by Tal Bauer
“And, as a dealer, his fingerprints would necessarily be on all the baggies he dealt?”
“That would be a fair assumption to make.”
“So, isn’t it possible, then, that my client could have been framed? The baggie could have been placed by anyone into the drop.”
“Objection!” Ballard scowled. “Speculation, and calls for a legal conclusion. Agent Barnes is not here to present the defense’s wild conspiracy case.”
“Your Honor, Agent Barnes is a recognized investigative expert. His testimony is crucial to establishing the facts of this case. As an expert in the case, he should have ruled out all possible lines of inquiry. My line of questioning is not a ‘wild conspiracy theory’, but an exploration of the prosecution’s own case. Is this possible, and has the investigative team ruled this out?”
Ballard silently fumed. He kept staring over Tom’s shoulder, his glare burning into the Seal of the United States.
Dylan, look at me. Give me something to work with.
“Overruled.” Tom’s gut clenched as Ballard’s lips twisted, an almost-curse breathed out as he sat. “Please answer the question, Agent Barnes.”
Barnes scowled. He refused to look at Tom. “There were no other fingerprints on the baggie. If another person had placed it there, their fingerprints should also be present.”
“That is not the question I asked, Agent Barnes. Please. Is it possible that another person placed the baggie in the drop, incriminating Vadim Kryukov?”
Silence. “It is possible, though extremely unlikely,” Barnes finally said.
“It is possible.” Renner smiled, and before Ballard could object, he said, “No further questions.”
“Redirect.” Ballard strode around his table, facing Barnes, but allowing the jury to gaze on their favorite witness again. Perhaps not the golden boy from before Renner’s cross-examination, though. A few jurors wore deep frowns.
“Both Desheriyev and Vadim were cocaine users, correct?”
“Both men’s blood tested positive for cocaine use. That’s a fair assumption to make.”
“In your professional experience, Agent Barnes, are drug users reliable people?”
“Not always.”
“Do they make decisions that are in their own personal best interest?”
“No.”
“A drug user leaving his fingerprints on a baggie of cocaine, while covering up all other aspects of their crime, would be par for the course for a drug user and/or dealer?”
“It absolutely could be. An experienced drug dealer might not even think of the fingerprints in the context of the larger crime, especially if he has a routine to his dealings.”
“Do most drug users dispose of the baggies, Agent Barnes?”
“Yes. Most baggies are flushed down the toilet.”
“Which would imply that Vadim Kryukov, a known user and dealer of cocaine, expected this baggie to be flushed, which would then eliminate his fingerprint. He’d have no need to conceal his fingerprint then, correct?”
Tom waited for Renner’s objection. Renner stayed seated and said nothing. His eyes shone.
“Correct.”
“Which would make his behavior—leaving his fingerprint on the baggie—not unusual or odd at all?”
“Not at all.”
Ballard nodded. “Pass the witness.”
“Recross.” Renner stood. “Agent Barnes, you said that most cocaine users will flush their empty baggies down the toilet. Did Mr. Desheriyev give a reason as to why he did not?”
“Yes.”
“What was his reason?”
“He forgot to.”
“Hmm.” Renner smiled as he spread his hands. “How convenient. He forgot to dispose of a major piece of evidence tying my client to the shooter, the only man in this entire trial who is unquestionably guilty. How fortunate for the prosecution.”
“Objection! Argumentative!”
“Withdrawn. I’ll rephrase.” Renner bowed his head, as if apologizing. Tom knew better. “Is it possible, Agent Barnes, that one of your key pieces of evidence, which inexplicably survived destruction, is meant to frame Vadim Kryukov?”
“Frame by who?” Barnes frowned.
“Well, that would be your job.” Renner smiled indulgently. “As the chief investigator to uncover.”
Barnes’s lips thinned, and he glared at Renner. He shifted, his neck turning tomato-red.
“Agent Barnes, is it possible?”
“It’s possible,” Barnes grunted through gritted teeth. “It’s also extremely unlikely,” he added. “Extremely.”
“Did the FBI, prior to the shooting, have any information on Vadim Kryukov that would have indicated he was capable of planning a violent terrorist act?”
Barnes hesitated again. “No.”
“So out of the blue, Vadim Kryukov plans an elaborate assassination plot, makes contact with Bulat Desheriyev, a world-renowned assassin, and directs his every move to the United States, including his actions up to the afternoon of the shooting. How did he find Desheriyev, anyway?”
“We don’t know how they initially made contact, or how Mr. Kryukov knew how to reach out to Mr. Desheriyev. Mr. Desheriyev only answered the phone when the first recruitment call was made. And when he did so, he heard Vadim Kryukov’s voice.”
“Was this a complex operation, Agent Barnes? Seems like it to me. Moving a shooter from Russia to the United States. Keeping him in hiding. Predicting the exact travel plans of the Russian president, and lying in wait for him at the perfect place and time. Concealing their activities with a high degree of sophistication.”
“It was characterized as a complex operation during the investigation. The conspirators used sophisticated counterterrorism techniques in order to avoid interdiction.”
“In your experience as a counterterrorism investigator, does Vadim Kryukov have the background knowledge or life experience to pull off an operation like this?”
Barnes squirmed. One corner of his mouth pulled down. “Not that we have uncovered so far.”
“Are you saying that the FBI was stumped by an amateur? That Vadim Kryukov bested the counterterrorism chops of the best law enforcement agency on the planet?”
Now Barnes really frowned. He scowled at Renner and looked beyond him to Ballard. Ballard had a death grip on his pen, his knuckles white.
Tom knew the feeling.
“Terrorists only have to get lucky once. We have to be lucky every single day. And it’s not just luck. It’s skilled, dedicated investigations. We work hard to protect this nation. Very hard.”
“I’m sure you do. But isn’t it possible that Vadim Kryukov, with no experience in the military, no experience planning any major operation, or any connection to any terrorist group, might not be the one who planned this assassination?”
“Vadim Kryukov was associated with a terrorist organization. He was an anarchist.”
“That’s not the question I asked, Agent Barnes.”
“There is hard evidence against Vadim Kryukov. There is physical evidence that cannot be explained away.”
“Yes. The very fortunate two pieces of evidence that seem to be gifts on high graced to the prosecution. With no possibility for either the fingerprint to have been planted or the text to have come from anyone other than the defendant.” Incredulity strained Renner voice.
“Objection!” Ballard spat. “The defense is repeatedly harassing the witness. He is argumentative and trying to testify in place of the defendant. There is no place for this conduct or behavior in a court of law!”
“Please leave the rulings to me, counselor.” Tom eyed Ballard carefully. “The prosecution does have a point, though. You’ve been warned twice, Mr. Renner. Don’t make me do so again.”
“Please, Agent Barnes. The question I asked. I would like you to answer it.”
Barnes sighed, shaking his head. “If there were other conspirators, then Vadim Kryukov had an opportunity to give them up. He was offered the same deal as Desheriyev. If
there are more people involved in the conspiracy, then why didn’t he save himself?”
“What if he can’t?” Renner leaned forward. “What if he knows nothing about this, and there’s no way to offer up any conspirators because he had nothing to do with the entire case?
“Objection! There is absolutely zero foundation for that wild claim.”
“Sustained.” It was Tom’s turn to sigh, silently, through his nose.
“You have one fingerprint and one text. And the word of a murderer claiming that Kryukov was the man he spoke to. Do you have any better evidence against my client?”
Barnes’s lips thinned as his eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Don’t you think that’s a pretty weak case, Agent Barnes?”
“No. I do not think this is a weak case. I think the evidence speaks for itself.”
“We’ll see if the jury agrees.”
Ballard jumped up. “Redirect.” He gave Barnes a moment to shake Renner’s cross off. “Is there any reason to believe a wild conspiracy theory? Any evidence to back up the allegation that Vadim Kryukov was framed?”
“No, there is not.”
“Is there any reason to suspect that the evidence in this case was made up? Or, as the defense so kindly put, gifted from on high?”
“No.”
Does ‘on high’ include the White House? The Department of Justice? The CIA? Tom tried to push his own doubts back. He couldn’t be seen as partial, biased, leaning to one side or the other.
“The only physical evidence in this case points to whom, as the mastermind of this terrorist attack?”
“To Vadim Kryukov.”
They broke for the day at four PM. The jury filed out, and Kryukov was led away by a pack of marshals. Tom and Mike escaped to Tom’s chambers and Mike helped him out of the bulletproof vest. Tom collapsed into his office chair, and Mike massaged his shoulders, gently kneading his tight muscles.
“Oh, I need this.” Tom let him go for a few minutes, and then kissed his wrist. “Thank you. Now, what about you? What can I do for you?”
Mike shrugged. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been on your feet all day. I’m surprised you’re still standing. I’ll be happy to give you a foot massage.” He grinned, lopsided.
Mike laughed at him. “Not after being on my feet all day, Your Honor. There’s no way Judge Brewer is going to massage my stinky feet.”
“Tom will.” He kissed Mike’s wrist again, tugging him around until Mike was in front of him. He pulled, and Mike sat in his lap. “Judge Brewer is for out there. Here, between us, I’m always Tom.”
Mike kissed him, sweetly. “I have to say, though… Sitting on Judge Brewer’s lap is kinda turning me on.”
They both laughed, and then they kissed, and Tom got two handfuls of Mike’s ass in his hands. Kissing turned to making out, and then into heavy petting, and then into Tom wanting to lie back on his desk and pull Mike down on top of him. But, he pushed Mike back gently, putting space between them. “I miss you, I do. But I want to do this right. Be smart about us.”
Mike nodded, and he clambered off Tom’s lap. “Yeah, I agree.”
It had been a while since they’d made love. Tom had moved into the Hyatt, and that left no space or time at all for them to be together. Theoretically, Mike could have sneaked over in the middle of the night, and they could have tried to make love silently, in-between the rooms on either side of Tom filled with marshals. Mike could have tried to slip out of Tom’s room before anyone saw him. But that wasn’t the way to have a relationship. They weren’t sex fiends, and what they were doing wasn’t illegal. Just unwise. They didn’t have to sneak around, feel like ten shades of crap while doing it.
And, if they waited until the end of the trial, there’d be no more secrets.
That was worth the wait.
“Dinner together at the hotel?” Tom grabbed Mike’s hand.
“I have some emails I have to send. I’ll meet you in the restaurant an hour after we get back?”
“It’s a date.”
Chapter 33
Mike ran his fingers through his hair, trying to fluff up his pompadour after the long day. He’d ditched his tie and undone his top shirt buttons. Did he look all right? Or just tired?
Day one of the trial was over. Thank God.
He spun in the mirror, trying to catch his reflection. Tom had seen him all day, stern and sentinel by his side. But still. He wanted to look good for Tom.
He spruced his hair once more and gave up, tossing his comb on the hotel counter before heading out the door. Marshals were milling in the hall, stretching and chatting and drinking coffee as they relaxed while Tom was out of his room. One was writing down everyone’s food order.
“Hey Mike.” Gordon, one of the guys he knew from headquarters, nodded to him. “Want to grab dinner with us?”
“Thanks, but I’m going downstairs. Eating dinner with Judge Brewer.”
Eyebrows rose, but no one said anything.
Last week, he would have tried to spin it. ‘We’re discussing the trial today’ or ‘Just reviewing security procedures’ or ‘Walking him through the next few days’. But he didn’t say anything.
When the trial was over, they’d be coming out. The questions would be answered. The raised eyebrows would stop. He didn’t need to lie anymore, cover up their relationship with heaps of bullshit. He could have dinner with Tom. Maybe it looked weird to the guys right now, but in a few weeks, everyone would understand.
It was dinner. Just a blurry line being crossed. Not high treason.
Tom was waiting at the bar, sipping on a margarita. Marshals hung back, shadowing him around the hotel lounge, but not crowding him. The TVs were all tuned to the news. Russian tanks paraded in long rows in Moscow, and Russian radar painted NATO jets over Europe. Carriers were scrambling fighters every hour, responding to suspected Russian missile launches. The Gulf countries were talking about reducing output of oil exports amid the uncertainty. Oil prices had skyrocketed. OPEC rumbled about cutting output, their attempt at strangling a war before it even began. Doom and gloom poured from the screen, cascading bad and worse news.
He slid in beside him, pressing his shoulder to Tom’s. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Tom leaned back, almost rested his cheek on Mike’s arm. “Can I get you something?”
“Not while I’m on duty protecting you.” He winked. “I’ll just have water.”
They moved to a corner booth in the hotel’s upscale steakhouse. It was dark enough to tangle their feet together beneath the table, and quiet enough to lean in close, keeping their voices soft. A few marshals drifted into the restaurant, sitting at the bar and at the scattered high tops and studiously not looking in their direction. Mike held back from reaching across and holding Tom’s hand, but if he was looking at Tom the way Tom was looking at him, well—
They just needed to get through this trial.
And, hopefully not trigger a new war between Russia and the U.S.
They both ordered steak but got different sides to share. He goofed once, eating off Tom’s plate, but when he glanced around the dining room, none of the marshals were looking their way. Tom had a second margarita, and he relaxed against the corner of the booth, loose and gazing at Mike in a way that made his skin burn. He kept their feet tangled, ankles rubbing gently together.
Their phones rang at the same time.
Mike frowned as he answered his. The number was from headquarters.
“Inspector Lucciano, we have a situation.”
Across the table, Mike watched Tom answer his cell, and then bury his face in one hand as he listened. “When did this happen?”
“What’s going on?”
“Sir, Vadim Kryukov was attacked at the federal detention center. He’s being taken to George Washington University Hospital as we speak.”
Shit. “Do you have any details on the attack?”
A pause. “None.”
That pause said a lot. Mi
ke squinted. “When did this happen?”
“During transfer. It appears Kryukov was left in a holding area. We’re not certain who attacked him.”
“Is the detention center checking prisoners for wounds?”
Another pause. “Of course.”
“Who was on the transfer team? What marshals were assigned?”
Mike cursed again when the headquarters agent read off the names. “Thanks,” he growled. “Keep me updated.” He hung up. Headquarters would never call him back. There’d be nothing to find on the prisoners at the detention center.
Tom ended his call and rested his head in his hands. “This is a disaster.”
“Any word on how he’s doing?”
“Fink says he’s just been admitted into GWU hospital and taken up to surgery. Renner is on his way to the hospital now. How could this have happened?”
“It… was revenge. For today’s testimony.” Tom stared at him. “I know the guys who brought him back to the detention center. They’re all cowboys. Marshals who love the hunt, the chase. Sticking it to anybody they feel deserves it. I guarantee you he was left alone in a little holding room, and the marshals each took a turn on him.”
“Because of today’s testimony?”
“Renner made Barnes look stupid, at the end.”
“Do you think Barnes knew about this? Ordered it?”
“No way. Barnes is squeaky clean. He’s got a solid reputation.” Mike shrugged helplessly. “Some marshals… they’re loaded guns, waiting to go off at the slightest touch.” He frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Tom grabbed his phone and started sliding out of the booth. “You didn’t do anything, Mike.”
“I can try and find out more. Bang a few heads together for you.” He stood, holding out his hand for Tom.
“I don’t know how this will play out. I need to talk to Renner. See how Kryukov is. See what he wants to do about this. Whether he’ll file against the marshals or—” Tom squeezed his hand as he stood, and then let go. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Right now, let me walk you back to your room.”