Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Tom unclipped Etta Mae’s leash as the door opened. She trotted inside, her tail wagging, and made a beeline for the living room and the piles of boxes, his kitchen crap still strewn everywhere. His kitchen was bare concrete flooring and stripped walls, a tarp-covered sink and fridge. He had ducked under the tarp to the fridge enough times that there was a permanent cave opening to it. A stack of paper plates and plastic forks sat on his end table.

  “Sorry for the mess. The kitchen is still a disaster zone.” Tom smiled weakly. “Let me show you to the bedroom.”

  He took Tom back to his bedroom, setting the duffels in a line by the door and hanging Tom’s garment bag next to his own suits in his cramped walk-in closet. His place was smaller than Tom’s, much, much smaller, and older. He’d done what he could with it, adding trim and drapes and painting the walls, but it still looked like a cheap condo next to Tom’s stately Victorian. His bed took up most of the master bedroom. He didn’t have a stylish sitting area and a chaise lounge beneath a window in his bedroom. He had a cheap full-length mirror from Ikea and two cherry nightstands beside his sleigh bed. A simple chest along the wall, with blankets for winter and a few toys tucked deep in the bottom. “It’s not much.”

  Tom sat on the edge of his bed and leaned over, scrubbing his face. The garnet bedspread made his pale skin glow against the rich fabric.

  “I can sleep on the couch. We don’t have to—”

  “Mike. Please.” Tom’s voice pleaded with him, pulled at his heart. “I’m trying to hold it together. Please. Just…”

  “Just what? Anything, Tom. Whatever you need. I’ll give it to you.”

  Tom closed his eyes and held his hands up, as if he was praying. He pressed his lips to the sides of his fingers. “I am being shredded apart.” He barely spoke, practically whispered. “As a judge, my entire professional life, my career, will be in this trial. I will be on trial just as much as Desheriyev. Every word I speak, every decision I make, every moment of the trial that I direct will be dissected around the world. My history, my legal philosophy, every choice I’ve ever made. All of it, under the microscope. My obituary will start, ‘The judge who presided over the DC Sniper trial’.” His eyes opened, and he stared at Mike’s floor, at the hardwood and the throw rug he’d bought last year. “I have to pour everything I am into this. I need to be above reproach. I need to evict all the skeletons in my closet. I need to be a paragon of justice. They’re going to dig and dig and dig into me. If they find anything, any scrap of untoward behavior, any suggestion of scandal, my entire character will be tossed in the garbage. You have one chance in the media. They will brand you for life if they dig something up. And now, with these stakes? The world may hang in the balance. The United States and Russia. God, this could lead to war.”

  And here it is. Mike nodded slowly. Goodbye. The end. Life was cruel. Maybe if they survived this trial they could try again. If he played it cool. If he didn’t make Tom feel like shit. If he sacrificed his heart and put the world and the trial and everything else first, like Tom was going to have to do.

  Tom kept speaking, shaking his head behind his clasped hands. “But, as a man, I finally found what I’ve been yearning for my whole life.” His eyes flicked to Mike’s, wet and shining. “I found you, and everything in my life seemed to click into place. I want that, Mike. I want volleyball and Rock Creek Park, and I want to hold hands with you on the street. I want to live. I want to be me.” He sniffed deeply, inhaling, trying to stop the trembles that settled over his body. He bowed his shoulders, and his spine stuck out of his shirt, knobs that paraded down his back. “Why does one half of me always have to be sacrificed for the other?”

  Mike moved, ripping free from the freeze that had settled over him. He sat beside Tom, wrapping one arm around his waist and the other around Tom’s clasped hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you, through this whole thing. I support you, and I get it. I don’t like it, I hate it, and I hate that the world does this. But I get it. And… Tom, I swear, I’m here for the long haul. Through it all. So I’ll wait for you, and this trial.”

  “I don’t want to wait.” Tom turned into him, reaching for him. “I don’t want to sacrifice. I don’t want to give in, again, to the world. I don’t want to be an arm’s length away from you through this. I want you by my side. You and me—us—who we are, what we’re building? That’s not less important than this trial. It’s the other half of my life, Mike.”

  Jesus. No one had ever said Mike was worth so much to him. His throat clenched, and he blinked fast, struggling for control. “Anything you want. Anything you need,” he choked out.

  “That’s one and the same: you.” Tom’s control fell at the same moment Mike’s did, and they met in the middle, a kiss stained by falling tears, salty lips pressing together over and over again. Mike held him close, cupping his face, kissing every millimeter of his lips. Tom held his wrists, thumbs stroking over his pulse. They fell back, crawling into each other’s arms as their tears mixed and merged and their kiss stretched on and on.

  Mike ordered Thai for delivery and got Tom set up on his WiFi. They sat side by side in Mike’s bed, leaning against his headboard, and worked on their laptops as the TV on the wall murmured softly, tuned to CNN.

  “I have to send in daily reports to Winters. Some parts are vaguer than others.”

  Tom stared at him. “You’re risking a lot having me here.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted me to come out and tell Winters we were dating. And there was no way I was letting Villegas run lead on this.”

  “I’m being selfish, telling you we’re staying together through the trial.” Tom frowned. “I didn’t even ask what you wanted.”

  “You. Safe, happy, smiling. And in my arms every night.”

  Tom finally smiled, and he rested his head against Mike’s, his forehead on Mike’s temple.

  The breaking news jingle burbled over Mike’s bedroom, and they both looked up at the vivid splash of color and the smear of red blazing from the flat screen. “Breaking news from Moscow,” the anchor droned. “President Dimitry Vasiliev has landed in Russia and is addressing the nation.”

  It wasn’t even dawn yet in Moscow, still the bitter early hours of the morning, but Muscovites had flooded the streets, thronged around the airport and the walls of the Kremlin, waving Russian flags and chanting Vasiliev’s name. The crowd around the U.S. embassy had also steadily grown. Bricks were starting to fly at the gates, and at the Marine guards.

  The camera feed cut to Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev. He stood tall, though his face was wan, skeletally pale. One arm was in a sling, and massive bandages were wrapped around his shoulder and down to his elbow. He had on a button-down, but clearly, one arm had been cut away, the edges tucked into the bandages encasing his right shoulder and slung arm. Dark circles smudged the deep canyons beneath his eyes.

  “My friends!” President Vasiliev cried in Russian. A translator spoke over his rumbling voice. “I am so glad to return to my homeland in one piece. To land here and see all your smiling faces is the best gift that a president can ever receive.” He stopped, taking in a slow breath. Vasiliev was pulling a Reagan, making a speech to his people to soothe their nerves, even though he was barely able to stand. “The American devils, those demons of the West, tried their best to strike me down. But their dogs were not strong enough to touch Russia’s beating heart.”

  Cheers rose, wails and bellows from the crowd around Vasiliev, speaking from a hastily-erected podium at the base of his presidential jet.

  “It wasn’t an American who shot him,” Tom murmured. “Does he not know that we have the shooter? And that he’s Russian?”

  “Chechen.”

  “Still. This looks like an internal dog fight, not an American one.”

  Vasiliev continued speaking, drowning out whatever Mike was going to say in response. “The Americans think they can be rid of Russia so easily! That they can strike me down on the st
eps of their Capitol! That they can destroy the heart of Russia, cut off the head of her mighty dragon! Their arrogance knows no bounds!”

  More roars. More thunderous shouts.

  “For years, they have tried to attack us, provoke us into defending ourselves. For years they have tried to destroy us, turn the world against us. Well, I say this. America, and President McDonough, you have crossed the line. Your actions have roused the great Russian dragon, and we will defend ourselves! The whole world watched your cowardly acts, your failures that lead to the deaths of a great Russian man, my security agent. The whole world watched as you tried—and failed—to assassinate me.”

  Mike whistled.

  “The whole world is watching, President McDonough. The whole world is watching your next moves. Your unchecked aggression against Russia will not go unanswered! And, my friends, I make you this promise tonight.” Vasiliev took another shaky breath, pausing as he stared over the crowd, and then into the lens of the camera. “Russia will not accept silence and American excuses. We will demand answers. We will demand justice. Even if we must seek that justice ourselves.”

  President Vasiliev stepped away from the podium and climbed carefully into a waiting limo, shielded by his security team as the crowds went crazy. The anchor broke in, and the bellowing Russian cheers faded away. “Strong words from President Dimitry Vasiliev in Moscow today as the world waits and watches Washington DC and the arraignment of DC Sniper Bulat Desheriyev tomorrow morning.”

  Tom rested his head against Mike’s headboard and squeezed his eyes closed.

  Chapter 22

  June 29th

  Mike woke Tom gently at four AM. “We need to go soon. We need to leave early.” He handed Tom a cup of coffee, brewed from his coffeemaker he’d moved to the bathroom, resting it on the little shelf above the toilet.

  Tom groaned but got up, moving through his shower and morning routine in silence. Mike laid out his miserable breakfast choices at the end of the bed: a Pop-Tart, a protein bar, an apple, and a banana. Tom grunted and grabbed the Pop-Tart and banana. Mike took the protein bar. Etta Mae watched them with wide eyes, her tail drooping as they left her behind.

  He drove them straight north, into Maryland, and spent two hours winding through Silver Spring, University Park, and Glenarden before sweeping down to Route 214, south of Fed-Ex Field. He took 214 until it turned into East Capitol Street and followed that all the way into downtown DC. They arrived at the courthouse from the exact opposite direction they both normally came from.

  They didn’t say much on the drive in. Tom was quiet, subdued, and Mike kept the soft bubble of stillness intact. The morning radio spoke for them.

  Overnight, the protest outside the U.S. embassy in Moscow had turned into a dangerous riot. Molotov cocktails flew and burned down trees on the embassy grounds. Russian police forces were extremely slow to respond and did little to quell the furious mob. By dawn, most of the dangerous rioters had fled, leaving only the chanting protesters screaming for the U.S. to be evicted from their country. “Most predict another long night of siege against the beleaguered U.S. embassy in Moscow,” the softly accented voice of the radio newscaster said.

  When they arrived, Mike took Tom up to the fourth floor in the Annex through the internal secured elevator. Already, the beefed-up security was clearly evident at the courthouse. Heavily-armed marshals in black fatigues stood post outside and in, covering all the entrances and exits. Plainclothes court security officers, contractors the marshals hired to help with the routine security procedures at every courthouse, were in all the hallways, at every door, and in the elevators. Their radios squawked with coded signals, units checking in and reporting every fifteen minutes.

  He walked Tom to his chambers and watched him sit at his desk, power up his machine. Then, he dashed back downstairs, bullied his way to the front of the coffee line and ordered Tom’s coffee, extra-large, extra-fast, and a scone to go. He took the main spiral staircase two at a time and hurried back to Tom’s office.

  When he got there, the door was closed and raised voices echoed within.

  Shit. He’d been gone four minutes and already there was trouble. Maybe not the kind of trouble that he was good at solving. He was good for bare-knuckle fights and chest-pounding, not political catfights and turf wars. Was this Ballard, coming to grate on Tom so early?

  Listening closely, he picked out the slow honey-drawl of Chief Judge Fink, his raised voice almost hoarse-sounding. Shit, shit.

  Should he interrupt? There was no one higher in the courthouse than Chief Judge Fink. Even Winters, the U.S. Marshal for the court, answered to him. If Fink was hollering at Tom, Mike’s professional place was far, far away.

  But his personal place was supporting Tom. And besides, Tom needed more caffeine if he was going to be fighting duels this early in the morning. This clearly was an emergency.

  Mike strode in, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom. Chief Judge Fink kept yelling, his flappy neck shaking with each shouted word. “Damn it, Brewer, this is not some joke trial! A seasoned hand is needed here! We have to make sure this case goes the way it needs to go!”

  “The way it needs to go?” Tom’s jaw dropped, incredulity straining his voice. “The way it needs to go is after the truth! And to follow the letter of the law!”

  “This isn’t the place for your puritanical Superman beliefs, Brewer. Ballard is concerned you’ll use this trial as a platform for your liberal values. And frankly, so am I. You have a history of being a soft judge.”

  “I didn’t realize respect for the truth and rule of law were liberal values.”

  “This isn’t the place, Brewer,” Fink growled. “We need to send a message to the Russians that we mean business. Putting the screws to this cell is exactly what we need to do. Throw the book at them with maximum sentences. Prove to the world that if we get a bloody nose, we give two black eyes back.”

  “I intend to show the world that our justice system is fair. That we live by laws and due process, not a firing squad. And nothing is decided before the facts are presented.”

  “In this case, everything is already decided.” Fink sighed, leaning against Tom’s small conference table. “If you bow out now, no one will blame you. We can say that your trial calendar was too full of cases that couldn’t be moved around. It won’t look like anything.”

  Tom swallowed. Mike hovered, watching him. Even though he’d barged in, neither man had noticed him. They were that caught up in their argument.

  Would Tom pass on the trial? Give it up to another judge? The heat would be off him if he did. No more looking over his shoulder, no more fears that eviscerated him day and night. He’d be back to normal, dodging the massive sniper bullet of this trial.

  But, would true justice be served? Fink’s words hung in the air like noxious fumes, swamp gas that stung the eyes and choked the back of the throat. Tom had different ideas about justice, Mike knew, than what Fink was proposing. Deciding guilt and a sentence before the facts were heard? Who knew where the DC Sniper case would go? Signing his name to a commitment to vengeance would go against everything that Tom was. It would go against his bones.

  “I am not recusing myself from this case,” Tom growled. “Especially not so you and Ballard can handpick a judge who will do this administration’s bidding. We aren’t jury and executioner for a reason!”

  “The White House is watching you closely, Brewer.” Fink shook his head. “Very damn closely. You grandstand or showboat a single inch, and hellfire will rain down on you.”

  “Sticking to the law isn’t grandstanding.”

  Fink threw up his arms and stormed out, almost colliding with Mike. He’d had the sense, at least, to close the door behind him. The entire fourth floor could have heard that.

  After Fink’s sloped shoulders and hunched back disappeared down the hall, Tom slumped against his desk, exhaling hard and squeezing his eyes closed. Mike set Tom’s coffee and scone by his keyboard. “What an asshole.”

&
nbsp; “He’s the chief judge of the DC federal circuit.”

  “He’s still an asshole. He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

  Tom was quiet. “Am I making a mistake? Should I just wash my hands of this?”

  Mike blew air out of his ballooning cheeks. “I think if you passed it off you’d be upset with yourself. You’d regret it, maybe for the rest of your life.”

  “You know me pretty well.”

  “You let me know you. And, that comes with the territory. You get to know the person you’re dating.”

  “It’s good to be known.”

  Half an hour before nine AM, Ballard breezed into Tom’s office.

  “Desheriyev has turned. He’s helping us find the rest of the cell, starting with who paid him for the hit. We don’t want to tip off that he’s working with us. He’s going to plead not guilty in the arraignment, but we’ve worked out a deal.”

  “It’s the judge who signs off on any deal. We’re not just told about it like we’re not involved.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not involved in this, Brewer. This comes from way, way above you. The White House. So just go in there and do your song and dance with the gavel, and then let us get back to the real work.”

  Tom’s soul stung, singed by Ballard’s slap to his position. “What makes you think his handler and the rest of the cell are even still around?”

  “We’ve found evidence that someone was directing his actions, and he’s backing the evidence up with his statement. Look, Desheriyev is major league. Forensics from his rifle match a dozen unsolved murders across Europe. Major hits, clean. Professional. Interpol’s been searching for this guy for years. They thought he was a ghost.”