She hated this case. It was rammed down her throat at the last minute, accompanied by dozens of vile threats if she flopped. But her job was to represent the interests of the United States government as best she could.
"I have no idea," she snapped spitefully, wondering what her superiors would say when they read the transcript.
"I am placing this case in abeyance," the judge snapped. He looked long and hard at Kim Parrish. If stares had weight, she'd be crushed under a hundred tons of barely controlled fury. "This might be the shoddiest case I've ever had the displeasure to observe. I am not happy, Miss Parrish. You've asked me to pull the trigger for immediate deportation when the gun's not even loaded."
She summoned the last tiny bit of her courage. "The government requests that Mr. Konevitch remain in custody until we ascertain the full validity of Russia's claim."
The judge reeled back and pretended to be shocked. "Miss Parrish, do you recall the warning I issued two weeks ago?"
"I do, Your Honor."
"And now you're asking me to approve indefinite imprisonment while you sort out whether Mr. Konevitch is guilty of crimes back in Russia?"
"I didn't say indefinite. We'll move this as fast as we can and notify the court the moment we're prepared."
"And when might that be?"
"A few months at worst. Possibly weeks." She didn't have a clue.
"Mr. Jones?"
Predictably, MP looked like a jackhammer was pulverizing his big toe. "It is grossly unfair for my client to remain in custody because the government arrested him on such spurious grounds. It's outrageous and-"
Parrish cut him off. "The alternative is that we release a possible criminal to escape his crimes, and possibly sin again. He has the resources, and he has fled before. As the huge volume of news accounts attest, Mr. Konevitch is an infamous fugitive in Russia. A celebrity thief. His case is being monitored closely by Russia's highest leaders and by his own people. Russia has made clear that the handling of this case will merit a strong reciprocal response. Thousands of American citizens are in Russia. They're at risk. We recognize and apologize for any inconvenience this causes Mr. Konevitch. But we emphasize the needs of the state over his personal comfort."
The slew of news stories in the boxes two feet from the judge's long nose suddenly weighed ten legal tons. The judge stared at the boxes that attested very clearly to Konevitch's infamy in Russia. For once, she had a good point.
His Honor removed his glasses and leaned forward. "With considerable reluctance, I'll approve this request, until this thing gets sorted out."
"Thank you, Your Honor."
"Oh, don't thank me, Miss Parrish. But do listen closely. I want Mr. Konevitch transferred to a federal facility. Get him out of that nasty holding cell."
"I understand."
"Find him a nice, comfortable place. I want him not overly taxed by our obvious inefficiency. Is this clear?"
"You have my word."
He bent far forward. "One of those country clubs with tennis courts, big-screen TVs hooked to satellites, and all the good food he can stand. A nice, white-collar environment without walls or barbed wire, where the worst lowlife in there is a tax cheat."
"I understand."
"The next time I see Mr. Konevitch I want him fat and tanned. He better be bored with gardening, and listening to all those fatcat Wall Street lizards brag about their schemes."
"You have my word."
"I protest," MP said.
"Of course you do," His Honor said quickly, as he lunged out of his seat and fled from his own court.
The thrashing was horrible. Nothing less than deeply humiliating. It was the first time Kim Parrish had met the attorney general and FBI director. Oh, let it be the last, she prayed as they verbally tore into her. She gritted her teeth and mentally cursed both of them. Neither was in her chain of command, but they were enormously powerful people, and it stung.
Her own director chose to stand off to the side, eyeing the line of fire and avoiding it at all costs.
She had turned fifty years old only two weeks before. Same age as the attorney general. Twelve years older than Tromble. Yet they lashed into her like a little schoolgirl who had failed to finish her homework.
"It's not all lost," Parrish protested weakly, almost vainly, avoiding their damning eyes. "He's still in custody. We'll have our day in court again."
"His ass should already be on a plane back to Russia," Tromble yelled, slapping a hand on a table. "You blew it. A knockdown case, and you just blew it."
"It wasn't my decision to bring in the Russian prosecutors. I had them on the ropes until Jones used that ace."
"How did Jones learn about it?" the attorney general asked, plainly puzzled.
Kim Parrish shrugged. "You tell me."
Tromble stared down at his shoes. The profligate product of the wiretaps on Jones's office had been quietly reviewed that afternoon by a team of ten agents. No mention of it. Not in Jones's phone calls. Not even in private conversations inside his office. Not a hint, not a word.
