The men in robes? She was already tired of all these boys ganging up on her. "I have an ethical responsibility to present an honest case. This is a travesty. You should all be ashamed to be taken in by these crooked Russians."

"The only people taken in were millions of poor Russians who trusted Konevitch. Of course the evidence is compelling. Guess why. He did it, he's guilty. He's a rotten slimy crook, who deserves whatever he gets. And when the Russians come along and prove it, you say they proved it too well. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

"Have you studied the evidence?" Kim asked, sounding frustrated, knowing full well how weak-no, how pathetically silly-her argument sounded. Toss this case away because it's watertight, too perfect, she seemed to be insisting.

"I have not, and I don't intend to." Tromble's elbows landed on the table, with his hands forming a steeple. "Why should I? I have you sitting right here telling me the evidence is rainproof, flawless in every way. No holes, no contradictions, no imperfections."

"I've made my position clear."

"Then I'll make mine clear. It's moving with or without you. Make your choice."

"Without me. Replace me. Find another lawyer."

The assistant director, Kim's immediate boss, was dismayed by how rapidly things were unraveling. Seven months of work about to spill down the drain. Another of his attorneys would have to replace her, then more months wasted while the new guy came up to speed. And frankly, Kim Parrish was the best he had. He produced a warm smile. "Kim, Kim, don't be hasty. You're a great lawyer. You have a fine record. A whole promising career ahead of you. Please, finish this case and put it behind you."

"I also have the prerogative to refuse participation in a case I believe to be fraudulent and shameful. Reassign me to another case."

Tromble was tired of this pussyfooting. He was unaccustomed to having his orders questioned, and he had an invitation to a big White House reception that evening his wife was dying to attend. He detested the president, a feeling that was deeply reciprocated, so this was the first invitation, and very likely the last. His wife had already spent two grand on a gown, dropped a cool five hundred on a faggy hairdresser, and threatened two years without sex if he was a minute late. It was long past time to put his big foot down. "Take this case, or you're fired."

"Then I quit."

"No you don't, you're fired."

"You can't fire me. I don't work for you."

The director of the INS had this one last chance to preserve the independence of his service, not to mention his own prerogative and prestige. Tromble had just violated the most sacrosanct Washington law-keep your fingers out of somebody's else's bureaucratic turf.

The director summoned forth every bit of his courage, looked Kim dead in the eye, and muttered, "Oh, you definitely are fired."

At 10:00 a.m., Elena arrived promptly for her monthly visit. She came in a rental car picked up at the local airport, a cramped bright purple economy model with a zippy little engine. She and Alex had done this routine fourteen times now. Different prisons, different states, different guards. But it was old hat. The routine rarely varied. Later, she would dump the car, hop a fast flight for Atlanta, wander through the huge terminal for a few hours trying to shake any followers, then at the very last minute hop another flight and bounce around the Midwest awhile. Everything paid for in cash. It would take her two days to return home but Alex emphasized that the time and money were worth it. This was not a game. People were out there, trying to kill her. No precaution was too great.

Her ID had been checked, she'd been patted down and searched, had her hand stamped, and was waiting quietly in a stiff plastic chair when Alex entered. The glass partition was perforated with dozens of small holes. An improvement, they thought, over the last prison, where they had been forced to whisper awkwardly over intercom phones. They were paranoid about bugs. It hampered their conversations terribly.

"You look beautiful," Alex told her. He did not mention the dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted and worn down by fourteen months of endless work, of living in the shadows, of leaping out of bed at the slightest creak of a floorboard. He was trying to hide how guilty it made him feel.

"I love you," she replied, her usual opening.

No need to ask how he was doing; how the new prison was working out; how he was being treated. Alex called almost every night from one of his three cell phones, and they chatted back and forth late into the night. She knew about Benny Beatty, and all about the "mutual fund" Alex was running for an ever-swelling pool of prisoners and guards. No different from the two previous prisons. Elena kept the records and managed the investments through a local Virginia broker she had picked for his efficiency and reliability. Checks arrived in the mail with great frequency from Alex's new clients in each prison, a trickle in the first month, before word spread and the floodgates opened. Elena promptly deposited the checks with the broker, and they were instantly invested. Every night Alex called with fresh instructions to be relayed to the broker the next morning. Execute this sell; buy five thousand shares of this; short this, long that. The stock market was roaring. The fund was beating it handsomely, and Alex's "clients" were elated. He couldn't walk ten steps in the yard without people pleading to join up.

The Wall Street Journal and Investor's Business Daily were delivered to his cell every morning by a guard who had emptied his entire 401(k) nest egg and handed it over to Alex's care.

Even Elena's broker was shadowing Alex's moves with his own money.

"How's Bitchy?" Elena asked.

"Fine. His appeal comes up next month."

"Does he have a chance?"

"I helped draft a letter for him to the court. It might help."

Over the past year, Alex had kept her well-informed about the characters he had met in prison. His ability to fit in with these rogues and villains and gangsters amazed her. The Choir Boys of Mariel with their relentless scheming to find a lawyer who could buy their way out. Mustafa, the glowering head of the Black Power brotherhood in Chicago, who kept ominously reminding "Brother Konebitchie" what would happen should the investments go south.

Bitchy Beatty was the most baffling one yet. Inexplicably, he and her husband had grown quite close. Odd bedfellows, though perhaps that was a phrase best avoided.

"What does the letter say?"

"He deeply regrets the pain and suffering he caused. He found God, God found him. When he gets out he intends to send hundred-thousand-dollar checks to each man he injured."

"That sounds nice. They should be impressed."

"I wrote the letter and forged his signature. Benny loathes the Jets for stealing his championship ring. He doesn't regret a thing."

Alex smiled and she laughed.

Alex leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. "The guard in the back. The tall one with blond hair. Name's George. He's your man."

Elena fell back into her chair, waited a moment, then glanced quickly over her shoulder. Three guards were back there but George was ridiculously easy to spot. Tall guy with white-blond hair leaning against the wall, pretending to be bored. He caught Elena's eye and winked effusively.

When they were finished, George would escort her out to the large anteroom to collect her coat and purse. They would brush against each other, a light bump that lasted seconds. Elena would hand George a bundle of computer disks. George would hand back a bundle of disks from Alex. George was the one with his whole 401(k) in the fund; in two short months, it had already doubled. Whatever Alex wanted, George would bend over backward to provide.