The stocky Russian’s day in court was much more cut-and-dried. Yes, he was clearly guilty of the federal stock manipulation charges. He had made changes to the system to reap tremendous gains. He had been caught red-handed, too. There was no earth-shattering testimony in this case. No courtroom heroics.

The only time any of the audience took note was when the prosecutor demanded to know where Ustinov had stashed the money he managed to steal before his cover was blown by Carl Andretti. Even the old spinster knitting in the back paused her clicking needles long enough to listen closely to the exchange.

“The numbered accounts you provided us are all empty, Mr. Ustinov,” the tired prosecutor reminded him. “Where did you move the money?”

But no amount of browbeating seemed enough to make Ustinov waver from his story. Those were the accounts into which he transferred all the money. Every penny. It was all there the last time he logged off, just before the FBI busted him. He could not account for where or how the money had been moved. This was the reason the government would not allow Ustinov to plead to a lesser charge. He would not tell them where the money was. That being the case, the prosecutor was going to make certain he would be in prison long enough that he would never be able to get any use from it.

This would be the final day of testimony. The prosecutor was out of questions and Ustinov’s defense counsel didn’t appear to have much to work with.

One of the prosecution’s younger attorneys, neatly dressed in his conservative gray pin-striped suit and red power tie, rose to start the day’s proceedings. Dmitri Ustinov sat on the witness stand, fidgeting nervously, his ill-fitting brown suit already rumpled and sagging.

The attorney walked slowly toward the witness stand. It appeared he was still forming his first question in his mind as he approached. Halfway there he stopped and turned back toward his table, as if he had forgotten some important fact. He picked up a yellow legal brief and turned again toward Ustinov as he read something scribbled on the page.

“Mr. Ustinov, it says here that you had an accomplice. Mr. Andretti testified that there were two of you operating the system when he overheard you talking of the plot. Who was your accomplice?”

Ustinov took a drink of water before he answered. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down each side of his face. He looked around the courtroom quickly. The question had been asked before, at least three times, and he had answered it the same each time, in a low voice, almost a whisper, with the pronounced Russian accent he had thickened for this trial.

“I vork alone. I have no accomplice.”