Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Fink’s chambers were massive, the entirety of the top floor of the south-facing rotunda. Sunlight bled into the office, casting every judge’s face into harsh angles and half shadows. He’d been on the DC federal bench for a little over a year, but he didn’t know all his colleagues. Most he knew by name only and their reputation in the papers. There was Judge Bonham, the favorite contender for the next opening on the Supreme Court. Judge Walsh, a surly, cantankerous man who was as harsh as Fink. Judge Tonya King nodded at him from her seat at Fink’s long conference table, and Judge Juarez sat beside him.

  Fink, looking every one of his ninety-six years, sat hunched at the head of his table. Without the black robes, he seemed smaller, a diminutive version of the lion that presided over his courtroom and roared from the bench. He seemed no stronger than a kitten, dressed in his plaid button-down and loose khakis.

  Everyone shut up as he leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. The soft chatter of the room died, instantly drying up. Fink breathed in, his breath rasping over his flypaper-thin lips. “A terrible thing has happened,” he began. “A damn terrible tragedy.”

  Fink rubbed his thin lips together, looking down at the conference table and shaking his head. He seemed weary, weary of the world and the weight of history. His voice was tired, an old man’s weight in his words, wound through his southern drawl. “I’ve received word from the United States Attorney that Mr. Desheriyev will be brought for arraignment tomorrow morning.”

  Silence. Tom shared a look with Judge Juarez.

  “I’ve also received a call from the White House. The president is committing massive resources to this trial. He is very, very interested in this case being resolved. He impressed upon me the importance of the trial being concluded as fast as possible. Russia, and the whole world, will be watching this. Watching us.” A drop of spit flew from Fink’s lips, spattering on the mahogany table. “Somehow, this man breached our security and attacked the heart of our nation. Three of our people are dead, and one Russian security agent. The Russian president is being evacuated out of the country tonight.” Fink sighed, and it sounded like he was breathing out every breath he’d ever taken. “I don’t have to remind you that the United States and Russia haven’t been the best of friends lately. This just makes matters worse.”

  Only the tick-tock of Fink’s mantel clock sounded through his chambers. Sunlight streamed behind them, illuminating the crime scene on the Capitol steps. Yellow tape fluttered on the breeze and sealed off the west Capitol, the steps, Union Square Park. FBI agents processed the scene, moving between bloodstains and yellow evidence markers.

  “I called everyone here to assign this trial. It will be assigned like all trials, randomly.”

  In the old days, the clerk of the court would spin a metal cage like a hamster wheel, and balls representing the ranked numbers of the judges would spin and spin. One would pop out, just like a bingo game, and that would be the judge selected. Now, everything was done electronically, bytes and bits that randomly selected each judge for each trial.

  “I am recusing myself from this trial. At my age, I don’t buy green bananas.” Fink tried to smile.

  No one else did.

  “I can’t promise I can see this trial through to the end, and we need a stable, steady hand in this case. Someone who can keep the whole case organized. Keep the courtroom in line. Who can stand up under the intense worldwide scrutiny. This will be the case of one of your lifetimes. You won’t have a larger trial in your career. I swear to God.”

  Jesus, Tom did not envy the judge who got this trial. Any of them would hate it, the exposure, the evisceration in the global media. Well, maybe not Bonham. Something like this would only increase his visibility for the Supreme Court. Tom’s palms itched and cold sweat beaded down his back. He smelled fear.

  Fink rose and shuffled to the clerk of the court’s laptop sitting on his desk, and the computer program open that would randomly assign judges. All he had to do was hit enter and the program would cycle. A number would pop up, center of the screen, the ranked number for a judge. This time, it would be anyone from two to fifteen. Number one, Chief Judge Fink, wouldn’t be in the selection pool.

  “Whoever gets this trial, we’re all in it together. We’ll take your cases that can be transferred so you can focus on this trial. We will all help you, you unlucky bastard. Godspeed, everyone.”

  Fink hit enter.

  The computer whirred.

  The screen flashed.

  Giant numerals appeared, screaming from the center of the screen.

  15.

  All eyes flicked to Tom. Judge Juarez’s thin hand reached for his, under the table.

  Number fifteen—the newest judge to the DC federal bench, the baby judge—was him.

  Chapter 19

  “What the fuck?” Ballard burst into Chief Judge Fink’s chambers, slamming the double mahogany doors against the wooden paneling. “How the fuck did Brewer get this trial?”

  Fink rose at the head of his conference table, staring Ballard down.

  Ballard’s jaw snapped shut. He stormed into Fink’s chambers, dropping his briefcase beside the conference table and slamming his padfolio on the dark wooden surface as he sat. He refused to look across the table, at Tom.

  Tom had his head in his hands, staring at the polished, mirrored surface. The rest of the judges had left, filing out in silence after the assignment was made. Some looked at him with pity. Others never gave him a second glance, running from Tom like they could escape the whole messy situation. Fink had collapsed into his seat at the conference table with a long, bone-rattling sigh.

  He couldn’t think. Couldn’t put two and two together. Could not string neurons into a coherent thought. Blind panic had replaced all higher order functions. Pure, unadulterated panic.

  This was everything he’d ever feared. Exposure, media evisceration, millions of eyeballs poring over his life, his every moment, following him everywhere he went. Fears fell like drenching rain, and he tried to swim out of the rising tide before he drowned. Mike, the choices he’d started making, planning for his eventual coming out. Kissing Mike two days ago at the volleyball game. Being introduced as ‘Mike’s new man’ at the bar. Jesus, Silvio had been there, and if there was someone who would gleefully tarnish his reputation, Tom would put money on Silvio’s haughty features. Their walk in Rock Creek Park, the dinner dates, kissing in front of Eric. Choices he’d thought were measured, were careful risks, a planned, slow path to coming out.

  All of that, everything he’d hoped for, everything he’d planned, every careful step he’d agonized over, was going up in smoke.

  Ballard flipped open his padfolio across the table. His teeth ground together. “You know the Russians are evacuating their president out of Andrews Air Force base tonight. They are also talking about pulling out all Russian security agents and reducing their embassy staff down to essential personnel only.”

  “Jesus,” Fink murmured.

  “A foreign leader was nearly assassinated on our soil, and a Russian member of his security team was murdered, along with three of our Secret Service agents. The FBI, Secret Service, and CIA are reaching out to the FSB, the Russian state security service, to try and coordinate investigations. Lucas Barnes at the FBI has already set up a joint command post out of FBI HQ.”

  Lucas Barnes. Tom knew that name. He’d worked with him in the past. Barnes was a solid FBI agent, and he’d moved up the ranks quickly. Last he’d heard, he was a senior agent running a counterterrorism team out of the FBI’s special operations unit at headquarters. He was a big gun, brought in for the big cases.

  “Desheriyev is awake. He’s not talking at the moment. I’m getting ready to go to the hospital.”

  “What are you authorized to offer?” Again, Fink spoke, asking the questions that Tom should be thinking about.

  Ballard glared hard at Tom. “The White House has authorized me to offer to take the death penalty off the table. We want this so
n of a bitch to pay, but we want his handler and the rest of the cell even more than that. We need to know what he knows.”

  Fink nodded, but said nothing.

  Silence. Ballard shifted. Threw down his pen. Leaned forward, lacing his hands together on the tabletop. “So, Brewer. I assume you’re going to give this guy all the benefits in the world. Gonna agree to the defense motion that he’s insane, or too shocked and shaken by police brutality to stand trial? Roll out the feather bed for him—”

  “All right, that’s enough—” Fink tried to regain control.

  “This is going to be your chance to parade in front of the cameras, show off how much you despise law enforcement—”

  “How dare you,” Tom hissed. His teeth clenched, and he glared back at Ballard. “I do not despise—”

  “You’re a fucking bleeding-heart, Brewer! You’re a defendant’s wet dream!”

  “I don’t violate the law, and I respect due process! Unlike you!”

  Ballard pointed his finger at Tom. “I warned the White House about you. They are very concerned. You are the wrong judge for this trial. There’s no room for your bullshit, your bleeding heart, and the way you jerk off all your defendants.”

  “I am a federal judge, Ballard. You will speak to me with respect.”

  Ballard stood, slamming his chair against the conference table. “You have no fucking business being a judge. And I’m going to prove it.”

  He retreated to his office after Ballard stormed out. Fink hadn’t said a word, just stared at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Ballard and Fink were close, and Ballard had a one hundred percent conviction rate in Fink’s courtroom.

  If Ballard knew he’d been assigned, then the whole U.S. Attorney’s Office knew, too. Ballard would explode, venting his rage on anyone who would listen. And, in minutes, the news would leak to the press. Maybe it already had.

  Swallowing, Tom turned on his computer. Opened the internet browser, and went to CNN.

  It was all over the front page. His photo, the one that had been taken after his appointment to the federal bench, when he had a giant smile and thought his appointment was the most amazing, unexpected thing that could happen to him in his life. His name, right above a shout line that screamed: Judge Tom Brewer to Preside Over DC Sniper Trial. Who is Judge Brewer? Sub-headlines, bullets about his grades in law school, his nineteen years as an Assistant U.S. Attorney. The media was already starting to dig, excavate through his life.

  Jesus, they were going to sit outside his house.

  Where was Mike?

  He fumbled for his cell phone, his thoughts coalescing to a single point. Mike. Mike. Mike.

  Where are you?

  [Your place. Was sleeping. Everything okay?]

  Turn on the news.

  He waited.

  [Oh my God. Tom…]

  Are reporters at the house yet?

  [Let me check.]

  [Shit, they are. There are two news vans outside. Fuck!]

  He was going to be sick. Reporters were outside his house and Mike was in his bed. He could see it now: Judge in DC Sniper Case Hiding Gay Affair, Sleeping with U.S. Marshal.

  Tom scrambled, fell to his knees, and dragged the black plastic trash bin out from under his desk. He hurled, coughing as he spat into the bin.

  His cell phone, on the carpet by his knee, rang. It was Mike.

  “Mike?” God, his voice was wrecked, thin and cracked through the middle. He coughed again.

  “Tom… Jesus Christ…” Mike sounded no better. “Shit.”

  “What do we do?”

  Mike took a breath, and then another. “I’m going to stay here for a little while. You stay at the courthouse. I’ll leave, and I’ll act like I was here in an official capacity. Securing your premises. And I will. I’ll lock everything up, shutter the windows. Keep them from getting in, or seeing in.”

  “Okay.” What then? Was he never going to see Mike again? Would they have to stop this, stop dating before they’d even really begun? For how long? Who knew how long a case like this would last? It could drag on for months and months. Or, go very quickly, depending on how hard Ballard pressed. “Mike… What happens now?”

  “I need to make some calls. Winters, Villegas… Headquarters.” Mike was spinning through his options, Tom could tell. He could practically see Mike in his own mind, imagine him thinking out loud. Was he sitting on the edge of Tom’s bed? Was his hair rumpled, sticking up on one side? What was he wearing?

  He wished, more than anything else, that he was there, right beside Mike, and all of this was just a nightmare he was going to wake up from.

  Mike kept talking. “We need to go into emergency operations. Provide personal protection for you. Maybe even relocate you for a little while. Get the media off your back. And we need to do a threat assessment. This is a terrorism trial, and we haven’t found everyone in the cell. What about retribution? What about—”

  He was going to be sick again. Tom dropped the phone and clutched the trash bin, coughing up nothing but bile. He heard Mike shouting his name from the phone, small and tinny, like he was a million miles away.

  “I’m okay.” He coughed.

  “Tom…”

  “Are you coming to the courthouse?”

  “Yes. Stay there. I’ll call Winters and we’ll both come in. I’ll find you.”

  He nodded, swallowing. “Mike… Do you think… Do you think anyone will find out about Friday?” The volleyball game, his kiss to Mike’s lips in public. The bar afterward, so many men saying hello to him. Him being shown off like a gay debutante being introduced to the world.

  Mike sighed. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I… don’t think so. We protect our own. You’re not the only closeted politician in this town.”

  He closed his eyes. “I need you.”

  “I’m here. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you, Tom.” Mike sniffed. “Let me make some calls. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  Mike practically vibrated as he blew into Winters’s command office on the first floor of the old courthouse. He and Villegas had offices in the Annex, and Winters officed in the marshals’ command post in the Prettyman Courthouse proper, between the FISA courtrooms and the grand opulence of the main justice hall.

  Villegas had beaten him in, and he sat in one of the leather club chairs before Winters’s desk, leaning back in jeans and his polo with his legs crossed like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Mike, fresh from Tom’s shower, wearing clothes he thought he would be wearing with Tom on a hike around Teddy Roosevelt Island, went from zero to sixty in a half-heartbeat. “What the fuck are you so chill about, Villegas?”

  Villegas scowled, his eyebrows shooting sky-high. “What the fuck?”

  Winters eyeballed them both, his deep eyes glaring holes in both men. Winters was a big man, tall and powerfully built. He was a man of a thousand words ever spoken in his life, someone who said as much with his weighty silence as he did with his deep, rumbling voice. He was one of the first black men to lead a team of judicial security inspectors, and rumor put him as being the next name on the list for being the head of their agency. “Lucciano. Take a seat.”

  “We need to get To—Judge Brewer into personal protection right away.”

  Winters’s eyebrows rose, slowly.

  “Tom? Are you on a first name basis with this guy now?” Villegas sneered.

  “His name is all over the internet. The media is camping outside his house already.” Mike ignored Villegas. “We don’t even have the full cell captured. The fucking media is throwing his name around. Goddamn irresponsible assholes.”

  “You’re pretty worked up about this—”

  “Yeah, I’m fucking worked up! I protect my judges!” Mike turned to Villegas, squaring his shoulders.

  “Your judges?” Villegas dropped his nonchalant attitude and rose, facing Mike. “All right, what the fuck is going on? First you demand to take Brewer’s case from me
and now this? Have you crossed the line, Lucciano?”

  “Crossed the line?”

  “You’re gay. You’re attracted to men, and now you’re all up in this judge’s business! Are you going after his dick?”

  “You motherfucker—” Mike lunged. Villegas sidestepped, falling back and bringing his fists up.

  “Enough!” Winters’s bellow was loud enough to shake the walls. Mike and Villegas froze. “This is not the behavior I expect from my JSIs. Both of you are way out of line.”

  Villegas and Mike faced Winters stiffly, almost at attention.

  “Lucciano. I’ve spoken with headquarters. We concur with your assessment that Judge Brewer will need extra protection, beginning immediately.” He handed over a manila folder, but didn’t let go when Mike reached for it. “I expect you to conduct yourself above reproach, Inspector Lucciano.”

  “Yes. Sir.” Mike let a little daylight between the two words, a pause that was just a half beat off disrespectful. He stormed out of the office, glaring at Villegas.

  “Inspector Villegas,” Winters growled. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Sir, there’s something fucked-up going on.” Villegas pointed at the door, and Mike’s exit. “He’s hiding something. I swear to God.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “My gut tells me it’s true.”

  “Your gut isn’t good enough here, Villegas. You know that, better than anyone. Don’t make accusations you can’t back up with solid evidence. You’re already asking for a write-up and a visit from HR.”