Hush

by Tal Bauer

  “Why is he talking to you? You’re not that special.”

  “Cute. He thinks he’s been set up. Desheriyev wants his handler to pay. We put a tail on the handler. He’s acting completely fucking normal. Thinks he’ll get away clean, and the anvil will fall on Desheriyev.” Ballard grinned. “So you need to play your part. Go along with the script. Be a good boy. And sign this. It’s the arrest warrant for his handler.”

  Tom read through every page, making Ballard wait. He took in the criminal complaint, the charges alleged against Desheriyev’s handler, backed up by hard evidence and Desheriyev’s confession, just as Ballard said. It was a decent case. He scrawled his looping signature on the bottom.

  “Get out, Ballard. Knock before you enter a judge’s chambers next time.”

  The arraignment began precisely at nine AM. Mike escorted Tom from his chambers, and they stood together outside the rear doors behind his courtroom, behind Tom’s bench. For the moment, they were alone.

  And then, the bailiff’s booming voice shouted, “All rise!” and it was time. Mike followed Tom and took up his post as close to Tom as he could get.

  Ballard stood at the prosecutor’s table, arrogance leaching from his every pore. He looked stunning in his three-piece suit, a dark navy pinstripe with a blazing white pocket square poking out. He wanted to be on camera, wanted the world to see him. Cast him as the hero in the media movie the news channels were spinning in real time.

  Desheriyev stood at the defense table, alone. As if he was representing himself. He stared Tom down, never blinking, like he was committing Tom to memory.

  The front row of the courthouse gallery, just behind the wooden bar separating the courtroom floor from the audience seats, was reserved for the media. Reporters clutched paper pads and recorders in their sweaty palms, fingering the play/pause buttons and shuffling their feet. No still photos were allowed, and there were no flashes, no clicks and whirs of motors. Video cameras recorded everything from the back row, silent sentinels hanging like vultures over the proceedings. Marshals, on loan from headquarters, lined the walls, watching both Desheriyev and the audience with wary suspicion. Mike stayed rooted by Tom’s bench.

  The media’s judgment of Tom’s worth began now. He would be hailed as an arbiter of the law, fair and impartial, or cast down as a failure, jumped on and slaughtered on the media’s altar of sacrifice. It was always the notorious cases that showed a judge’s true colors. Strengths and weaknesses, biases and predilections, exposed to the world. Fink had revealed his earlier. Bending to pressure, following the political winds blustering from the White House. Ballard’s were likewise on full display: arrogance and vanity in droves.

  Tom was sending his own signal—to Chief Judge Fink, to the White House, to everyone—by managing the arraignment himself and not kicking it to a magistrate. He was in control. This was his trial and his courtroom. He blew over for no man, not even the president. His own internal compass would guide him through this.

  Mike, for one, believed wholeheartedly in him.

  “You may be seated.” Tom’s voice rang out, clear and strong. “The matter before us is the United States of America versus Bulat Desheriyev. Counselors, please enter your appearances.”

  “Dylan Ballard, United States Attorney, for the United States.”

  Silence, from Desheriyev.

  Tom peered down at him. “Mr. Desheriyev, do you understand the charges brought against you?”

  All eyes snapped to the defendant’s table. “Yes,” Desheriyev growled.

  “You are being charged with four counts of violating 18 USC 1111, felony murder, and one count of violating 18 USC 1116, the attempted murder of a foreign official within the United States. You are also being charged under chapter 113b, which governs acts of terrorism. Are you prepared to enter a plea?”

  Reporters leaned forward, and Mike could practically hear the lenses in the video cameras zooming in, irises narrowing as they focused on the next words.

  “Not. Guilty.”

  The reports murmured, a hush going through the gallery. Pencils scratched on paper.

  Tom should move on to recording Desheriyev’s plea. Mike knew the script by heart after watching so many trials from over his judges’ shoulders. After that, bail should be discussed. But, Ballard had squashed all thoughts of bail in private through his plea deal with Desheriyev.

  The whole arraignment was just a show, a cover for the execution of triple warrants occurring that very moment. Warrants against the man Desheriyev named as his handler, their dead drop location, and the handler’s home. This entire arraignment was phony, a way to fix the world’s attention while the FBI brought down the hammer on Desheriyev’s unsuspecting handler.

  It was the next arraignment, that of Desheriyev’s handler, or the man above him, or the man above him, that mattered. That was the real trial.

  Ballard looked at his watch. He nodded to Tom.

  That was the signal.

  “No bail is set for Mr. Desheriyev. Pre-trial hearings are to be scheduled at a further time.” He rose and the courtroom followed, thundering feet scuffing over the carpet and tile. Tom descended from the bench, disappearing out the back door ahead of Mike, leaving behind the rising din of confused voices, reporters questioning each other and trying to reach out to Ballard for comment, and Desheriyev being led away.

  By the time they reached Tom’s office, the breaking news alert was on screen.

  Desheriyev’s handler had been arrested.

  Ballard appeared on TV, standing this time in front of the courthouse.

  “This morning, at nine AM, agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation served an arrest warrant for Mr. Vadim Kryukov. The three-count criminal complaint alleges that Vadim Kryukov planned the assassination attempt of Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev, and hired Bulat Desheriyev to carry out that assassination. This plan resulted in the deaths of three decorated Secret Service agents and one Russian presidential security officer.” Ballard looked up, squinting into the sea of cameras. FBI agents stood behind him, a show of America’s strength.

  “First, we, the United States government, allege that Mr. Kryukov had political and personal reasons for planning the assassination of President Vasiliev, and that Mr. Kryukov was a member of a Russian anarchist group dedicated to the overthrow of the Russian state. Second, Mr. Kryukov hired and financed Mr. Desheriyev, paying him to travel to the United States, establish himself in DC, and pay a lump sum amount for the assassination of President Vasiliev. Third, in pursuit of the assassination, Mr. Kryukov communicated via cell phone and text to Mr. Desheriyev, providing him with the information and guidance needed to carry out this plot. While our investigation remains ongoing, the world should rest assured that the United States will commit its full resources to apprehending and prosecuting Mr. Kryukov, Mr. Desheriyev, and their conspirators.”

  Ballard folded his notes and tucked them into his suit jacket. “This is America’s promise to the world. Our criminal justice system works. We have moved quickly to find and apprehend the vicious terrorists responsible for this heinous act. They will likewise be swiftly prosecuted as well. Thank you.” He strode away, not answering any of the shouted questions from the horde of reporters crowding the courthouse steps.

  They were back in Tom’s courtroom for Kryukov’s arraignment at three PM.

  It happened much like the first time, except the reporters were buzzed on adrenaline and pumped from being deceived before. They’d crawled all over the city, chasing the FBI as they served search warrants for Kryukov’s property. They each practically vibrated as they held their pens and pencils over their notepads, voraciously hungry for the story about to unfold.

  Ballard was still smug, even smugger now. He acted like he’d orchestrated the entire operation, and it was his face that was on every TV. He was the man of the hour, the hero of the people. Hell, with this publicity, he didn’t need to chase a judgeship. He could sail into the Senate.

  Besid
e him, Lucas Barnes, the FBI’s counterterrorism number one, stood. He’d be helping the prosecution. And, another man introduced himself, a tall, reedy man with thinning brown hair and a beaten-in look to his face. He looked like a pug that had run into a door a few hundred times. He growled that he was a “special advisor” from the Russian embassy, sent to assist the United States in this trial. Ballard never looked at him.

  Kryukov came in, shackled and restrained between four marshals. His defense attorney, Richard Renner looked like as happy as a criminal defense attorney could. His eyes raked over Kryukov, and Tom could practically see dollar signs in his pupils. Renner had the smarmy look of a high-priced criminal defense attorney—salt-and-pepper hair slicked back on the sides, gelled on top. He wore a double-breasted suit and tied a full Windsor. He had a gold tie bar and gold cuff links, and his shoes shone like glass.

  Vadim Kryukov stood beside him, hunched over in his shackles, long, straggly blond hair hanging half in his face. He wore the dark red jumpsuit of the federal detention center’s most dangerous inmates, those charged with the most heinous crimes.

  “Mr. Kryukov, do you understand the charges brought against you?”

  Kryukov looked up, finally. His eyes were dark, darting around the courtroom before landing on Tom. “Yes,” he said, his voice breathy.

  Tom stared back. He’d seen Kryukov before. He was the man on the megaphone that Saturday, at Union Square Park outside the Capitol. He’d been bellowing at the Russian president, screaming the names of gay Russians jailed or killed. He’d shouted something in Russian, spitting fury into his megaphone. Had he been there to watch Desheriyev’s handiwork? Watch his plan unfold?

  “Are you prepared to enter a plea, Mr. Kryukov?”

  “I did not do it!”

  “The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” Renner smoothly interrupted Kryukov, speaking over him and placing a hand on his shackled wrist.

  “Mr. Kryukov’s plea is entered.” Tom laced his fingers together, staring Kryukov down. That Saturday kept replaying in his mind, the shouts of the protestors, the bucket drums. The sun, the heat. Bellowing Russian, his heart galloping in his chest. Kryukov in the center, next to the Russian president’s effigy in a tutu and holding a rainbow flag. “Do you wish to discuss bail?”

  “Mr. Kryukov is here on a refugee visa, Your Honor. He is unable to travel outside of the United States. He’s not going anywhere, Your Honor.”

  Ballard jumped in. “Mr. Kryukov flagrantly flouted our laws in planning this crime, Your Honor. There’s no reason to believe he wouldn’t flagrantly violate our laws again and attempt to leave the country illegally. Mr. Kryukov is connected to the Russian mafiya, the Bratva, all along the eastern seaboard. They help him move drugs, which he then turns around and deals on the streets. He will run right back to their arms if you let him out of jail.”

  “That is a libelous accusation—”

  “Furthermore,” Ballard said, his voice rising over Renner’s, “Mr. Kryukov knows more about this conspiracy—”

  “I do not! I know nothing!” Renner gripped Kryukov’s arm, silencing him.

  “—and the United States will not allow bail to be granted to a defendant who has been charged with a crime of this magnitude. Mr. Kryukov has information to provide, Your Honor, and huge incentive to attempt an escape. We are, in fact, seeking the death penalty here.”

  The reporters in the courtroom buzzed, hushed whispers and pens scribbling furiously. Kryukov’s eyes closed as he pitched forward, almost collapsing. His lips moved, muttering something in whispered Russian.

  Incentive, indeed, for Kryukov to cooperate. Tom understood Ballard’s move. He just didn’t have to showboat so brazenly.

  “I will remind you, counselor, that it is the judge who decides whether to allow or not allow bail.” He raised one eyebrow at Ballard.

  Ballard smirked, spreading his hands wide, a fake conciliatory gesture for the media’s benefit only. His eyes smoldered.

  “However, I agree with the state’s argument. Bail is denied. This court will hold its first pre-trial hearing in two weeks. Defense, be ready with your discovery request for the government.”

  Tom lifted his gavel, ready to adjourn the arraignment and escape. The video cameras in the back were crawling on his skin.

  “Your Honor,” Renner said, interrupting everything. “If it pleases the court, may I request that you hold the next hearing in chambers?”

  Ballard arched both eyebrows across the divide at his defense counterpart.

  “Counselor…” Tom swallowed. “This case requires, and demands, both national and international oversight. I intend to run a transparent trial, for everyone’s benefit.”

  “Your Honor, my discovery requests may involve national security matters and touch on classified information. My requests may prove embarrassing to both the United States and to Russia. Keeping such requests private is in everyone’s best interest, and for everyone’s benefit.”

  Tom flicked his eyes toward Ballard. Ballard, for once, looked concerned. He hadn’t been given instructions from his masters on this.

  “Counselor, file your discovery request under seal in one week. Mr. Ballard, you will respond within three days. I will review both your motions and make a determination at that time.” He lifted his gavel and let it fall. “Thank you.”

  Mike walked him down the private hallway and into his chambers. He took the billowing black robe out of Tom’s hands and hung it on the hook for him, and then turned and cupped his cheeks. He kissed him, sweetly. “Great job.”

  “I saw Kryukov there. At the Capitol on Saturday.” So far, no one knew they had been there, either apart or together. They’d slipped out before the FBI sealed the scene. “I saw him on the megaphone shouting at President Vasiliev.”

  “Think he was watching, making sure the hit happened? Or there to gloat?”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t think about it, either.”

  Hard knocks broke the stillness of his chambers, a beating that rattled the door in its frame. Tom jumped away from Mike. “What the hell?”

  It was Ballard. He blew in, ignoring Mike, and plopped himself at Tom’s conference table. “What the hell is Renner playing at?”

  “Hello, Ballard. It’s not nice to see you. Why are you here?”

  Ballard scowled at him and flipped open his padfolio. He glanced at Mike. “Get us some coffees, will you, Lucciano?”

  Tom saw Mike’s shoulders stiffen, his spine straighten. Mike’s jaw clenched, and a vein throbbed out of his temple.

  He pulled out his wallet. “Mike, if you please?” He tried to apologize with his gaze.

  Mike held it together, but he refused Tom’s money. “Happy to help you, Judge Brewer.”

  Ballard completely ignored them and flipped through his notes, waiting until the door clicked shut behind Mike. “We need to get on the same page. The White House has sent instructions.”

  “Like I told Chief Judge Fink this morning, I’m not on anyone’s page. I respect the rule of law. This will be a fair and impartial trial. I’m not sentencing anyone before this has even begun.”

  “Did you even read the criminal complaint? The arrest warrant you signed this morning? This case is already decided! The evidence against Kryukov is insurmountable! This is an open-and-shut case. We should be waiting for the phone to ring from Renner, begging for a plea!”

  “Aren’t you trying to work over Kryukov? Don’t you want to know what he knows? Get the next higher up in the chain?”

  “Of course. We’re letting him sweat a bit first.” Ballard jammed one long finger into the center of his notes. “But we have to talk about Renner’s possible defense. National security? What the fuck?”

  Tom sat down slowly, sighing. “There’s a couple of ways to approach this defense.”

  “I don’t need a lesson in criminal defense theory from you. A year ago, I was your boss.”

  “And now you’re not.”
Tom’s voice was hard, harsh. “If the evidence is as locked up as you say it is, then Renner has to get creative with his defense. The usual strategy would be to cast doubt on your case. Say the evidence isn’t enough. But by invoking the specter of national security, it certainly sounds like Renner is fishing for classified information, information that would come from the government. What does he know that you don’t, Ballard?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? You need to check the scope of your evidence against Kryukov. In discovery, you will need to turn over everything to Renner and the defense. Everything you have. If you don’t give up what you have for your case, for any reason, then Kryukov won’t get a fair trial. If the defense can’t be guaranteed a fair trial, then Renner can move for a dismissal of charges. If there’s something going on, and you hold it back for national security concerns, he can use that as grounds to move for a mistrial. At the very least, it’s a loaded double-barrel shotgun for appealing the verdict.” Tom squinted at Ballard. “What exactly do you have on Kryukov? Is everything legitimate?”

  Ballard leaped to his feet. “Are you accusing me—”

  “I will slap you with prosecutorial misconduct in a heartbeat, Ballard. You’ve always played a little rough. A little too close to the line. This time, you might have crossed it, and right now, only you know for sure. But it will come out. It always comes out.”

  “Fuck you,” Ballard hissed. His face turned purple as his teeth clenched. He stormed out, throwing Tom’s door wide open. It crashed against the wall, reverberating with a bang down the fourth-floor corridor.

  Peggy poked her head around the doorframe, her eyebrows raised, and Danny padded in behind her, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Everything okay, Judge Brewer?”

  “We just need to get through this trial. Hopefully with the world still in one piece.”

  Chapter 23