Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Tom turned to Renner. “Will the defense present their opening now?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Renner stood, adjusting his cuffs. He rested a hand on Kryukov’s shoulder and smiled down at his client. It seemed almost warm, almost friendly. It was entirely an act.

  “The United States has suffered a tragic terrorist attack,” he said, speaking as he walked out from behind the defense table. “And clearly, Bulat Desheriyev is responsible. There are facts to this case, as Mr. Ballard and the prosecution have asserted. Bulat Desheriyev targeted the Russian president and members of the protective detail assigned to him. Bulat Desheriyev pulled the trigger, murdering four individuals. Bulat Desheriyev wounded and tried to kill Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev.” He paused, frowning, and spread his hands wide. “And now we’re supposed to take his word? Listen to his testimony, and believe him to be a credible witness? Ladies and gentlemen, do not fall for that con. Bulat Desheriyev is a mercenary for hire, a thug and a murderer wanted on multiple continents. He’s cut a deal to save his own neck, and is spinning lies for the prosecution.”

  Renner gripped the low wall surrounding the jury box, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “This case is far from simple. The evidence against my client is paper-thin. A plot of this magnitude would require a multitude of calls and contacts, would it not? It would require an intense amount of communication. And yet, the prosecution can only bring forth one confirmed text between my client and Bulat Desheriyev. Only one. My client, Vadim, has no history of violence. He has been a man persecuted for who he is, targeted by the Russian government for years, and has suffered at their hands for his identity. Here, now, he is suffering again, painted as a violent mastermind by the governments of two nations and responsible for a heinous crime.

  “Vadim Kryukov is a ready-made fall guy. A man with a history of being targeted by the Russian government. A man with no love for the Vasiliev government. A man engaged in anti-Vasiliev, anti-corruption activism. These facts, these aspects of the defendant, points of pride for Vadim, are being twisted and used to support a narrative that just isn’t true.

  “Will you convict a man and sentence him to die based on one text, describing public movements that the whole world knew, one fingerprint that is no way connected with these murders, and the dubious word of a serial murderer who is desperately trying to save his own neck?”

  Jurors blinked, and swallowed. They scratched notes, looked away. Anything to not look at Renner or face their own discomfort.

  Renner smirked for a half-second.

  Score for the defense.

  “That is all the prosecution’s case is based on, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Two minuscule pieces of evidence and a narrative of hate against Vadim—a survivor trying to make a new future in this brave new world. Mr. Ballard and his prosecution are sadly looking in the wrong place for the perpetrator of these crimes. The mastermind behind this evil act of terror is out there, and watching this trial right now. He—or they—know exactly what they are doing. Throwing an innocent man under the bus. Destroying an innocent man’s life. Letting another fall for their own duplicitous ends.” Renner turned, staring at Ballard.

  “Will the true perpetrators of this murder come forward? Will the prosecution do their job and search for the actual murderers? Or will this trial be a miscarriage of justice, and a state-sanctioned murder of an innocent man?” He turned back to the jurors, fire in his eyes. “A man’s life is in your hands, ladies and gentlemen, as is the most important truth we will search for in these days. Your duty is a solemn one. The whole world is watching.”

  And with that, he stepped away, nodded to the jury, and strode back to the defense table.

  Silence. Pure, devastating silence. Doubt ripped through the courtroom like bolts of lightning, like the Red Sea being rent apart. Jurors stared, wide-eyed, into the middle distance, shifting and breathing unsteadily. Ballard looked down, closing his eyes, and Tom watched him draw his control tight around him, like a knight raising his shield. For all he let loose in Tom’s chambers, Ballard was a tightly coiled viper in his courtroom. Poised, deadly, and waiting to strike at the perfect moment.

  Ballard began the prosecution’s case with a bang.

  His first witness was one of the surviving Secret Service agents, a man who had helped carry President Vasiliev off the Capitol steps, and had stepped over his friend and colleague, Patrick Ross, after a bullet slammed into Ross’s neck.

  Theoretically, a jury—and a judge—walked into a case blind, not knowing the details, theories, summations, or ideations of the case. Impossible though that was with this trial, they all still had to follow the playbook. First, define the crime, establish who, what, when, where, and how. Four counts of murder. One count of attempted murder, the attempted assassination of the Russian president.

  Ballard had to define the crime, but he didn’t have to do it so dramatically. So vividly, with such a gut-punch to the heart.

  This testimony, and his case, was designed to hurt. To play mournful wails on the jurors’ hearts until they bled rage and patriotic fervor. Until they demanded to execute Vadim Kryukov and relished their grim duty.

  Ballard walked Agent Vernon Payne through the shooting, describing moment by moment what had transpired. Payne spoke quietly, but his voice reverberated through the courtroom, and his words, precise and chosen for efficiency, painted the horror of the day in muted memories.

  Tom tried to shake off his own memories drawn forth by the testimony. Payne spoke in facts, in bleak pronouncements, but Tom’s firsthand recollection was awash in primary colors. The vividness of the sky, the perfect, endless blue. Crisp sunlight, warm on his skin, as warm as Mike’s hand. The pure whiteness of the Capitol, the endless steps rising to the seat of American congressional power. Thrumming in the air, the chanting, the pride and rage and hope merging into one roar that rose over the Capitol, his people screaming for justice as the Russian president descended toward them.

  Shots fired. Blood spilled, rivers of it on the Capitol steps.

  Payne’s voice shook as he described the series of shots, the agents who fell. “Steve Harvey was shot first. The shot entered the right side of his temple. He died instantly. The bullet was recovered lodged eight inches deep in the Capitol steps.” Payne visibly collected himself, breathing in deeply. “Chad Robertson was shot in the chest directly beneath his heart. He choked to death on his own blood. We had surrounded the Russian president, and we were moving him to his vehicle.” Payne blinked fast. His jaw trembled. “Patrick was running in front of me. The last shot sounded. I saw Patrick stumble. Heard him grunt, and then start to choke. He fell at my feet. Blood was… everywhere. The steps, my shoes, my pants. I couldn’t stop.” Payne looked down, and tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his cheeks. “I had to step over him, keep carrying the Russian president to his motorcade. I think I accidentally kicked him.” Payne sniffed, long and loud. “Every day I hear the sounds of him dying. How he choked. I left him there—”

  And that was it for Payne. He said not another word, just curled over his lap and let the tears silently fall.

  Renner and Kryukov stared straight ahead, motionless.

  Jurors looked shattered, and several tried to wipe their own tears away.

  Ballard turned and faced Tom. He held his gaze. “Pass the witness,” he finally said.

  It was Renner’s turn to cross-examine Agent Payne. Renner stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Your Honor, this has been incredibly difficult testimony. I respectfully suggest we take a short break for everyone to gather themselves.”

  Well played. The jury looked at Renner with gratitude, already gathering their things to flee to the juror room. “Fifteen-minute recess.” Tom tapped his gavel on the bench, but everyone had stood as soon as the words slipped past his lips. Reporters rushed to the hall, already on their cell phones, and the jurors scrambled over each other to get out of the courtroom.

  Tom turned to Agent Payne. “Is there anyth
ing I can do for—”

  Payne jumped up and stalked off the witness stand, his back to Tom. Ballard met him on the courtroom floor, wrapping him up in a one-armed shoulder grab. Ballard shot Tom a vinegar glare over Payne’s shoulder.

  “Let’s talk about protection for the Russian president. You were assigned to the foreign dignitary protective detail, correct?”

  Renner was crisp and sharp, ready to begin again after the recess. Payne had red eyes and a tightly-wound face, but he sat back down in the witness seat and faced the courtroom. He avoided looking at Tom, looking beyond him whenever he turned Tom’s way.

  “Yes.”

  “As part of your duties on this detail, did the Secret Service formulate a watch list of individuals who might have reason to harm or harass the Russian president?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Vadim Kryukov on that list?”

  Payne hesitated. “He was not on the list drafted by the Secret Service, but was added to the watch list by the Russian security agents who joined our detail to plan for the trip.”

  “Added by the Russians. Interesting.” Renner turned, as if struck by insight. He was a careful actor. “What reasons did they give for adding Mr. Kryukov to the watch list?”

  “They said he was a felon in Russia. A known agent who worked against the state.”

  “And did you ask any questions about that statement?”

  “No”

  “Ask for any details about the nature of his criminal past?”

  “No.”

  “So you wouldn’t, for example, have any idea that Vadim Kryukov’s criminal past consisted entirely of the Russian government targeting him for being homosexual? Or that he’d engaged in legitimate protests, supported by the U.S. State Department, against the Putin regime?”

  “Objection!” Ballard stood quickly. “There’s no foundation to this question. Agent Payne has already answered that he didn’t ask any questions and didn’t know any details. He wouldn’t know this, and defense is verging on harassing my witness.”

  Tom exhaled slowly. His gaze flicked between Renner and Ballard. Ballard was technically correct. Renner had scored points, though, sliding his information in, couched as a question. He’d exposed a whole new angle to the trial. Tom felt his sympathies rising, inappropriate emotions spreading. To be gay in Putin—or Vasiliev’s—Russia. If nothing else, Renner had shown his client to be sympathetic, a victim, an underdog.

  And—dangerously—he’d highlighted a possible motive. His move was a gamble. Where was he going with this line of questioning?

  Part of him wanted to know. But the law was the law. “Sustained. Ask another question, counselor.”

  “What did you do when you placed my client on the watch list? What actions did you take?”

  “He was put under surveillance. Secret Service agents went to him and asked him his intentions during the forthcoming Russian president’s visit.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he was going to, quote, ‘legally and legitimately protest that bastard’, as was his right.”

  Renner grinned. “Vadim certainly has a fire about him.”

  Smart. Making the defendant human. Tom eyed the jury. They were hanging on Renner’s every word.

  Renner continued. “And, did you ask what he meant by that statement?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he mean?”

  “He said he would be protesting on the National Mall outside the Capitol when the Russian president visited Congress.”

  “How did he know the Russian president was visiting Congress?”

  “It was publicly available information.”

  “So, Mr. Kryukov did not need to inform Bulat Desheriyev of this fact?”

  “Objection!” Ballard rose again. “Calls for speculation.”

  “On the contrary, I’m asking the agent’s professional investigative opinion about whether my client would have had any reason whatsoever to text what he allegedly texted.”

  “And,” Ballard added. “No predicate for this line of questioning.”

  No predicate. The crime had not been laid out in its entirety yet. The facts of the crime and the timeline of events were still being exposed. The text that Kryukov had sent to Desheriyev hadn’t yet been entered into evidence by the prosecution. Discussing it in opening statements was not good enough. If this was how the first hour of testimony was playing out, how would the rest of the trial go? “Sustained.” He tried to catch Ballard’s eye, but Ballard sat down immediately and reached for his notes.

  Renner smiled, totally unruffled. “Did you see Vadim Kryukov at the protest on the National Mall, in front of the Capitol?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom’s memories surged back. Vadim, his long blond hair hanging on the sides of his face, bellowing into a megaphone. Screaming in the crowd, urging the crowd to chant more, louder, cry out to Vasiliev. The effigy, a paper doll of the Russian president hoisted aloft in a tutu, covered in lipstick kisses. Something Vadim had said, in Russian, that had made every Russian agent’s head turn.

  “So, Vadim Kryukov was exercising his legal and legitimate right to protest the Russian president, and his policies, in a legal gathering before the Capitol. Doesn’t seem like he was making any move to hide his anti-Vasiliev beliefs, does he?”

  “Objection! Calls for speculation, again.”

  “Counselor.” Tom leaned forward, peering at Renner. Renner’s eyes shone. He knew he’d done wrong, but he was pushing the envelope, going as far as Ballard’s patience and Tom’s leniency would allow. “You can take better care with crafting your questions. This is a court of law, not a stage.”

  “Apologies, Your Honor.” Another slick smile. Renner turned to Payne. “Did you know that the protesters on the National Mall that day were gay pride marchers?”

  “No.”

  “And, did you know that the protestors were demonstrating against Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev’s human rights abuses against the LGBT community?”

  Agent Payne’s face darkened. He scowled, averting his gaze from Renner. “No. I did not.”

  “Pass the witness, Your Honor.”

  Ballard jumped up. “Redirect.” Tom nodded, and Ballard headed for Payne. Payne seemed to relax, just a touch. He and Ballard were friends, one of Ballard’s many friends in law enforcement. “Agent Payne, you say you saw the defendant at the protest at the Capitol that afternoon?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “Would you describe his behavior at this protest?”

  “Combative. He was screaming at the Capitol and at the Russian president. Inciting the crowd into a fervor. The Russian security agents were very concerned.”

  “Why were they concerned?”

  “Because the defendant shouted in Russian, ‘I want to watch you die, you motherfucker.’”

  Ballard’s eyes went wide, a show for the jury. “Wow. A strong statement. When did he say this?”

  “Moments before the first shots were fired.”

  Ballard clasped his hands together, pausing, letting it sink in. “The state enters into evidence cell phone video footage of the protest showing the defendant’s actions. A transcript of the video is also provided.”

  Tom looked over the evidence sheet on his bench. It listed the evidence the prosecution was going to enter into the trial, with transcripts and photographs stapled behind the cover sheet in a binder. He waited, counting to three, giving Renner a moment to object. Nothing. “Exhibit 5, A and B are entered.”

  Special Agent Lucas Barnes helped roll out a large flat-screen TV on a wheeled cart. A portable DVD player rested beside it. “We will now play for the court the cell phone footage of the protest.”

  Panic washed down Tom’s spine. He’d been there that day, with Mike. Would the cell phone camera capture him? Would he be exposed in the next minute? There would be questions. Why hadn’t he recused himself if he was a witness to the crime? The whole world had seen the replay, and
he could form an argument about why he should be allowed to sit as presiding judge, but that argument would hold more weight if he’d been forthcoming in the beginning of the trial. Not after he was found out. But, to admit he’d been there would be to admit why—that he’d been attending a Pride march and rally. And he hadn’t been ready to admit that, then.

  The lights dimmed, and the screen flicked on. The footage was frozen on a crowd, a mass of people and shirtless torsos and rainbow flags, posters and placards and waving arms.

  Ballard pressed play.

  Shouts thundered through the courtroom, bellows and chants from the protest. “Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Vasiliev has got to go!” “Gay is not a crime! Gay is not a crime!” “Human rights abuser!”

  The camera panned, showing Kryukov in the center of the frame, hollering into his megaphone. His voice cracked, but he kept shouting, spitting fire and fury. The crowd rose with his cries, growing louder, more enraged. On the Capitol steps, tiny in the camera lens and in the distance, the Russian president walked slowly toward them, waving.

  Furious Russian broke over the speakers, guttural and choked with rage. Closed captioning appeared on the screen, a translation. “I want to watch you die, you motherfucker.” Kryukov flipped the Russian president off.

  Two shots snapped, cracking over the video and the courtroom speakers. Reporters and visitors gasped. Flinched. Looked away. The camera panned to the Russian president’s effigy, which had collapsed to the ground. Shrieks rose, panic-filled wails and voices crying out, shouting that something had happened on the Capitol steps. The image shifted, dropped, and then changed to dirt and grass and running legs as screams of fear poured through the speakers.

  Ballard cut the video.

  Tom sat back and eyed Renner and Kryukov. Kryukov looked dead ahead, his jaw square, chin held high. A proud man. Renner scribbled notes, the lawyer’s version of circling the wagons without appearing weak.

  The jurors stared at Renner and then at Kryukov. Twelve pairs of eyes made Kryukov squirm.