Alex pushed stop. The tape finally went quiet, though it seemed to echo for a long moment. He glanced around and studied the faces in the court.

Tromble was melting into this chair. Every eye in the court was on him.

Directly to his front, Caldwell spent a long moment in terrified confusion. Eventually he repeated, an octave higher but more quietly this time, "Objection, Your Honor."

"Sidebar," the judge replied and scrambled off his bench. Again Matt accompanied MP, and this time he added Alex to his entourage. Again one of the Justice boys accompanied Caldwell, who arrived red-faced and furious.

"Lawyer's meeting," Caldwell snapped, directing a finger at Alex. "He has no business here."

"His presence is necessary to establish the provenance of the tapes," MP answered very nicely. "This is a hearing, not a trial. What do you say, Your Honor?"

"That might be a good idea," Willis answered, still a little shocked by what he had heard.

"That's clearly an illegal, inadmissible tape," Caldwell snapped, at the judge, at MP, at anybody in earshot.

"To the contrary," MP argued in a voice dripping with phony confidence, "it's legal and quite admissible."

"Was it taped with the consent of the conversants?" Caldwell demanded.

"That's American law," MP replied with a smug smile, trying to bluff his way through.

Alex quickly interjected. "This tape was made in Russia. Russians are allowed to tape and wiretap to their heart's content. No law bans it. In fact, it's our national pastime."

Caldwell had no idea whether that was true or not. "Your Honor, please," he pleaded, "it's blatantly inadmissible. Obviously the product of a wiretap."

His Honor looked at MP. "Well?"

"Yesterday, the prosecution introduced into evidence a wiretap provided by the Russian chief prosecutor. It concerned the supposed activities of Orangutan Media. I didn't challenge him on whether the tape was the product of a legal warrant, and am now dismayed that he's even making this argument. He established the precedent. I should be accorded equal latitude."

"Do you have more tapes, Mr. Konevitch?"

"About twenty here. Another fifty or so in a safe-deposit box." "Are you requesting to play all of them?"

"Not at all," Alex replied. "My wife and I picked out the most damning ones."

"These are all conversations between Tromble and this lady?"

"No, just one more of those," MP insisted, borrowing a bit of Alex's confidence. "I'd love to play it. It's the one where Tromble brags to this lady about all the terrible prisons he's sending Alex to. He promises her that he will keep my client suffering until he snaps, until he begs to be returned to Russia."

"And what material's on the rest of the tapes?"

"Tatyana Lukin had two… well, I guess you'd call them business partners."

"Go on."

"Nicky Kozyrev, a notorious syndicate chief. This is a guy with Interpol and Russian police records long enough to stock a library. And General Sergei Golitsin, a former KGB deputy director hired by Alex as his corporate chief of security."

"These are phone conversations?"

"Some," Alex replied. "Most were captured as the three of them sat in back of a fancy limousine."

"And their role in this affair?"

It was time for the lawyers to take over, and MP answered, "Glad you asked. They stole Alex's money and his companies. Then they framed him. Then they orchestrated his persecution here."

"And these tapes prove those accusations?"

"I'll leave that for you to decide."

"And how did you come by these tapes?"

"My client."

"And how did you acquire them?" he asked, peering now at Alex.

"I hired a private detective. He did the taping and sent them to me."

After a moment of quiet consideration, the judge suggested, "Let me tell you what worries me, Mr. Jones. For all I know, your client had those tapes produced by actors."

It was Matt Rivers's turn at bat and he opened with a mighty swing. "My firm had the tapes analyzed over the weekend by a reputable laboratory. A clip of Tromble doing a TV interview was compared against the tape you just heard. Perfect match. Identical voice print. That analysis is included in our submission."

"I see."

"Also, they compared Miss Lukin's voice from the tape you just heard against the remaining tapes. It's her speaking to Tromble, and it's her speaking with her co-conspirators."

"And these tapes are in Russian?"

Matt's turn again. "We hired three actors to role-play in English. We're submitting the originals as well. You can check the accuracy of the translations if you wish. No expense was spared. They're quite good."

Matt couldn't wait for the judge to plow through them. The actors were professionals, used by New York publishers to make audiobooks. Over a very busy weekend, they rehearsed together for hours. Not only did they reproduce the conversations with passion, conviction, and fluidity, but they captured the small but important details that add a certain verisimilitude. The sounds of Nicky's furious snorts. The menace in Golitsin's voice. The woman who did Tatyana was nothing short of spectacular, a purr so spot-on you could almost picture her seductiveness.

Caldwell looked like a whipped dog. It was obvious which way the judge was leaning. His case was falling apart before his eyes. He could do nothing to prevent it. The sad truth was, he was dying to hear the tapes himself.

The judge said, "I want to hear them in my chambers before I decide. I expect both of you want to be present," he said, looking at the lawyers, then at Alex. "Not you. This is a matter for lawyers to hash out."

Three minutes later, court was adjourned until further notice. The solemn-faced judge issued one last ominous instruction: Tromble would be present when the court reconvened. It was an unchristian sentiment, and he felt mildly guilty about it, but Tromble had done him no favors, and he fully intended to repay it.

The judge and lawyers disappeared to his chambers. The reporters straggled out to join their colleagues on the front steps where they would share the incredible events of the morning and file as much as they could before court reconvened. Within minutes, the legal talking heads were back in the studios, on the air, sharing updates, squawking away, and shoving opinions and predictions at whoever cared to listen. The opinions were divided and, hotly debated.

Half thought the judge might make a rare exception since this was, after all, only a habeas corpus hearing, where the benefit of the doubt normally leaned toward the accused. The other half claimed the defense didn't have a prayer.

Court reconvened four hours later. The reporters were notified and they bickered and fought with one another for choice seats, or even standing room at the crowded rear of the room. Would the judge allow that first tape? If so, what was on the others? And the big question of the day was, how screwed was John Tromble, director of the FBI? The sense of curiosity was running at fever pitch. The studios were screaming for updates the moment a decision was rendered.

With grim faces, the lawyers marched out and fell into their chairs. Alex was led back to the defense table after four long hours of cooling his heels in a holding cell. He had, however, showered, shaved, trimmed his own hair, and changed into a respectable suit and tie. The time had come, he decided, to present a before-and-after shot for the viewers.

And the contrast between the downtrodden criminal and this towering, clean-cut, handsome man at the table was indeed striking. You saw what they did to me, his old self screamed-now look at what I was before the power of the state fell on my head.

The side door opened. Willis hefted his robes and walked up to his bench. He appeared sad, furious, shaken, and slightly nervous.