by John Charles
“But they didn’t exactly threaten my life. Had they caught us, then I probably would have been threatened. I would say they were threatening looking though.”
The entire Buchko family had blank looks on their faces. Mr. Buchko continued. “Then you tell judge about the attempt on your life.”
Natasha perked up.
“Your life?”
“They went after Darby the next night at his hotel.”
I waved at Mr. Buchko to play it down. “But I wasn’t there. I was at Tatiana’s.”
“What did they do?”
“Well, they shot up my suitcase and clothes. I left them on my bed. They probably thought it was me sleeping.”
“Oh, Darby, I did not know…”
“Neither did I. Your father put two and two together when I was joking about the tiny holes in my clothes and luggage after staying at the hotel.”
“Darby, I am sorry you are in this mess,” Natasha said.
“Please. You needed help. I helped. What we need to do now is to put these guys away so that we can all move on with our lives.” I raised my glass and said. “Na Zdorovie.”
33
Wake up. It’s time to face the reaper.
Early the next morning, the Buchko family and I started our journey to the courthouse in three cars. Mr. Buchko and his son had the first black Mercedes Benz S600, Irina and the girls were in the second, and I had one to myself. The whole setup seemed unnecessary. What kind of cloak and dagger life did this family live? Add the thin layer of fog that the Black Sea was feeding into the city that morning and it felt like the beginning of a horror flick. Maybe it was.
Why we had to be at the courts so early was beyond me. But I went along with the program. The sooner I testified, the sooner I could go home, I was told.
When we reached the court building, the first thing I noticed was that it was nothing special—gray and utilitarian. No surprises there. A large metal sculpture of two soldiers on horses each flanked by a farmer preceded the entrance of the building.
Inside, the décor was even less impressive. Nondescript hallways and nameless rooms sat behind closed doors. The sound of them opening and closing echoed throughout the building as government employees and citizens shuffled in and out. The waiting area consisted of a few mismatched chairs. Most people found an empty spot alongside a wall and leaned. A picture of the President of Ukraine was the only artwork that hung in the building from what I could tell.
I looked at my watch and saw the time was eight on the nose. Natasha had already been led away by a couple of suits, lawyers perhaps. Irina was right on her tail. About ten minutes later, a door next to us opened and a guard motioned for the rest of the family and me to enter.
The courtroom itself was one large room sectioned off into little areas enclosed by glass. I guessed that the small opening was where witnesses speak if need be. Mr. Buchko said the various areas are for visitors, defendants, witnesses, and plaintiffs. The lawyers were the only ones free to roam. I noticed that none of the holding areas had bars, only the same see-through plastic that enclosed us. As more people filed into the courtroom, I wondered how strong the plastic was and if two guards were enough to handle an entire gang.
I sat next to Mr. Buchko behind the protection of the glass window. He leaned toward me and said, “Normally not so many people, just lawyers and judges, but this is special case. Everyone wants to be here to ensure no corruption.”
“Will he be here? The leader?”
“Yes. Over there.”
I looked to where his head motioned and saw a small holding area, really a cell with a few chairs inside.
Another closed door finally opened and a man walked out and sat down at the head of the room.
“The judge,” Mr. Buchko whispered.
And then the door to the cell opened and in walked six men wearing white jumpsuits. They were all handcuffed. He was the last one to enter the cell. The fluorescent lighting ricocheted off of his bald head. I caught a glimpse of his icy blue eyes. They were still cold and very much dead.
A guard stood outside the cell and read names, waiting for each man to respond. His name was Viktor Kazapov.
For the next hour or so, I understood very little of what was happening even though Mr. Buchko tried to keep me informed. The same two men took turns speaking with the judge. I doubted that anybody in the courtroom knew what was going on or was really paying attention. I looked over at Natasha. Poor thing, she was shivering just as she had done before. But this time I knew it was from seeing the monster.
Viktor had yet to notice me, thank God. Eventually he would know I was here, but I wanted to postpone that moment of realization until the last possible moment. Never sounded pretty good.
Then one of the lawyers approached our window and said something and then repeated the same thing to the group of people in the enclosed box next to us. In that box were the families and the other girls who were kidnapped with Natasha.
Irina motioned for her daughter to go. She and the other girls exited their respective boxes. I watched as the girls then filed into a new box closer to the judge. It wasn’t completely enclosed with glass so they could address the court better.
When I turned back to the cell to check on Viktor, I found him staring right at me. It caught me off guard. I quickly looked away, trying to pretend I didn’t notice him. Real stupid—of course he knows I saw him. I wondered if there was such a thing as criminal etiquette. Am I to look at him or not? I honestly wasn’t sure. If I turned away, I looked like a scared little boy. He wins. Stare him down and I become someone who challenged him. Neither option was ideal.
Viktor smiled at me; he knew exactly who I was. He leaned back on the metal chair, his broad chest sticking out like a proud bull’s. He was enjoying this. He knew I was fearful of him. I didn’t know what else to do, so I smiled back. He smiled even more and then dragged a finger across his neck slowly. I looked away; I couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud.
“Don’t show fear. It’s what he wants.”
I looked at Mr. Buchko and he stared at Viktor with the same cold hard stare that I was accustomed to seeing from that madman.
Viktor’s eyes were empty. No soul. No life. But they had a way of piercing right through you.
“Intimidation is how they rule. It’s how corruption thrives. We must stand our ground if we are to win,” Mr. Buchko said.
I turned back to Viktor and never took my eyes off of him. I stared him down. I even mocked him. What did I care? He was going to jail for the rest of his life. Scumbag.
Suddenly Viktor stood up, tucked his shoulder down and ran full speed into the plastic barrier, shattering it. There he stood, free in the courtroom. His eyebrows arched inwards and his nostrils flared.
And then he charged straight at me.
34
Oh. My. God. The psychopath is free.
I could not believe what had just happened. Here I was being coached by Mr. Buchko to stand my ground, to show him I wasn’t afraid of him, and now this beast was running full speed at me. There was no confusion there. The shortest point from A to B is a straight line and Viktor was right on course. Holy crap. Why on earth did I listen to Mr. Buchko?
Everyone in our holding bin had the same thought at the same time: Get the hell out. A mad scramble ensued as we all headed to the door. People left their belongings. Metal chairs went flying out of the way. The door flew open. But for some reason, I was not any closer to the exit. My foot tangled with my chair, sending me straight to the ground. I kicked and kicked, trying to free it. Why me? No one else got their foot caught in their chairs—not even the old babushka in front of me. You stupid limb. Move!
Finally I was able to free myself and get to my feet. I dared not look back, certain Viktor must be a second away from crashing through the plastic surrounding my cage. I had wasted valuable time.
Then I heard the sound I was dreading. Viktor had broken through. Any second now and I would feel his
paws on me. I was toast.
But nothing came. No clawing. No fist in the back of the head. No waist tackle. I stopped. I had to turn around to see why. Getting out of the holding area didn’t matter anymore. I was the last one.
Behind me on the ground lay Viktor. Three guards were scrambling to contain him. I started to breathe a sigh of relief when suddenly Viktor stood up, with the three men still clinging to him, barely. Oh shit! I started kicking my feet in an effort to get moving again. Viktor took a step forward, then another. This guy isn’t human. Just as he took another step, two more guards piled on Viktor, sending him to the ground again. Behind them, more guards entered the room. They secured the other gang members and ushered them out of the room.
Viktor was barely conscious, his face having taken the brunt of the impact. He raised his head just enough to make eye contact with me. A mixture of blood and saliva hung from his mouth as he said, “I will get you. You can’t escape.”
The guards picked him up and escorted him out of the room. I figured we were done for the day, that there would be a recess in the trial. But in a matter of twenty minutes, the judge was ready to proceed.
35
One by one, the girls told their stories of how they and their families were deceived. Most of them had signed up for a work-abroad program either in Greece or Italy. They were all told they would be working in various hotels for six months in exchange for a small salary, room and board, and a cultural learning experience.
Gulia, the smallest of the bunch, recounted her experience first. “I remember waving goodbye to Mama and being led to the back of a van. I thought it was strange, but I was so happy to be going. I didn’t think much of it. And then I saw another girl on the floor and she was tied up and tape was on her mouth and before I could scream, they covered my mouth and threw me on the floor. I remember that man,” she pointed to the cell where Viktor was previously being held. “He waved to my mother like everything was okay.”
Many of the girls broke down and cried during their testimony. It was very difficult for them to recount their ordeal. Realizing their mistake when entering the back of that van was overwhelming.
“It was very easy to be fooled,” another girl said angrily. “These programs exist all over Eastern Europe. It is very popular with young people. I have friends who have done it before. Why would I think it to be any different? They scammed us.”
Where there are desperate people, there are those who take advantage of them. After a few testimonies, it was clear. Viktor’s gang came up with the idea of creating one of these popular work-abroad programs as a way to collect young girls. It was discovered that all boys who applied were turned away with a message to try again next semester. It was an easy and extremely cost-efficient way to continue funneling new girls into the sex trade.
On top of that, each of the girls who signed up for this program had to pay a consulting fee of fifteen hundred dollars, which went straight into the gang’s coffers. Most of their families only made two to three hundred dollars a month. Often the money used was taken from the only savings these families had.
The old ways never die though. Some of the girls, like Natasha, were taken by force, kidnapped right off the streets. None of the girls expected to ever see their families again.
The unplanned stop in Minsk was the window of opportunity. Natasha testified that she had felt that was the time to escape. “That was my chance. I knew if I did not try, I would be doomed,” she said. She described how she tricked a guard to get away. “Normally when we go to the bathroom, they come inside and watch. But I asked him please, not this time. I told him I would take special care of him when I was done. When he closed the door, I climbed out the window. If I didn’t run into Darby, I don’t know what would have happened. They were chasing me. Viktor was chasing me.”
Mr. Buchko leaned over and whispered, “Girls that are forced into prostitution usually end up psychologically damaged. Some are thrown out because of diseases, but most turn into drug addicts and die eventually. We are lucky. Very lucky.”
“What do you want out of this?” the lawyer asked Natasha.
“I want Viktor to suffer. I want him to die a terrible and painful death.”
The testimony of the girls was so strong that I doubted I was needed to testify, but eventually I told the judge my story. What I had to offer was a rubber stamp testimony. I made it a point to single out Viktor as the man I recognized without a doubt that night. The only new evidence the court hadn’t heard was my accusation that the gang had made an attempt on my life.
Mr. Buchko had asked me to bring the bullet hole-ridden suitcase, even some of the clothing, with me on my trip to Ukraine. He told me there was no way to prove it was the gang, but he wanted to paint as bad a picture as possible whether it was true or not. The lawyer for the gang of course was quick to dismiss that part of my testimony because there was no proof that the gang was behind it.
When I was done testifying, the lawyer for Tatiana’s case approached me. He said he reviewed the evidence of her execution that I provided and said my personal testimony would not be needed. “Viktor has no chance.” Those were his exact words. I liked hearing that.
36
San Francisco, California
I returned to the States knowing that the victims and their families, including myself, were getting closer to gaining closure on the whole ordeal.
The Galanovas, Tatiana’s family, were unable to travel to Odessa for the trials, so I never did get to meet them and tell them how special I thought their daughter was. I wanted to do something for them though, so I asked Mr. Buchko to give them my payment for testifying and only cover my expenses. They had lost a daughter and I believed some sort of compensation should be given. Mr. Buchko said, “Money like that will go a long way to helping them.” I was completely okay with my decision. I felt like Mother Teresa.
That is until reality slapped me in the face and said to wake the hell up. Reality came in the form of one pissed-off blond, and she had me trapped in my office on the twelfth floor of Teleco. “Who do you think you are, Darby, standing me up like that? You think you’re somebody around here?”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“Shut up. I’m not done. You and that stupid dick of yours can forget about having a chance with me. What, you didn’t think I’d find you?”
“I—”
“No, I’m not done.” This barrage went on for ten minutes with no end in sight. I couldn’t get a word in. Hillary wouldn’t shut up. And when I did try to speak…I was promptly told to shut it because she had the floor.
To be honest, I totally forgot about our date. It was the day I saw Tatiana executed and then I got the call from the mysterious voice. I got caught up with what happened and deciding whether I should go to New York the next day. Then I was out of town for the trials in Ukraine. I could see how Hillary thought I blew her off and then tried to avoid her. Why on earth would I do that? She’s the “H” in HAM.
“Calm down, Hillary—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down, and don’t try to shush me.”
“I can explain.”
“I’m waiting.”
“I had a last-minute client emergency in New York and I had to fly out first thing the next morning. I was so involved with the emergency, I simply forgot that I had a date with you that night.”
“Where were you the last three days?”
“The Ukraine. Another client. Look, you can check with travel. I swear it’s legit. I really am sorry. I feel so bad. The least I could have done was call and explain. I messed up. I made a huge mistake—the type of mistake I should get my butt kicked for. I don’t expect you to forgive my imbecile brain for not prioritizing correctly. You should have been top of my mind regardless of what was going on. You have every right to chew me out….”
This, me groveling, continued on for another fifteen minutes. With each reason why I was a dumb-dumb and she was the deserving one, I could sense Hillar
y calming down. I really did want another shot with her, especially now that I had The Vic in my arsenal. Surely I would close the deal.
“Look, Hillary, let me make this up to you. How about dinner anywhere in the city? You decide. Nothing is off limits.”
I could almost see the wheels in her head turning. This was going to be very, very expensive.
“Coi.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a restaurant in North Beach. Eleven courses with wine pairings. Coi is Michelin rated––two stars. That’s where I want to go.”
“Done.”
She threw her hand out to me. “Give me your credit card. I’ll make us reservations for tonight.”
“Same day reservation?”
“I know people.”
I handed it over and she left, her jaw hanging a little lower than normal. I think she expected a little pushback. Honestly, I didn’t care where we went or what it would cost. The only thing that bothered me about going to Coi was Fat Sal.
I Googled the restaurant and thankfully it wasn’t near Fat Sal’s Pizzeria. It was a safe three blocks away. That was a plus.
Here’s the deal with Fat Sal. A while back I tried to get him to buy a bunch of wireless routers from Teleco to help raise my sales performance. I came at him pretty hard, but it didn’t quite work out the way I imagined. At the time, I was a bottom-feeder at Teleco calling on mom-and-pops. It was a low point for me. My plan with Fat Sal backfired. I ended up losing him as a customer and making him an enemy. He swore if he ever saw me again, it wouldn’t be pretty.
That part of town was off limits as far as I was concerned. Nothing could convince me to venture back into North Beach—except a date with Hillary. My little helmet was willing to risk it.
37