The Hunted (54 page)

Two years before, PKR had joined the pell-mell rush of Western firms pouring into the new market of democratic Russia and
opened a small, struggling branch in Moscow. The PKR boys in Russia were immediately hired by a free-market oil company battling
to fend off a vicious takeover by a shady consortium with heavy government contacts. One day before the first hearing, PKR
was notified by the Ministry of Justice that its lawyers had just been disbarred, and its branch office was no longer welcome.
The PKR lawyers were all booted out. The oil company was swallowed up two days later.

What a great way for PKR to shoot a big middle finger back at the Russian government, the senior partners agreed. Among its
many fine attributes, PKR never forgot a slight.

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?”

Volevodz bent forward. “That is an English translation of the Ministry of Justice investigation.”

“And this?”

“The Ministry of Finance investigation.”

“And this?”

“My own investigation.”

“And do these three investigations draw similar conclusions?”

“Identical conclusions.”

“Could you briefly describe those conclusions?”

“Briefly? Konevitch stole 250 million dollars. He gutted and bankrupted his company. He almost single-handedly ruined the
credibility of the Russian banking model. It is impossible to summarize in a short statement.”

Caldwell turned his back to the colonel and smiled at the peanut gallery. “Yes, I imagine it is. Do any of these investigations
differ in any serious regard?”

“No. The facts were easily established. The evidence was overwhelming. Perhaps a hundred different investigators reached the
exact same conclusion.”

“That Konevitch is a crook?”

“A thief. A liar. A confidence man.”

“Was Konevitch ever asked to return to Russia?”

“Yes, by me. I pleaded with him. Twice, on two separate occasions. I assured him of a fair trial. I offered my personal protection.
If he was innocent, he could clear his name.”

“Twice?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He laughed. He pointed out there was no extradition treaty between our countries. He stuck his finger in my chest and said
he would hide behind your flag.”

Caldwell couldn’t resist that opening. “He would hide behind our flag? The Stars and Stripes?”

“His exact words.”

Another document was held up and splayed open. Caldwell asked, “Can you identify this for the court?”

The thin eyes squinted again. “It’s the indictment issued against Alex Konevitch for his crimes.” He leaned forward, as if
he needed a closer look. “It’s signed by Anatoli Fyodorev, Russia’s equivalent to your attorney general.”

Caldwell looked at the judge. “Your Honor, we submit these investigations and indictments as evidence that Alex Konevitch
committed serious crimes in Russia, and later he lied and covered up these crimes when he fled here.”

The stack was handed off to the clerk, who quickly assigned a number to each one before she arranged them in an orderly stack
on her desk. Alex was seated in his chair. He showed no surprise or even concern over the seriousness of the testimony.

His Honor looked at MP. “Would you care to cross-examine?”

“I would not, Your Honor,” he answered without looking up.

Volevodz was released. The next witness was the chief Russian prosecutor, who was identified and properly sworn in.

He sat and Caldwell approached. “Could you please describe your role in this investigation?”

“I was ordered by the state attorney general to prepare the indictment and legal case against Alex Konevitch.”

“He’s a wanted man in Russia, I take it?”

“Number one on our most wanted list.”

“Do you believe he’s guilty?”

“That would be a matter for our courts to decide.”

“But Mr. Konevitch claims your courts are unfair.” “Ridiculous. Under the old communist system, maybe. We are a democracy
now. Our courts are every bit as judicious and fair as yours.”

“So he would be allowed to hire a lawyer?”

“As many as he can afford. If he can’t afford any, the state will appoint one.”

“He would be allowed to present evidence on his own behalf?”

“Just like here, Mr. Caldwell. Konevitch will enjoy the full benefit of innocence until proven guilty.”

“Are you aware that some Americans have a poor impression of your legal system?”

“Are you aware that some Russians have a poor impression of yours?”

“Touché.” Caldwell decided to step out on a limb, directed his gaze at Alex, then asked, “Why would Mr. Konevitch feel he
can’t get an honest shake in Russia?”

The Russian also directed his gaze at Alex, who nodded politely but otherwise appeared indifferent.

“Maybe an honest shake, as you call it, is the last thing he wants.”

Caldwell paused and waited for the loud but inevitable objection from MP Jones. He had led this witness. He had openly encouraged
an act of naked conjecture—how could the chief prosecutor possibly know what Alex was thinking?

Silence. MP sat in his seat, doodling on a legal pad. He looked bored out of his mind. Beside him, Alex appeared to be studying
MP’s doodles, as transfixed as he would be by a da Vinci or a Picasso.

“Thank you,” Caldwell said to his witness, then studied the ceiling a moment as though he needed a little help from the Lord
to remember his next point. He snapped his fingers. “Oh, another question. The money Mr. Konevitch stole? Did you ever find
it?”

The chief prosecutor looked at Alex. “Some of it, yes. We tracked a few million to a bank in Bermuda.”

Another of Caldwell’s aides hustled over and shoved a sheet of paper at the witness.

Caldwell asked with construed curiosity, “Would this be the account information?” What else could it be?

After a careful examination, “Yes, this is it.”

“How much is currently in the account?”

“Two and half million dollars.”