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?"