by Tal Bauer
It was Tom’s turn to stay quiet. Mike rolled his head toward Tom, fixing him with a hard stare.
“He… said something along the lines of he’d do anything to stop me.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mike pitched forward, clasping his hands together. He breathed out slowly, carefully. “Tom…”
“It’s Dylan Ballard, Mike. I’ve worked with him for years. He’s a hothead and he’s an unmitigated asshole, but he’s not a violent guy.”
“You said yourself that you’ve never seen him like this. If he’s pushed over the edge, who knows what he’s capable of? People snap. Badly.”
“He’s definitely being pushed. This isn’t him. He’s not this bad, not normally.”
“Honestly, Tom? I really don’t care what he’s like normally. I only care that he’s a potential threat to you. He made a threatening statement. He’s disrespecting you. This isn’t appropriate.”
“But I can’t do anything about it. I can’t remove him from the prosecution, not because he’s an ass. The whole lot of U.S. Attorneys would be fired if that was the standard. I also can’t interfere with this case. I can’t.”
“I can’t let you get hurt. Or be in any kind of danger.”
Their gazes met. Tom sighed. He reached for Mike. “You’re at my side every possible moment. I believe I am safe.”
“I don’t want you alone with him anymore. What about when you’re in chambers? I haven’t been there—” He stopped short, and then cursed. “Damn it.”
“What?”
“This morning. When you and both attorneys were meeting about Kryukov’s attack. Villegas called me to the courtroom. He wanted to talk about the security plan. Go through things we’d already discussed. Ask me questions about information for your detail.”
“You think he was trying to probe for weaknesses?”
“No. Everything he asked for was in my daily reports. I think he was trying to keep me away from your chambers.” Mike’s eyebrows rose. “And Ballard. You two were alone in there.”
“For five minutes.”
“It only takes ten seconds.”
Tom stroked his thumb over the back of Mike’s hand. “What do you recommend, Inspector Lucciano?”
“I don’t want you alone in chambers with him anymore. I want to be in there. I need to be a deterrent.”
“Okay.”
Mike smiled weakly. “Okay? Just like that?”
“Yes. I trust you. Personally and professionally. I can’t say that and then undermine your advice.”
Mike blushed, and he looked down. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“I know you will.”
Movement in the windows, off the balcony in the room next to Tom’s. One of the marshals’ rooms. Mike dropped Tom’s hand, just before his cell phone buzzed. Mike swiped the screen on.
“It’s Villegas. He told us to turn on the TV.”
“Us?”
“Yeah.” Mike frowned.
They headed inside together, and Mike grabbed the remote. He turned the TV on to CNN.
“Breaking news now, and we have to warn you, these images may be disturbing.” The anchor’s voice droned, that half-sedate, half-adrenaline-laced tone of newscasters everywhere. “Russian state TV has released footage of the American CIA station chief admitting his involvement in the attempted assassination of President Vasiliev, and the DC Sniper terrorist attack.”
The video cut to a white room, and a man Tom recognized from the Russian documents and the news release of the kidnapping of the CIA officers. He swayed, just slightly. One eye was puffy, the skin around his eye socket too light. As if he was wearing makeup, or concealer, and it wasn’t blended right. “I financed Vadim Kryukov,” he grunted. His words were stilted, and his jaw barely moved. “The CIA—and myself—are responsible.”
The video spun, and then the image cut back to the anchor and the swirling red background of the breaking news alert. “Shocking statements from the former CIA station chief in Moscow, kidnapped and held under arrest in Russia. Questions have been raised about the veracity of his statements, and whether or not his admission was made under duress or whether he has been tortured.” Two inset boxes appeared, and the anchor introduced his special guests, an expert on Russian interrogations from some indecipherable think tank, and a legal analyst for the network. “Tell me. Do you trust this video?”
The Russian expert, a rumpled, middle-aged man who looked like a college professor, spoke first. “It’s hard to say. I can see signs that point to possible use of force, or what we would call ‘enhanced interrogations’. It seems like his jaw might be wired shut. Or, is he just struggling with a very public admission of guilt, an admission that will change the balance of international power in the world? If this is true, the United States is unquestionably guilty of a major international crime.”
“Do you think it is true?”
“Has the CIA assassinated, or facilitated the assassination of, leaders of foreign nations that the United States has opposed? Yes. Could it have happened again? It’s very possible. Very, very possible.”
“One thing is certain. If this was a CIA plan, their cover story has completely fallen apart.”
“Yes. It would have been something akin to a false flag operation, where they put in place a terrorist act that was to be blamed on a third party. Vadim Kryukov and Bulat Desheriyev, in this case, look like the unwitting patsies of the CIA. But, something happened. Someone got sloppy. The Russians found out the details. And now…” He trailed off.
“Fascinating developments, and especially in light of the dramatic testimony heard today in the DC Sniper trial. Judge Brewer seemed to struggle to keep the trial on track, with the U.S. Attorney and the attorney for the defense almost coming to blows at times. Judge Brewer, over the past month, has been accused of buying into the Russian narrative of events and has faced significant public pressure.” A picture of Tom flashed on screen, his photo taken the day he joined the court. “If today’s developments prove to be true, does that spell vindication for Judge Brewer?”
“In a way.” The legal analyst, a young woman in a crisp white suit, soured. “Judge Brewer’s actions have been deeply suspect, and sources within the U.S. Attorney’s Office tell me they are readying writs of complaint for the higher courts and are looking into addressing Judge Brewer’s conduct in this trial—”
“What conduct? What conduct are they discussing?”
“His clear bias toward the defense’s wild conspiracy theories—”
“But are they conspiracy theories, if this video proves to be true?”
A pause, and the legal analyst gave a half shrug, half flick of her hair. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Indeed we will. We’ll keep a close eye on this story as it continues to unfold.”
Tom turned to Mike, who wrapped him up in both arms and pulled him close, holding him tight as Tom buried his face in the center of Mike’s chest.
Chapter 36
July 29th
Ballard ended the prosecution’s case simply, closing out on another round of Barnes’s testimony hammering home the physical evidence. One fingerprint on a cocaine baggie. One text from Kryukov’s cell phone to Desheriyev’s with the confirmation code of six-two-one. And Desheriyev’s testimony. Surrounding that were Kryukov’s statements against the Russian president, his former arrest and maltreatment, his history of activism, his overt hatred for the regime. His apparent motive.
It was a mountain of evidence for Renner and Kryukov to climb, all the little pieces adding up to a damning picture. Small though those pieces of hard evidence were, in the totality of everything, Kryukov appeared to be a cold-blooded mass murderer, calmly dispatching an assassin to take out a man he hated and anyone who got in the way of his bullets.
Lingering doubts about the role of the U.S. government, the CIA, and even Dylan Ballard plagued Tom’s thoughts. He’d tossed and turned throughout the night and had needed two large coffees to get through th
e morning.
Now, the defense was set to begin presenting their case. But unless they had something new, some bombshell piece of evidence they were holding back, the court had already heard the defense’s entire case. Renner had done all he could to chop the legs out from beneath the prosecution in his cross-examination, raising every question, every doubt, that he could pull from the evidence… or the lack thereof.
How would he begin? Tom waited as the courtroom settled down and for the gallery to finish their whispers. The jurors were hanging in there, but on only day three, they looked exhausted, worn thin. Ballard, as always, was a tightly-wound lightning rod, ready to surge at the slightest strike.
Renner conferred with Kryukov, softly talking while Kryukov nodded.
“Counselor, are you ready to present your case for the defense?”
Renner rose. “Your Honor, I am.”
“Please call your first witness.”
“The defense calls Vadim Kryukov.”
Tom froze. His jaw dropped, for a moment, until he yanked himself back to propriety. The rest of the court wasn’t as subdued. Ballard whipped around, staring at the defense table. Barnes, and behind him, the deputy director of the FBI, shared long looks. Reporters turned to each other, hushed whispers and chatter breaking out as confusion ran rampant. Jurors looked around uncomfortably, completely out of the loop.
He rapped his gavel three times. “Quiet, please. Step outside for your conversations.” He took a deep breath, and chose his words carefully. “This is a surprising choice, counselor.” He couldn’t ask ‘are you sure?’ or second-guess Renner’s legal strategy. He was already floundering, according to the media, and anything that looked like favoritism to the defense would be adding an anchor to his sinking career.
But calling the defendant to the stand was risky in all criminal cases and was reserved for the end of the defense’s case as a last-ditch effort to humanize the defendant to the jury. Putting a defendant on the stand ran the risk of the defendant tying themselves in knots with their testimony, or accidentally incriminating themselves, or worse.
Ballard looked like a shark that had spotted a tasty seal swimming on its own. He’d get the chance to go after Kryukov in cross.
The entire day could turn into a bloodbath, very, very quickly.
Renner nodded. “Your Honor, Vadim Kryukov needs to tell his story.”
Defense attorney-speak for he was drawing on empty and down to his last circus trick. His entire case had been spelled out in cross, and there wasn’t anything more he could do. He couldn’t call expert witnesses to dispute the cause of death or manner of shooting—the cause of death and the shooter were clear. He couldn’t call experts to testify on the authenticity of the text as coming from Kryukov’s cell phone—cellular tower and carrier data confirmed that it did. And Kryukov was a known drug dealer. Who could he call to testify about the cocaine?
Tom nodded, and Kryukov crossed to the witness box. He was stiff, his spine rigidly straight, walking with all the pride he could muster as every eyeball in the courtroom followed his path. He still limped, but waved off the marshal who started forward to help him. His arm was in a thick cast, from his fingers to just below his armpit.
The bailiff swore Kryukov in, admonishing him that he was to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
He took his seat. Renner nodded to his client, smiling softly.
Tom leaned forward. The entire court seemed to be holding its breath.
“Let’s start plainly, Mr. Kryukov. Did you or did you not plan the attempted assassination of the Russian president?”
“I did not.” Kryukov’s voice was deep, his accent thickened. His lower jaw trembled, just faintly, after he spoke.
“Did you receive any CIA funds or assistance in order to perpetrate such a plot?”
Tom hissed. He held his breath. The entire conspiracy defense, laid out in one question. His eyes darted to Ballard. Ballard clung to the edge of the prosecution table, his muscles tense, primed and ready to jump to his feet.
“I did not,” Kryukov repeated, his voice thick with passion. His words shook.
Muted gasps rose from the gallery, and Tom saw the jurors look among each other, confused. Kryukov was throwing out his entire defense in three simple words. What on earth?
Renner nodded, smiling again at his client. “How do you feel about the Russian president, Dimitry Vasiliev?”
“I hate him,” Kryukov spat. “I hate him, and Putin. I hate them both for what they did to me, and to my country. He—” Kryukov’s voice cracked, and he looked away, glaring at the far wall as he blinked fast and swallowed. “Vasiliev was friend of Putin’s. He continued Putin’s policy on homosexuals. We—our existence—was a crime, in everything but the law. We were harassed, beaten, entrapped. Arrested. I was beaten by Putin’s thugs over and over again. They used to follow me. One police officer pretended to want to meet up with me. It was a trap.” Kryukov swallowed again. “I was in hospital for three weeks.
“I was arrested for organizing protest in Moscow. I went to Lubyanka first, and then to prison camp in Siberia. I was… marked in Lubyanka. They said they were getting me ready for Siberia. That it was cold in the camps, and I should be ready to keep everyone there warm.”
Tom’s stomach lurched, turning around and around and tying itself into a Gordian Knot. He closed his eyes, blocking out memories, days from his past, echoes of his own history colored in similar shades of shame and terror.
But for the country of their birth, he and Kryukov had led different lives, had come to different destinies. He, the judge in Kryukov’s trial, and Vadim Kryukov, telling his story to a room full of people who believed he was a murderer.
Was Tom his judge because he’d stayed in his closet? Would he have been a firebrand if he’d had to fight the battles Kryukov had? Was he looking into a mirror darkly, as the poem went? What would he have had to endure, what indignities, grievances, tortures, had he not been a coward? What man would he have become?
Would he be strong enough to hold his chin high and share his truth in a court of law, in a country not his own?
Of course not. He couldn’t speak his truth today, and he was the judge. He had all the power, and Kryukov none, and yet Vadim Kryukov made his soul feel infinitesimal, his bones like pieces of a puzzle put together wrong.
Kryukov kept going. “I was thrown out of the prison because I was sick. I had very bad infection, and tuberculosis. I spent two months in hospital in Siberia. I made my way to the U.S. consulate in Yekaterinburg, in Western Siberia. I applied for asylum, and moved to the United States.”
“Your application for asylum was approved because you were being persecuted in Russia for being homosexual?”
“Yes.”
“Please, continue.”
Tom glanced at Ballard. He could object, if he wanted to be a son of a bitch. Long, winding narratives were objectionable, and Renner’s relevant legal point had yet to be made. But Ballard stayed down. He watched with narrowed eyes, his lips pressed together in a flat line.
“In the U.S., I knew no one. I had nothing. I did what I could to survive. I joined a few Bratva groups, just to make some fast money. They asked me to start dealing for them. What could I do? I said yes.”
“That’s how you started dealing cocaine?”
“Yes.”
“And you dealt to how many people?”
“Many, many people. Hundreds. Many, many.”
“And, do you know exactly where each and every baggie of cocaine that you sold is today?”
“I have no idea. What people do with them, after they buy…” He shook his head. “I just sell to one person. They do whatever they want.”
“Did you ever put a baggie of cocaine into a locker at Union Station, along with maps of the Capitol, an LGBT pride parade march permit, and information on President Vasiliev’s trip?”
“No. Never.”
Renner nodded again.
&nbs
p; One piece of evidence addressed.
“Does the number six-two-one mean anything to you?”
“Yes. It is number of one of many laws in Russia that criminalize homosexuals. The anti-LGBT propaganda law. I was arrested and charged under this law.”
“Do you use this code ever in texting?”
Kryukov swallowed. “Yes, sometimes when I am dealing. When we move shipments and checking to make sure everything is legitimate. That no one’s phone is tapped or compromised.”
“Did you ever text Bulat Desheriyev and use this number as an authentication code in your texts?”
“No, never. I never texted Desheriyev. I never have met the man. Never spoken to him. Never.
Was this pure and brutal honesty, or carefully crafted perjury? Tom couldn’t figure it out.
“The prosecution alleges that you sent a text from your phone to Desheriyev’s phone on Thursday morning. Did you send this text?”
“No. I could not have sent that text. I was asleep. I passed out at three in the morning. I did not wake up until two in the afternoon. I was drunk. I was high on cocaine. I was unconscious.”
“Was there anyone with you who could corroborate this?”
“Yes.” Kryukov’s voice, again, broke. He gritted his teeth, breathed hard, almost hissing. Took a shaking breath. “Yes, I was not alone. I had a lover over that night. He was gone when I woke, but he was there until late morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“My building records when people come and go. He left sometime after ten in the morning.”
Tom again glanced at Ballard. Ballard scowled, leaning forward and hunched over his notes. This was sounding more like a deposition or an FBI interview and less like a direct examination. How much of this did Ballard already know? What did he not know?
“Who is this lover?”
“I don’t know his name. We met on an app. GrindMe. It is… an anonymous hookup app. We’d met several times before. But I never learned his name.”
“How would you get in contact with him?”
“Through the app. Messaging him. He had a profile.”