"Those are grave charges."
"I believe that's an understatement."
"Now, may I be blunt with you?"
MP nodded.
Still in whispers, His Honor unleashed a day's worth of quiet anger. "Since you requested this hearing, you are supposed to do something other than sit and doodle on a yellow pad, Mr. Jones. The American legal system is designed to allow a spirited defense. You are obligated to occasionally object to statements that are challengeable, and cross-examine witnesses and poke holes in points you believe are contestable or unsubstantiated. I am dismayed by your behavior. I find it egregiously outrageous and, frankly, incompetent."
"I apologize. I promise I'll try to appear more engaged."
"I'm sure your client will appreciate that."
He turned to Caldwell, who was biting back a smile. He could barely contain himself. His bosses had warned him that Jones was wily and tough and full of surprises. This was the guy, after all, who booted Kim Parrish's ass out of the ballpark. "Hey, who's the tough guy now?" the scourge of Mexico wanted to ask. He was tempted to move two inches from Jones's face and just break out into laughter.
"Mr. Caldwell, do you have more witnesses?"
In fact, three more he planned to question that afternoon. But, hey, what the hell-he could dispense with all of them. After the catastrophic damage he had administered-none of it challenged, all cleanly admitted-why pile more humiliation on top of ten thousand tons of misery? They were nothing more than confirmation witnesses, here to build on already well-substantiated facts. The judge was ready to rule in his favor right now.
"One more. It can wait till morning."
"Then unless you gentlemen disagree I intend to adjourn until nine a.m. tomorrow."
Neither attorney objected in the least.
His Honor looked at MP again. The look was anything but kindly and compassionate. "You had better do some soul-searching tonight. You requested this hearing. If I don't see a spirited attempt on your client's behalf in the morning, I'll cite you for contempt." The instant the judge dismissed the court and the side door closed behind him, the mad scramble was on. Like the shot that starts a race, Caldwell scuttled for the door. He raced through the wide hallways, shoved open the huge outer doors, and nearly lost his balance as he went careening down the big steps.
Three dozen cameras and reporters converged on him at once. He pushed back his hair and produced his most handsome smile for the friendly cameras. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Jason Caldwell, and I'm prosecuting this case. I'm sure you have lots of questions. One at a time, and don't interrupt my replies."
Tromble crashed out the doors just as Caldwell finished his windup. Without even glancing back, Caldwell very smoothly said, "Surely you all recognize our beloved FBI director. He has been providing assistance to me on this case. Limited assistance, though it has been somewhat helpful. I just want to express my appreciation. If you haven't heard, in fact, he will be my first witness tomorrow morning."
Tromble wanted to punch him. Grab his throat and begin throttling. Instead he forced a smile, produced a firm, dutiful salute for the cameras, and sprinted off to his limousine, yelling over his shoulder, "Sorry, I don't have time for questions."
Caldwell remained on the steps for two hours. No question was too trivial to answer. No reporter too insignificant for an endearing smile and a long, thoughtful reply. He bravely withstood the fury of interest until the reporters remembered their deadlines and wandered off into the Washington evening.
32
It was called the Tsar's Suite. At an enormous five thousand square feet, it was furnished with rare and wondrous antiques, loaded with marble and teak, and crammed to the rafters with a staggering array of personal luxuries. Two separate baths, either one big enough to swallow and wash a squadron of sweaty horses. An entire wall of picture windows overlooking the glorious Moskva River and Moscow's twinkling lights.
The sumptuous dinner had been prepared by a four-star chef and delivered by three waiters who hung over the table, willing to cut the meat and spoon-feed the thoroughly spoiled customers. Whatever they wished for, a dollop landed on their plate, delivered by a gold ladle. A sip of wine and the crystal goblet was instantly topped off.
By ten, the chief of staff and his mistress were stuffed and sated, slightly lightheaded from the wine and champagne, ready to retire to the sumptuous pillow bed in the gargantuan bedroom. The chief dispatched the waiters with huge tips.
Tatyana was cradling a snifter of sherry and staring wistfully out the window at the sky full of stars. "This was a wonderful idea," she said.
"Isn't it?"
"The most romantic thing we've ever done."
"What can I say? I love you."
"I love you, too."
"Do you?"
"Of course. I love you, love you, love you."
He stared across the table at her. "Will you marry me?"
"I would love to."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. Just… obviously not right now."
"Why not now?"
"Yeltsin needs you. The country needs you. I won't be a distraction from your important work."
"I can handle it. After all, we see each other at work."
They had been through this same argument a hundred times, a conversation they had rehearsed so often it was stale. A brief loving glance at her paramour. "But I'm not sure I can. We've been through this. In case you haven't noticed, darling, I stay pretty busy, too."
His elbows landed on the table. "You're sure there's nobody else?"
"Absolutely," she snapped. She fell back on her usual defense, a deep pout. "Now you're acting like a jealous idiot."
He reached into a pocket, withdrew a photograph, and casually tossed it across the table. "Recognize this guy?"
She glanced down and didn't flinch or so much as squint. "No."
"Look again. You're sure you don't know him?"
She picked up the picture. "Who is he? He looks sort of cute."
"Nobody. Just thought you might. Until yesterday, he was a star striker on our national soccer team."
"Was?"
The chief began playing with a small fork. "That's right, was. Seems he experienced a terrible accident. Collided with another player and broke his leg. Also destroyed ligaments in his knee… actually both knees, I'm told. Then somebody ran over him with cleats and broke his nose and kicked off an ear. Poor fellow. Such a rough sport. His soccer career is definitely over."
Tatyana gripped the photograph a little harder.
Her boss said very amiably, "Just thought you might know or at least remember him."
"I'm not a soccer fan. Why should I?"
"It seems he went to the same elementary and gymnasium as you. Same small village. Same age, too."
"What's his name?"
"Sasha Komenov."
"I have a vague memory of the name." A well-feigned expression of dawning recognition. "Oh, yes, I think I do remember. A chubby little boy covered with pimples. Obviously, he looks different now. We were all so young back then."
Her boss swallowed a deep sip of sherry, then bit down hard on his lip. "How about a little music before we retire, dear?"