out any kinks.