The Hunted

"Well, I didn't anticipate it," remarked Jason Caldwell, wiping a remnant of his morning shave from behind his left ear. After the harsh dismissal of Kim Parrish, Caldwell had been handpicked personally by the INS director, a hotshot gunslinger flown in from the San Diego office, where he was legendary for booting Mexican ass back across the border. Caldwell was a loudmouthed blowhard pretty boy without an ounce of pity for anybody accused of anything. He did deliver, though. He took the toughest, most ambiguous, most troubling cases and never once thought twice about the truth or consequences.

He made his ambitions well-known among his peers, among whom he was not now, nor had he ever been, overly popular. The INS job was a stepping stone, a temporary government job from which he intended to run for Congress, and he intended to eventually head the immigration panel, and they would all have to line up to kiss his ass. He was, by every stretch of the imagination, perfect for this job.

He had spent one month reviewing the vast hoard of evidence compiled, translated, and organized so strenuously by Kim and Petri. The hard work had been done for him, a perfect slam dunk; all he had to do was show up in court and smile brilliantly for the cameras. The past month he had mainly strutted in front of full-length mirrors, rehearsing and polishing his lines, admiring his courtly prose, and gearing up to kick a little Russian ass.

The motion for habeas corpus and switch to a federal court came like a bolt out of the dark. No warning. No threats, no hints preceded it. But MP's sneak attack bothered him not in the least. He looked forward to it, actually. Glad Alex and his hired gun did it. The chance to escape from the largely ignored immigration courts into the federal big leagues, and with such a high-visibility case, appealed to him immensely. He had no doubts he would do great. He was Jason Caldwell-if Konevitch had any clue he was up against the scourge of Mexico he'd book his own flight to Russia.

Tromble brought the meeting to order briskly. A few comments about the importance of the case. A blistering reminder about the need for victory at all costs. A hard stare around the table as he dwelled on the somber imperative of sending Konevitch home to pay for his many sins.

The Russians listened without comment. Volevodz detested America-he wanted desperately to get back to Russia, where he expected to pin on a general's star in recognition for bringing home the bacon. The head Russian prosecutor hoped Caldwell would blow it. Just choke and fumble and get his ass kicked. He prayed the case would drag on forever. He and his three comrades all had lady friends out in Vegas, a bunch of big-breasted showgirls who partied without stop and weren't overly picky about their men. And after losing nearly a hundred grand in FBI dough at the tables, he and his pals were finally starting to win a little back.

"You. Who's the judge?" Tromble asked, squinting at the two Justice boys whose names he couldn't remember because frankly he didn't care to.

"Elton Willis," replied Bill, only too proud to be here in the office of the FBI director.

Tromble looked like a lemon had been stuffed in his throat. "Oh, not Willis."

"He has a fairly good reputation," Bill argued, obviously not getting it.

During his brief tenure as a judge, Tromble and Willis had attended a few legal conferences together and, on one sour occasion, had even shared a podium for a spirited debate on civil liberties, one of many legal topics about which they held diametrically different views. The audience were other judges and the results were predictable. Willis was intelligent, methodical, measured, with a former Jesuit's grasp and approach to law. To put it mildly, the scholars and justices in the audience didn't seem to grasp the subtlety of Tromble's theories. It wasn't the first or last time he'd been pelted with boos, but it was probably the loudest.

"He's a lefty wimp," Tromble growled, daring anybody to contest this conclusion. He leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles. "You ready for the show?" he asked Caldwell.

"It's a knockdown case. In and out inside one or two days."

Tromble traded glances with Hanrahan. "What's the one thing we've overlooked?"

No clue.

"Publicity. Press. We need to bang Konevitch on every front page," he said, almost predictably.

Caldwell loved this brainchild. "Great idea," he announced quite loudly. "If we don't, the defense will. Better to preempt them."

"Our Russian friends need to see we're serious. All this time, but we haven't forgotten them."

"I could hold a few press conferences," Caldwell agreeably offered.

Tromble cleared his throat. "Well, we'll see if we need you." He paused briefly. "Hanrahan, tell the boys downstairs to kick it in gear. See if Nightline or Good Morning America has an opening for me. And call that blonde lawyer over at Fox News, you know the one. She always has an opening for me."