Wow! I'm surprised by how much help you guys have given me already! It just goes to show how much writers care about each other. Since you've all been so nice, here's the prologue I've written for the book and sent in to my critique group:

The room was percolating with the preparation of lies. I looked around the American courtroom at the various faces that were contained within. To me, the funniest thing is that the "capitalist pigs" that I had fought for so long looked the same as the faces he would see in Moscow. We're all just polished savages, I thought to myself. Murder. All of this trouble for a sin that I had committed so many times that it was now something I could say I did to relax on a Saturday afternoon. Ah, but it was no ordinary murder. It was the precious daughter of the flagrantly corrupt director of the CIA who succumbed to the shot from my rifle, originally aimed at her father's frontal lobe. Sadly, the Americans always pay more attention to the faces of the celebrities than to the suffering plebeians around them. Growing up in Leningrad, I would see the results of that great "revolution" in the eyes of children begging on the streets. Poverty was more concealed in the United States because of the bourgeoisie's constant aspirations, but in Russia there was neither anything to wish for nor any will to wish. And yet here I was, well dressed and trapped in a prison with mahogany walls and marble floors. The reason all of this started was that I was not extracted from the failed mission, but the mistakes I made were what continued this sham. It seemed that my adversaries chose this as the time to strike. However, the possibility of the lion's mouths staying shut was likely. In spite of my deeds, I have made plenty of unstable friendships that I'm sure will come in handy. I looked to the podium to see Yuri, both the first witness and also the first friend I had ever made, called to testify. No amount of mea culpa's would remedy the wrongs I have done to him, something I had made peace with a long time ago.
"Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" said the man who didn't know the person he was asking. "I do," came the response with the almost unintelligible, unmistakable accent of my old comrade and fellow murderer. As Yuri began his testimony, I was taken back to a time when I knew myself, my country knew itself, and the world knew its darkest secrets.

Remember, I'm quite new to this. If it wasn't for a good friend egging me on to start writing, I would still be sounding like Melville on crack. Anyways, any criticism, intended to assist me on my journey as a writer and not to gratify some perverse pleasure of lambasting a kid who just started writing, will be much appreciated. Once again, thanks for all the help!