"Yes, their full expenses. They've been here about a year."
"Where are they staying? Such a long way from home, what are they doing? Don't they get bored?"
Kim's eyes narrowed. She sent her answer like a rocket straight at Tromble. "At the Madison Hotel. Four of them, in separate thousand-dollar-a-night suites. For almost a year now, and they've racked up incredible bills. They eat at our most expensive restaurants, fly away first-class to Vegas every weekend, whoring, gambling, and drinking unimaginable amounts of liquor. Every bit of it is billed to the FBI."
"A rough estimate. How much would you guess the FBI has wasted on these crooked clowns?"
"Objection, Your Honor."
"Sustained. Watch your language, Mr. Jones. How much, Miss Parrish?"
"Millions. Many millions of taxpayer money. As I said, they've been here a year, living like spoiled kings."
MP returned to his seat.
Frankly there was no reason on earth for Caldwell to cross-examine Kim Parrish. His earlier, well-timed objection had slipped a noose around MP and put her in a box. No real damage had been done. Who cared about the Russians? Let them impregnate half the showgirls in Vegas. Bet the whole national treasury and lose it in a bad roll of the dice. Big deal. It had nothing to do with whether Konevitch should remain in prison.
But he was angered that Kim Parrish chose to turn on her own department. It was betrayal and he damn well knew how to make her pay for it. Time for a little discreditation.
He stood and asked, "How did you become a defense witness?"
"I don't understand the question."
"It's very simple. Did Mr. Jones contact you, or vice versa?"
"I contacted him. After I was-"
Before she could finish that thought, Caldwell cut her off. "Are you still employed at the INS, Miss Parrish?"
"No, I quit."
"You mean you were fired. You went to Mr. Jones because you were angry and wanted revenge."
"I mean I quit. Then Mr. Tromble fired me."
"No, you were fired by the director of the INS."
"I don't recall you being in the room. I was fired by Mr. Tromble because he refused to allow me to resign from what I considered a shoddy case."
Caldwell immediately turned red. He looked at the judge. "Strike that response from the record."
"You asked the question," the judge replied, "and you challenged her to elaborate. I'll allow it."
A stupid mistake. But so what? The damage was minimal. An ambiguous little defeat in the midst of a big, clear-cut victory. At least his well-timed objection had smothered her from exposing the really damaging stuff.
Kim was dismissed and MP called his next witness. Parrish walked back up the aisle and was passed by a poorly dressed, diminutive man slowly shambling in the opposite direction.
Petri Arbatov was sworn and seated.
MP spent a moment walking him through his background-for the edification of the judge and audience, he dwelled on it at some length. KGB for twenty years before his sudden defection. A law degree from Moscow University, but no mention of the law degree from Catholic University.
MP didn't ask, and Petri didn't offer.
The crowd in the court hung on every word. With few exceptions, none had ever seen a real live KGB agent, up close and personal. Petri was their first peek at a living, breathing KGB agent-and he looked so small, so crushed, so sad. Who could believe this was the fierce demon portrayed in all those Cold War cinema thrillers and spy novels? Why hadn't we won the Cold War thirty years earlier? Having spent no time in courtrooms, Petri looked nervous and his opening responses were halting.
Next, a few warm-up questions to put the witness at greater ease. How Petri came in contact with this case, his interview with Kim Parrish, and so forth.
MP said, "So you were hired to translate the documents given to the INS, via the FBI?"
"It is how I make my living these days. I translate for American firms doing business in Russia."
"Are you still a practicing attorney?"
"No. I quit the profession sixteen years ago."
"Why?"
"The work I did for the KGB, I suppose. It left a certain taste."
"What kind of work would that be?"
Petri looked around the court for a moment and let the suspense build. "My job, Mr. Jones, was to frame people," he answered slowly, drawing out the words.
Petri spoke quietly, and the reporters bent forward as they spent a few minutes delving into that legal specialty. Fascinating stuff. People were on the edge of their seats, and never budged. How to frame a perfectly innocent man, ten easy steps to a sure-fire trip to a gulag, or worse.
Then, from MP, "And what did you conclude after you reviewed the material about Konevitch from Russia?"
"Objection," Caldwell barked.
"Grounds?" Willis asked, leaning his chin on his fist.
"Uh… attorney-client privilege again."
His Honor peeked down at Petri. "Remind me, please. Are you still a practicing attorney, sir?"
"Not for many, many years. These days I'm a simple translator."
MP confidently asked, "Did you sign a contract that precluded you from sharing what you learned?"
"No. I merely stated my price and Miss Parrish hired me."
The judge said, "Then overruled. Please answer the first question."
Petri looked at Alex seated at the table. "After looking at everything, I concluded that Mr. Konevitch was being framed."
"Why?"
"There is a certain stench to such things, Mr. Jones."
"An odor? An actual smell? Explain that."
Petri directed a finger at Colonel Volevodz seated at the rear, now in his capacity as an official observer. "Take that man, Mr. Jones. He might tell you he works at the Ministry of Security, but he was definitely career KGB before this. He might claim he's merely enforcing the law, but his hands are covered with blood. It's a stink no shower will erase."
Every neck in the court craned to examine Volevodz. A more charming man might have smiled or chuckled disarmingly-at a minimum shaken his head in pretended disbelief. Volevodz tried to bore holes through Petri with his skinny, mean little eyes.
Oh yeah, no doubt about it. There's the guy from the Hollywood thrillers-KGB down to his undershorts.
"But the documents?" MP asked. "Did they actually smell?"
"Well, you see, the key is to produce a perfect case. These four prosecutors your FBI is caring for, they are experts at this. That's exactly what they did."
MP led him through this for a while, the craftsmanship of how to string a noose with lies, forgeries, and planted evidence. Then he shifted on a dime and asked, "Incidentally, were you present when Miss Parrish was fired?"
"I was there, yes. Seated right beside her. But she wasn't fired."
"The prosecutor claimed she was."
"He's wrong, or he's lying. She quit."
"Why did she quit?"
"She reported to her boss that this case was phony. Cooked up. A sham."
MP paused to allow this to sink in, then asked, "What happened?"
"She is an honorable person, Mr. Jones. She did something I never had the courage to do."
"Which was what, Mr. Arbatov?"
"She tried to get the case dropped."
MP affected a look of huge surprise. "The attorney in charge wanted it dropped?"
"Yes."
"Well… why wasn't it dropped?"
"She was brought into a room with that man"-he pointed out Tromble, who was trying desperately to ignore him-"and her INS bosses. She begged them to drop the case. They refused quite rudely. She then asked to be reassigned, as is the prerogative, indeed, the responsibility of any attorney who believes a case is improper. They yelled at her. She resigned, then that man"-another damning finger aimed at Tromble-"screamed at her that she was fired."