"Well, thank you."
"So if you could choose any college and study anything you want, what are you thinking?"
"I don't know. What do you think I'd be good at?"
"Well, you're a likable kid—don't let it go to your head. I think—and I'm just dancing around this right now—I think juries would like you. I'm thinking law school."
"Like you? Be a lawyer?"
"Let me tell you something. Remember I told you my parents got divorced when I was eight and my dad left and my mom couldn't afford to keep me? Sent me to her sister's in Bisbee? Remember that?"
"I remember."
"Here's one thing I learned and I'm going to tell it to you. Because I think you're a cool dude and you need some ancient Anasazi wisdom."
"I'm listening."
"When a guy—or a gal—doesn't have parents, then you have to become your own parent. You have to meet your own needs. Start with financial needs. You have to get educated in something that will always provide for you. That's why I did law. Law became the parent with the bucks my own parents never had. It was always there for me. Bought me my first car, my first condo, rented me my first office—all the rest. That's how come I can afford to live in the Biltmore. Not because of what was given to me. But because of what I took. I reached out and took from the world. You need to do the same."
"Just take? I need to take?"
"Nobody is going to make a gift of anything to you, Thaddeus. That's because you got no parents. So you take what you need, leave the rest alone."
"Okay. I'll take then."
"So what about law school?"
"I wasn't that hot on the Army, tell the truth. I don't want to shoot anyone."
"There's nothing wrong with shooting bad guys. You just need to get that parent in place first. Tell you what. You go to college and law school, and if you still want to join the Army after, I'll drive you down to sign up myself. Deal?"
"Deal."
"So what about college?"
"You went to Arizona. You've done damn well."
"So you're thinking University of Arizona?"
"I mean, why not?"
"Deal. Let's get a catalog."
"I'll go online and order one."
"Deal."
Marvelous Marvin stuck out his hand. They shook.
One year later, Thaddeus arrived in Tucson, his pickup bulging with dorm room supplies, a keyboard synth, and two guitars, including a Les Paul and a D-28 Martin.
All thanks to Marvelous Marvin of Madison Street.
Thaddeus went to college and MMM went on to his next project: a little kid who had lost his dad in a railroad accident and his mother to cancer.
"My name is Marvin," he told the little kid after the dependency hearing.
"I'm Ronnie."
"Ronnie, have you ever thought about having a Big Brother?"
33
Katy's Step 2 was a no-brainer. And it was connected closely to Step 3.
She read from the paperback she had picked up at Barnes and Noble:
The biggest secret to getting pregnant faster is knowing when you ovulate (release an egg from your ovary). Think of the egg as a bull's-eye and the sperm as arrows. One of the arrows has to hit the bull's-eye in order for you to get pregnant.
Since you ovulate once each menstrual cycle, there are only a few days out of each cycle when sex can actually lead to pregnancy. Knowing when you ovulate means that you and your partner can identify the bull's-eye and then aim for it, instead of just shooting a bunch of arrows and hoping the target happens to be there.
You can figure out when you ovulate using a few different methods. Our article about predicting ovulation walks you through them.
If you notice that you have irregular periods over the course of several months, pinpointing ovulation could be difficult. Ask your doctor for advice.
She sat back and considered what she'd just read. Really? She thought. Bulls-eye and arrows? Who did they write this stuff for?
Thaddeus hadn't called when he left the Embassy like he said he would; and the truth was, she was missing his arrows. His quiver full of arrows, she thought with a smile. She loved her guy and she wanted him with her right then. Ovulating or not, she wanted to give it a try.
Why hadn't he called?
So, she called him. Speed-dial 1.
He answered on the third beep.
"Hey, Katy, sorry I didn't call when I said I would. It's been nuts here."
"Where are you and what are you doing? And who are you doing it with?"
"We're staying in an Execustay long-term hotel."
"You and the girl?"
"Yes, me and Angelina."
Katy held the phone away and frowned. Angelina. Now what?
"What do you call her, 'Angie?'"
He was sitting in the office area of his suite, and next to him sat Angelina, who was translating the Russian rules of civil procedure from a computer screen. He shifted uncomfortably and realized he was feeling busted.
"I call her Angelina. That's her name. We're working on getting Christine brought into court. Hoping the judge will release her on bail."
"What's the official charge?"
"You won't believe it. They made up this dog and pony show about Christine attacking the Russian president. It's so ludicrous it's laughable. But they're serious. That's what has me so damn worried. They're totally serious."
"Why are they picking on Christine?"
He knew it was safe to tell her the Russian viewpoint, even though he had no doubt they were eavesdropping on everything he said. Their viewpoint was safe to recite.
"They're picking on her because they say she's a CIA plant, sent her on a fake hijack to kill the Russian president."
"My hell, how clever do they think Americans are? We couldn't pull that off if we tried."
"Thanks for your view of the CIA. I'm sure our Russian friends will be impressed."
"Russian friends?"'
"The ones listening in on this call. You can be sure of that."
"Well, tell them I said to get over themselves. Christine is a paralegal and nothing more. If she were working for the CIA I would have known it. AND SHE'S NOT!"
Thaddeus pulled the phone away from his ear. He hoped Katy's scream had blown out Igor's hearing. Igor or Vladimir or Piotor or whoever was listening in on the call.
"Thanks for that. I'm sure your vouch for Christine will set her free."
"I just want my husband home. This is getting ridiculous. Turquoise said she saw something about a plot on the Russian president's life on CNN. She just told me. I don't watch CNN, so I wouldn't know."
Thaddeus could hear Turquoise say in the background, "I wasn't watching. I was flipping through the channels and I thought I heard Christine's name. It was her they were talking about and my jaw hit the floor. So I watched."
"Did you hear that?" Katy asked.
"I did. Well, the Russian strategy is working then, if CNN is talking it up."
"Stupid."
"It is. Anyway, it's late here and I'm about to jump in bed and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."
"Where does Miss Wonderful sleep?"
"She...has her own bedroom."
Thaddeus couldn't help it: he looked over at Angelina as he said it. She rolled her eyes and took a drink of a Russian Coke.
"But she's not under the same roof as you?"
"Yes, no. It's a suite. I have my room, she has hers. And we have an office too."
"My hell. You're shacking up."
"Please. Are you having a hormone thing?"
He'd no sooner said it than he knew it was the last thing he should have said.
"Hold it," he hurried, "you have to know that was a poor attempt at humor."
"Damn poor. And you're lucky you said that. I was just about to slam the phone down."
"Bad joke. I'm exhausted and the brain is on overload. Forgive me, please."
"You're forgiven. Just promise me you'll lock your doors at
night."
"Of course. Wouldn't want Vladimir coming barging in."
"Or Angelina. Oh, forget I said that. I'm sure she's a good person. Isn't she?"
"The best. Well, so long for now."
"I love you. I miss you."
"I love you and miss you too. Good night."
"It's morning here, but we're cool. Good night."
Katy hung up the phone.
She tried to ignore the mental image her brain was forcing on her. The image of Thaddeus reaching over and taking some young woman's hand and looking into her eyes. She shook her head violently and told her brain to shut up.
Hormonal? She had to smile. She was enough of a physician to know he hadn't seen hormonal yet. Not like he would if she had to go In Vitro on him.
Now that would be hormonal.
34
In Piotor Irunyaev’s Russia, the judicial system was perceived as a means to curb the influence of figures that posed a threat to the Kremlin. In 2005, Yukos Oil CEO Mikhail Podeskayev was imprisoned on trumped-up charges of fraud in one of Russia's most controversial cases. In 2009 Sergei Amanovich, a lawyer who accused police officials of stealing $230 million from the government in a tax fraud scheme, died in prison after being held for a year without charge. And in April of last year, Russian prosecutors suspended a political group—unfriendly to the Kremlin—for three months, barring the Left Front from organizing or accessing their bank account until July 19. By that time, they were out of business and bankrupt; and the two leaders were imprisoned for failure to make good on group debts.
Two days after meeting with the habeas team, Thaddeus had learned the lay of the judicial landscape by asking questions inside the Russian legal community. There were attorneys known to be less than friendly toward Irunyaev’s Kremlin and they helped. It quickly came into focus for him exactly what difficulties Christine faced in her upcoming habeas hearing.
The judge was Herbayevic Szeolben, a hard-nosed Communist, who hailed from Leningrad and had made a name for himself doing the bidding of the Kremlin in disposition of political and religious cases. Where the Russian president was particularly upset with certain defendants, they would invariably find themselves placed on the docket of the Honorable Herbayevic Szeolben—a fast track to hell. The majority of those Szeolben sentenced wound up in the wilds of Siberia, spending daylight hours marking and cutting trees and breaking rocks for the Russian building industry. They spent their nights huddled around wood stoves, underfed and hungry, mind-numbingly deprived of all contact with the outside world. Letters neither came nor went. Two thousand miles from Moscow, legal appeals and attorney visits were impossible. Even family eventually moved on, knowing the Siberian prison camps were black holes where nothing was released.
Habeas team leader, attorney Zialina Altedmivic, was waiting for Thaddeus just inside the main doors of the courthouse in Moscow. Today she was dressed respectably if not fashionably. She wore a woolen dress that brushed the tops of her black boots, a white vest that stretched across her broad shoulders, and a distant smile that told Thaddeus she was already off in her own element. Thaddeus wore his hastily-purchased, ill-fitting suit of gray with heavy brogan shoes and a 1970's-wide tie that featured a fleur-de-lis in yellow against a field of black—a nod to some displaced French heraldry, he imagined.
All told, he was satisfied with his selection of Zialina. Not only had she graduated first in her class at Moscow University; she had also served as editor of the Russian equivalent of the American law journal.
She extended her hand and they shook clumsily, knowing they were likely being filmed and watched on the security screens hidden behind high marble walls in the courthouse. Truth be told, Thaddeus hadn't not felt like he was being watched since de-planing in Russia; and this morning was no different.
"Good, you have brought along a briefcase. This particular judge appreciates leather briefcases. Don't be surprised if he compliments you on it before ordering our client to return to lockup."
"Seriously, what are our chances here?"
She grimaced and led him to the security checkpoint before answering.
"Our chances? Nil. I told you that when we met. How do you Americans say it—the deck is a hard one?"
"The deck is stacked?"
"That's it. The deck is definitely stacked. Russian president, his second cousin sitting on the bench—"
"Wait, you're serious? The judge and Irunayev are actually related?"
"Oh, indeed. Judge Szeolben is the president's second cousin, mother's side."
The group ahead was waved on through security and Thaddeus set his briefcase down on the conveyor belt. It rolled through the X-ray and then he passed through the scanner himself. It buzzed and he was motioned back.
The security officer said something in Russian.
"It's your wedding ring. The scanners detect all metal. Set your ring in the white tray and walk back through. Try again.
Thaddeus did as instructed. This time he made it to the other side, where he retrieved his briefcase and wedding ring from the conveyor belt. Zialina produced an ID card and was waved through without inspection. The two lawyers rounded a corner and came to a bank of elevators. They rode up to the twenty-second floor. The doors whooshed open and they stepped into a marble hallway, dimly lit with flickering neon bulbs. Down the hall were two doors on either side, both massive and both unmarked.
"Take the one on the right," Zialina said, and Thaddeus turned the doorknob.
The courtroom looked remarkably like American courtrooms, and Thaddeus immediately felt at home. This setting, he understood. Here was where he was accustomed to transacting the business of incarceration and conditions of release.
He found himself praying for a fair shot at release, which was all he asked. But, unlike American courts where one could have hope, here, he knew, there was no reason to be hopeful.
With that thought, a sense of depression and isolation settled over him. He knew the isolation came from a feeling that justice wasn't present in the room, that he was shut off from justice even though he had come to the room of justice. He knew, without a word being said, that justice wasn't part of the day's pantomime.
A chill rippled up his spine and he admitted that the hearing was hopeless—that, and it hadn't even yet convened.
He felt a panic for Christine and tried to fight it down, to maintain control of his emotions. Now more than ever she needed him cool and calm.
There were minor court officials working at the computer screens and setting up reporting tripods, none of whom acknowledged Zialina and Thaddeus.
With a stir and a rustle of chains, the second rear door opened and a hunched, chained, prisoner shuffled into the room. The prisoner was waist-chained and ankle-chained. Thaddeus looked closer. It appeared to be Christine's last known haircut, but the face wasn't at all familiar.
She was admitted to the prisoner dock along the right side of the courtroom. In Russian criminal proceedings, unlike American, the prisoners are never admitted into the courtroom, where they would be free to stand directly in front of the judge. Instead, they remain in the dock; and interrogations for procedural matters are directed and received through vertical steel bars.
She sat on the low bench and hung her head. Thaddeus hurried to the bars and she looked up.
"Christine? Is that you?"
Two dark eyes passed over his face. There was no sign of recognition. The eyes again dropped to the floor.
"Christine!"
Again the head came up. Again the eyes sized him up. But there was no sign of recognition.
"Christine, it's Thaddeus! Are you all right?"
She looked and stared this time. Her face was swollen on both sides and her nose was mashed and spread on her face. One eye was almost swollen closed and the other appeared to fight for focus. She pressed her hands to the side of her face and he saw she was missing her wedding ring and engagement ring, as well as the gold watch Sonny had given her on their last anni
versary. Her knuckles were scabbed. Two fingers were splinted, and Thaddeus knew they had been broken. She shook her head and he thought he saw tears forming.
"Thaddeus? Is that you?"
"Oh my God, Christine, what have they done?"
"Thaddeus? Are you here or am I dreaming again?"
"No, no, I'm right here. We're in court. We're fighting for your release."
"They said I killed the president."
"No, you didn't kill anyone. It's all a lie."
"Is that you, Thaddeus Murfee? I think it’s you."
After that, the door to the judge's chambers, hidden in the wall without a visible seam, opened; and a thick-chested, stumpy figure in a beige business suit mounted the judge's bench. He had a fringe of red hair around his bald scalp, a wide red mustache, and short fat fingers that twiddled and fiddled without surcease. It was as if he were knitting without yarn or needle. Air-knitting, thought Thaddeus, bringing himself back into the moment and turning away from Christine. Thaddeus proceeded to the left-hand counsel table and took a seat next to Zialina. Her file was open and she was reading a pleading presented, of course, in Russian; so Thaddeus only knew what it said from earlier discussions.
The judge rapped a wooden mallet against the bench and called the court to order.
"You may proceed, Ms. Altedmivic. It's your motion for release."
There was no fanfare, no calling of the case, no case numbers spoken into the record—none of the usual precursors known so well in U.S. courts. Just, "proceed," and they were off and running.
Zialina climbed heavily to her feet.
"May it please the Court and the Honorable People's Congress. Today we are seeking a cash bond for the prisoner Christine Susmann. As the court knows, the prisoner has been charged with various violations, including a charge stemming from an alleged attack on the president. The issue of whether the attack happened or not isn't before the Court today."
"It isn't?" said the judge.
"No, it isn't. What is before the court, according to the Habeas Statute, is whether the defendant should be held in jail without bail or whether bail should be allowed. In this case, it's the defendant's position that bail should be allowed."
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 14
