The clerk, a large, feisty black woman, lifted up MP's motion and automatically plunked it into a deep wooden in-box, a vast reservoir filled to capacity with other such requests, motions, and lawyerly stuff. "First time here?" she asked without looking up.
"Uh… yes."
"This ain't no courtroom. Plain English works fine in here."
MP looked slightly deflated. "It's a habeas corpus motion." She chewed a stick of gum with great energy and stared intently into a computer screen. The sign on her desk suggested she was named Thelma Parker.
"I heard what you said," Thelma noted. "How long's your guy been in?"
"A year and two months."
"Uh-huh." Thelma did not appear overly impressed. "What facility he at?"
"At the moment, based on a federal contract, the state prison in Yuma. It's his third prison."
The reaction was delayed, but she slowly shifted her gaze from the screen and directed it at MP. "His third? Inside a year? That what you sayin'?"
"To be precise, inside fourteen months."
"What'd he do? Kill a warden?"
"An alleged visa violation."
"Come on, you bullshittin' me."
"On my momma's grave."
"That's an immigration matter. What's your guy doin' in a federal joint?"
"That's what we'd like the government to explain."
"He a U.S. resident?"
"That's one point of contention. The government said yes. Now it's saying no."
She poised her chin on a pencil. "That prison in Yuma, it's a badass place."
"So Alex tells me. He's locked up in D Wing, mixed in with the most rotten apples."
She leaned forward, almost across the desk. In a low, conspiring, all-knowing whisper, she said, "Truth now. Who'd your boy piss off?"
MP played along. He bent over and whispered back, "John Tromble."
"Figures." She picked MP's motion out of the pile and smacked it down on her blotter. She paged through it, frowning and considering the request with some care for a moment. "Gotta cousin works over at the Bureau," she eventually remarked.
A sharp pain suddenly erupted in MP's chest. Idiot. Why hadn't he just kept his big mouth shut?
After a moment Thelma Parker added, "He hates that Tromble. Says he's the worst thing happened since J. Edgar pranced around in a skirt. Tell you what, you done this before?"
After manning this desk for fifteen years, she had seen thousands of lawyers pass in and out of her office. One sniff and she could smell a cherry a mile away.
MP allowed as, "My usual cases are in immigration court."
"Thought so. You never done this before?"
"Pretty much."
A large, plump elbow landed on her desk and her large chin ended up poised on a curled fist. "Now, don't you worry. Way this works is, your motion goes to a judge. Now, you could maybe get lucky and it might end up in the box of, say, oh, Judge Elton Willis. He's a fair and judicious man. Then, assuming this thing gets stamped expeditious"-she winked at MP-"which might maybe happen about three seconds after you walk outta here… well, then the government gets three days to respond. Got all that?"
"Three days," MP said, winking back.
"Then it's show-and-tell time. This kinda motion moves fast. You got your stuff together?"
With all the humility he could muster, MP replied, "It's going to be an ass-kicking of historical proportions. They'll carry Tromble out on a stretcher."
"Uh-huh." A slow nod. "You got help? Sure hope you do."
"Pacevitch, Knowlton and Rivers. A classmate from law school's a partner over there. They're lending a hand, pro bono."
"Well, that's nice." Her eyes hung for a moment on the JCPenney polyester threads that hung loosely on MP's narrow frame. She smacked her lips and said, "No offense, but you gonna need a few thousand-dollar suits at your table." In a career that alternated between roaring barn burners and droning recitations of intolerable boredom, Boris Yeltsin was producing the biggest thud yet. At least he was sober this time-what a rare and welcome change, his chief of staff was thinking, as he rocked back on his heels and briefly scanned the crowd. Nearly all of them were staring edgily at their watches. A few seemed to be asleep on their feet. He looked longer and harder, and for the life of him could not find one person who seemed to be listening to Yeltsin.
His boss liked him along for these things. Principally it gave him a reliable drinking partner for the long ride back to the Kremlin. Plus he could always rely on his trusted chief of staff to lie and say the speech was stirring and deeply inspiring. They were a pair of wicked old politicians. The lies flowed easily and landed comfortably.
A man in a black leather jacket bumped up against him. He took a quick step sideways, to get some room. The man edged closer.
The man suddenly turned and looked at him with a spark of vague recognition. "Hey, didn't I see you with Tatyana Lukin the other night?"
"Who?"
